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Karen slumped over herself, staring into space. No, that wasn’t space. That was her breasts. They were so saggy. Wrinkled beyond what she thought was possible where her cleavage had been pressed together over all these years. Amanda was gone, and she was starting to feel ugly and anxious and scared again. And cold.

She stood up and rubbed her chest for warmth. Then she rubbed her nipple. Her fingers were warm and wet. Why? she thought. She sniffed them. Oh. That’s why. She licked them clean then walked to her bedroom, giggling the whole way at how her toes looked like mushrooms.

Sam turned over onto his stomach the second he heard his mom’s lumbering steps approach. The last time she’d gotten high with just the two of them in the apartment… He was too ashamed of what had happened to tell Amanda, but now he wished he had. Maybe she would have stayed just a little bit longer.

He’d been about two feet tall at the time. Small enough that his mother’s lips could swallow his crotch whole, but not so small she couldn’t give him head in the first place. She’d sat on him to prevent his escape, eventually scooting backwards until her wet vulva nearly swallowed his head. Fortunately for both of them, she didn’t remember a minute of it the next day: a fifth of whiskey could do that to someone. But Sam did. He remembered acutely his struggles, as his small fingers tried to claw her thighs into forcing her to get off of him, and how she was too drunk and he was too small to even get her to notice that anything was amiss. He remembered how even as he tried to make his muffled voice heard, the most he’d ended up doing was giving his own mother unintentional cunnilingus. That was the day before he’d started sleeping on the couch. And then the shoebox.

And now he was five inches tall, sleeping in a dollhouse, and his mom was not only drunk, but on acid as well. He was disgusted with himself for the fears that flashed through his mind of what was about to happen. Just because she isn’t sober doesn’t mean she’s not my mom, he tried to reason with himself. She would never hurt me.

Karen’s stomach reached out in front of her and bumped into the dollhouse, shaking it. Sam fell out of bed, his erection out in visible sight.

“Sam,” Karen began, trying to figure out exactly what the purpose of language even was, when bodies could do most talking for themselves. “Sam, I love you. And I want to be closer to you. I… I don’t want you to go anywhere. And I don’t want to lose you.”

“Okay, mom.” Sam gazed up at her with trepidation. Her belly button was barely half a foot from him, and he could smell what was at the end of her happy trail. “I love you too, but do you think—

“I know you do. I want…” She paused, licking her fingers.

“I think maybe you should just watch a cartoon or something,” he said. He wasn’t sure exactly what type of thing mollified the insanity of LSD in people. He backed up to the far wall of his house, knowing it was useless.

“I am he as you are he as you are me,” Karen said. Sam could see her pupils, wide to the point of making her irises obsolete. “You know?” She reached down to Sam. There was nothing cruel about what she was doing. In fact, Sam could hardly have said he even thought that it occurred to her that he wanted anything other than what was about to happen. He knew she would never hurt him. Sober.

Karen wrapped her meaty fist around her son. His erection pressed into the bed of her thumb. “We’re all one. And love… I want to show you my love.” She lifted him up to her face so quickly that the air rustled through his hair. “With my body,” she whispered. Her breath, smelling of beer, cigarettes, and the hot dog with sauerkraut she’d had for lunch, wafted through him.

“Mom,” Sam sputtered. “The way you’re thinking… that’s a different kind of love than what we have.”

“No,” said Karen. “Love is love is love. I am he as your are—

“No.”

“Yes.” She giggled even as she kissed him. Her tongue fluttered out, its tip poking Sam’s face and leaving a strand of drool clinging to him as it retreated.

“Show me tomorrow then,” Sam said. “Not today.” If he could just hold her off, she’d fall asleep and they could avoid this.

“No, not today,” Karen said. “You’re right.” She lowered him. Sam naively hoped she’d return him to his house, but then she said,  “Not just today. Always. I’ll love you always.”

She walked back to the couch, Sam beating his fists against hers. “Blueberries,” she said, trying to console him. With her spare hand, she removed her short shorts and then her thong, which was saturated with sweat from a full Florida day spent outside. Sam watched it drop to the ground and started to whimper.

There it was—the last thing in the entire world that he’d ever wanted to see again. And it was right in front of his eyes. Her pubes were normally blonde and had been shaven freshly today, but there were unsightly patches she’d been too lazy to notice, as well as more than her fair share of razor burn. It wasn’t a sight for any pair of eyes, really, let alone sore ones. She took her free hand and started to rub her hand between her vaginal lips, the moist schlicking noises of her sex permanently ingraining themselves in her son’s mind.

“Mom, stop!” Sam tried to yell at her, but she couldn’t her him over the sound of her moaning and The Grateful Dead, especially when he was trapped in her increasingly sweaty fist. Then he was moving upwards, under her shirt. He didn’t get a chance to catch his breath before his entire body was planted into her breast. She released him from her fist in the same motion that she pressed his entire back into her with her palm, sandwiching him between two thick walls of flesh. Her breast was practically water, rippling under its thick, leathery casing, letting her push him multiple inches into it against her nipple. The bumps on her areola were hard and pressed into him, as well as a few wispy hairs.

