Victoria

Speaking of mother, I shudder to think of the animal she would call me if she should endeavor to ever discover how I describe her here but to full flesh out the story of my life, a description of her salacious body is a must. So here I fucking go. Mom could easily be described as a succubus wearing the veneer of a modern woman, at least appearance wise. Her face cut from diamonds—the kind that makes me red with embarrassment when other guys stare at her like they're undressing her with their eyes. Her rich milk-chocolate skin looks airbrushed, stretched taut over razor-sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, giving her this predatory feline look that makes most men cower and, embarrassingly enough, makes me painfully hard when she's dressing me down for some stupid mistake. Those golden-brown eyes are sharp and intense, with these thick black lashes that flutter when she's pretending to be impressed by some business associate's pitch, but stay wide and unblinking when she's tearing into an employee over the phone. Her pixie cut is this sleek, glossy black helmet of hair that costs more than my monthly allowance to maintain, framing her face in a way that screams "power bitch" rather than "someone's mom." Mom's cute button nose sits above these obscenely plump, permanently pouted dick-sucking lips that she keeps painted in blood-red or deep plum shades, drawing attention every time she speaks or takes a sip from her ever-present wine glass in the evening. When she's really focused on work, she has this habit of running her tongue slowly across her bottom lip that makes me have to shift in my seat and my throat dry as a desert. Her jaw sharp enough to slice bread, and when she clenches it while angry, a tiny muscle twitches in a way that signals everyone within fifty feet to back the fuck off or risk evisceration by her razor-sharp tongue that's made grown men cry in boardrooms.

Mom's body is fucking spectacular for a woman her age— her tits, not porn star huge, but perfectly round, firm and perky apple-sized globes that sit high and proud on her chest like defying gravity, gentle bobbing up and down with minute quivers of flesh every breath she takes.. Her nipples always worryingly visible through her silk blouses, these hard little pencil erasers that poke against the expensive fabric no matter how thick her bra is, which makes me wonder if she's perpetually cold or just constantly aroused by destroying her competitors. I've caught glimpses of her bras hanging in the bathroom—expensive lacy black and red things with underwires and push-up padding that she absolutely doesn't need, her tits so naturally firm they barely move even when she's doing her morning workout routine. Once when she was reaching for wine glasses on the top shelf, her blouse rode up and I saw the side of one chocolate-brown areola, larger than I expected and slightly bumpy in texture, making me nearly **** on my cereal before I **** myself to look away. Her cleavage is always just visible enough in her work attire to be professional but distracting—this perfect valley that deepens when she leans forward during dinner to ask me about school in a way that makes me stutter and forget basic fucking English. Her arms are like some fitness model's Instagram thirst trap—lean toned muscle rippling subtly under smooth dark skin, with a vein that pops along her bicep when she's carrying groceries or her stupidly heavy work bag stuffed with reports. When she puts lotion on after her shower, I can hear her rubbing it into her skin through the thin walls, her hands making this slick sound as they glide over her toned arms and shoulders, and I have to crank my music up to drown it out because it sounds too close to other activities I shouldn't associate with my own mother.

The bottom half of Mom's body is equally as distracting. Her waist is so tiny I could probably wrap my hands around it, fingers touching—this dramatic inward curve that makes gives her an almost Jessica Rabbit, cartoonish proportion. Her stomach is flat as a board but sculpted with visible abs, with this sexy little line running down the middle that disappears into her skirt waistband, making me and every other guy wonder where it leads. But Jesus fucking Christ, her hips and ass that match the definition of obscene—wide, thickset, flared, hips that swing like a metronome when she walks in her perpetual heels, creating this hypnotic rhythm that's made me walk into doorframes more than once when following her through the house. Her ass is like two perfect honeydew melons stuffed into whatever pants she's wearing—high, tight globes that strain the seams of her pencil skirts and cause this mouthwatering crease where they meet her thighs. When she bends over to load the dishwasher, her ass cheeks tighten and lift, creating this perfect heart shape. Her thighs are thick and powerful, rubbing together when she walks with this soft whisper of expensive fabric that sounds almost like dirty whispers, no thigh gap whatsoever despite her obsessive fitness routine. When she crosses and uncrosses her legs during dinner, the muscles flex and ripple in a way that's mesmerizing, leading down to shapely calves perpetually defined from her addiction to stupidly high stilettos. Sometimes after her shower, she walks to her bedroom with just a towel wrapped around her, water droplets still clinging to her shoulders and running down her spine in rivulets, disappearing beneath the white cotton in paths I find myself mentally tracing before I catch myself and feel like the worst son in existence. It is this body that has been my mothers boon equally as my bane.

She can't go anywhere without turning men into simpering, lust addled animals—their eyes practically bulging from their sockets as they hungrily follow the quiver, and bounce of her firm, round, pert ass. Last month at her company meeting, I was waiting in the lobby when her fat-fuck VP of Sales "accidentally" rammed into her from behind, his sweaty paws sliding right up against the sides of her firm tits, smooshing them together sending mountains of her brown cleavage exploding through the top her shirt, revealing parts of her lacy black bra as he steadied her, licking his lips and going, "Whoops, Victoria, didn't see you there, but damn glad I ran into you." "If your sales figures were as up as your dick right now, Kevin, we wouldn't be in this mess," she shot back loud enough to make him practically shit himself while scurrying away with his metaphorical dick tucked between his legs. When she hosts these corporate events, I'm **** to stand around like some prop while these horny middle-aged fucks think I can't hear them saying shit like, "I'd pump that chocolate ass full of cum until it's dripping down her shaking thighs" or "I could suck on those fat, heavy peaches on her chest for hours." "Those pathetic little-dicked losers are just terrified of a woman who makes more in a month than they do all year," she told me on the drive home, tapping her manicured nails against the steering wheel. "Your father, bless his departed soul, was ten times the men they were, I just wish he were here to show you."

Grocery shopping with Mom is like walking through a fucking gauntlet of perverts who suddenly develop an urgent need for whatever's on our aisle, just to get a better look at Mom's ass in her yoga pants or her tits bouncing when she reaches for something on a high shelf. Last weekend, some juiced-up dickhead in a shirt two sizes too small pressed his bulge right against Mom's ass while reaching past her, whispering, "I'd love to pound that fat, brown ass until you swell up with a litter of my kids." Mom spun around so fast he nearly fell over, her eyes burning into him as she announced at top volume, "Did this micro-dicked moron just tell me he wants to 'breed me like a sow'? With what exactly? That sad little bump in your pants that's probably more steroid-induced acne than actual cock?" The old lady next to us clutched her pearls while Muscle Boy turned red as a fucking tomato and slunk away. Even the pimple-faced cashier couldn't stop staring at Mom's brimful breasts, scanning our shit in slow motion while asking if we "found everything satisfying today" with this gross sex-line operator voice. "My nipples aren't UPC codes, you cretin," Mom snapped, snatching the receipt and taking down his name. "This is exactly why I made your father pay for private school," she ranted as we loaded groceries. "So you wouldn't grow up to be another dick-driven mouth-breather who thinks a woman's body exists for his spank bank."

Even our so-called family friends turn into slobbering dogs around Mom—at last year's neighborhood cookout, Dad's buddy Frank kept topping up Mom's wine and standing close enough to smell her perfume, his beady eyes glued to her tits while she talked real estate with the neighbors. "Goddamn, Victoria," he slurred after getting wasted, grabbing her ass as he leaned in, "those tits get bigger every year or what? The guys and I have a betting pool on whether they're real or if you got them super-sized after kicking what's-his-name to the curb. Either way, I'd love to motorboat those black beauties until I suffocate." Mom grabbed his balls through his khakis so fast no one else saw it, twisting just enough to make his eyes water as she hissed something in his ear that had him hobbling back to his wife, claiming stomach problems. "Limp-dicked shitheads like Frank are exactly why I raised you differently," Mom told me as we walked home, her heels stabbing the pavement like she wished it was Frank's face. "They think because I've got tits that don't sag to my knees and an ass that still fits in a size 6, I'm begging for their pathetic three-inch attention." She stopped and grabbed my shoulders, her face dead serious. "Promise me you won't be one of those assholes who thinks a woman's holes are public property just because she's hot enough to make your dick twitch," she demanded, making me squirm as I remembered jerking off to the mental image of her bending over in those tight white pants last week. "I swear, Mom," I mumbled.

By know I am sure whoever's reading this probably has a good summation of my mothers personality, but believe me, that's not even the half of it. Her personality is like a fucking meat grinder—anything soft that goes in comes out shredded beyond recognition, especially in the corporate world where she's earned the nickname "Vicious Vicky" among her terrified staff. I've watched her reduce grown men to tears during quarterly reviews, her voice never rising above a conversational tone while she systematically dismantles their entire professional worth with surgical precision. "Perhaps if you spent less time adjusting your balls and more time adjusting your sales projections, we wouldn't be having this conversation, Richard," she told her former CFO before firing him in front of the entire board, her red-bottomed heels clicking like a **** knell as she walked him to the door. When Henderson Financial tried to hostile-takeover her company last year, she somehow acquired compromising photos of their CEO with an escort and leveraged them to not only stop the takeover but **** them to sell their most profitable division to her instead. "The patriarchy's greatest weakness is thinking with their dicks," she explained over dinner that night, calmly cutting into her steak as I stared in horrified admiration. During the gender discrimination lawsuit her former assistant filed, Mom took the stand and systematically destroyed the woman's credibility while simultaneously making the male judge feel intellectually inferior for even questioning her management style. "Never apologize for demanding excellence," she told me afterward, scrolling through work emails at a stoplight, "especially not to mediocre men or women who use their gender as an excuse for incompetence."

Mom's body is her temple, and she's the most judgmental high priestess ever to walk this earth, applying the same ruthless standards to everyone else's physical appearance. "Look at that disgusting display," she'll hiss when we pass overweight people at the mall, not even bothering to lower her voice. "What kind of person has so little self-respect they'd allow themselves to become a human garbage disposal?" When my freshman roommate's mother visited wearing plus-size clothes and sporting a double chin, Mom spent the entire dinner making thinly veiled comments about "genetic predispositions to laziness" and asking if she had "hormone issues or just an issue with portion control." Her worst vitriol is reserved for sex workers—when a former high school classmate of mine was caught in a prostitution sting, Mom practically celebrated her downfall. "This is what happens when you commodify your holes instead of your brain, Daniel," she lectured while making her pre-dawn protein shake, expensive blender whirring. "Those women are just lazy, choosing to lie on their backs rather than stand on their own achievements." One time I timidly suggested that some women might have limited options, and she nearly took my head off: "That's male feminist bullshit enabling victim mentality—I built my empire while being a single mother to you, not by spreading my legs for men with cash. I'd rather die than ever sink to becoming some fat, brainless cum receptacle dependent on men for validation and income."

As a mother, Mom's helicopter has no landing gear—she's been hovering over every aspect of my life since I exited her womb, and shows no signs of ever touching down. She still checks my class schedule online daily, texting me detailed "suggestions" about optimizing my study time that are really thinly veiled commands. "Daniel, I notice you have a two-hour gap between Differential Equations and Computer Architecture on Tuesdays—I've created a study template for you to utilize this time efficiently rather than wasting it socializing with those underachievers I saw on your Instagram," she'll text, complete with a fucking color-coded spreadsheet attachment. My diet is monitored with the same precision as a lab rat's—she stocks the fridge with labeled containers prepared by her meal service, each one annotated with my name and when I should eat it. "Your brain needs proper fuel to function at capacity," she'll say while slapping a protein bar out of my hand and replacing it with some kale monstrosity. She controls my finances with an iron fist, requiring itemized explanations for any purchase over $50, questioning me like I'm being audited by the IRS. "Why exactly did you need three different coding textbooks when the library has them? Is this how you plan to manage money when you're running your own household?" she'll demand, making me squirm as I try to explain concepts like "reference materials" to someone who memorized entire business law textbooks rather than buying them. When I tried dating a girl freshman year, Mom ran a full fucking background check on her family, discovered her father had declared bankruptcy ten years earlier, and staged an "accidental" meeting where she casually mentioned it: "Oh, Emily, Daniel mentioned your family's... financial struggles. How brave of your father to rebuild after such a complete financial failure—though I notice you attend on scholarship, so the recovery must still be... ongoing." Because of this she's systematically chased off any romantic or platonic relationship I've had, few as they are, save for, one. Tyrone.