He couldn’t hear her moaning any more—his sense of sound to the outside world had all but been cut off—but he could feel the vibrations of her toadlike moans coursing through her chest and, subsequently, him. He couldn’t move, complain, or even breathe. Karen did more than enough moving and breathing for both of them, and there was nothing for her to complain about.

Then, finally, she removed him from her shirt. She brought him up to her mouth—with her untreated cavities and lips cracked from constant dehydration—and gave him one last, soul-sucking kiss, before, finally, she did what the alcohol and LSD were telling her to do. It was time for them to be one.

Sam tried to stop her. He tried to cling to her labia’s lips as tightly as he could. Even if she’d already got his lower half wrapped inside her pulsing vaginal muscles—“I do my Kegels all the time,” she bragged. “Good for work.”—he would fight tooth and nail to make sure he didn’t slip entirely inside of her.

Of course, his tiny teeth and nails did nothing more than send pleasure through Karen’s body. “I love you,” she said to nobody in particular. Her eyes were closed and she was looking at mandalas. With a sigh of love, she pushed Sam inside of herself.

In her increasingly wet and warm crotch, her son was stone-cold sober and in an absolute panic, thrashing as wildly as he could. Karen failed to consider he might have been doing anything other than been trying to please her. “You love me too,” she smiled. “You’re inside my feelings so much, Sam,” she said wistfully, as if she weren’t now rubbing his face against her puffy g-spot. “And now you’re inside me. I’m so glad you want to be inside me. You’re so…” She smiled peacefully, feeling completely at one with every living, dead, and never alive thing in the universe, as she brought her hand back and forth. “Licorice.”

Sam choked and sputtered and beat his fists. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he could hear the beat of his mother’s heart, the gurgles of her churning stomach, the raspy wheezing of her tarry lungs filling and decompressing with rank air. He could hear the slapping of her rolls of fat against each other as she bucked with ecstasy. More than anything, he could hear the sound of his own body making sloppy, sucking noises as he slid up and down inside of his mom’s vagina. The smell of her discharge overwhelmed him, as did its taste. Salty, sweet, and umami—some waves of her juices were acidic, others were practically candy. The sensation of being drowned in a has-been hooker’s copulins was ineffable.

He was now completely engulfed in not only his mother’s genitals, but darkness. Her lips closed behind him after she’d pressed him as deeply into herself as she could before finally removing her fingers to lick them clean again. The lack of sight not only increased his claustrophobia—which was already at its peak, the semi-elastic walls of what he was certain would be his tomb encasing his on all sides—but heightened his other senses as well. The sense of smell, of taste, of hearing. The absolutely unbearable and humid heat clung to him. The transition from the cold of the outside air into her frothing, boiling depths had been like jumping into a hot tub in the middle of, well, February. And the sense of touch. Her walls rubbing against his face, his torso. Rubbing against his crotch. With steadily increasing speed and pressure.

He could feel it coming on, and even before it happened, shame filled him more than Karen’s stench ever could. “No!” he tried to shout, but failed. Instead, he gasped with the intense sensation of his own orgasm, and Karen’s viscous liquid filled his mouth. He was forced to swallow it as the walls around him constricted tighter than they ever had before. Karen had reached her own orgasm.

The couch groaned underneath her immense weight. “Blueberries!” she gasped. “Blueberries! Blueberries!” She giggled uncontrollably in between repeated orgasms for over two and a quarter minutes straight. Sex on acid really was the best. She couldn’t wait to try it again. To Karen, those 137 seconds felt like an eternity. They did for Sam as well.

The only reason it ever ended was the Klonopin finally kicking in. In a matter of seconds, Karen went from laughing maniacally and loudly enough for the neighbors to hear through the walls into a deep slumber.

Sam was too shell-shocked to move for over a minute. Though on the outside, to Karen, there was significantly less noise—as loud as her snore was, it couldn’t possibly match what had come before—inside of her, the same noises surrounded Sam. Her heartbeat, her wheezing lungs (even louder now with her heavy breathing), the low hum of her vocal chords as she sleeptalked. The only change was the absence of the noise of her crotch suctioning and unsuctioning its walls against itself. And the shaking of her body had stopped. And the clenching of her vaginal muscles.

Eventually, he realized that his surroundings were about as still as they were likely to get. Yes, Karen slightly shifted her weight now and then, obliviously rotating her son’s entire world for the sake of trying to get comfortable underneath her own weight. And, even subconsciously, she practiced her fucking Kegels now and then. Sam would’ve cursed to himself if he’d had the energy to form words. Instead, he began to army crawl forward through the sludge, hoping with all his heart that he hadn’t been turned backwards in the pitch black.

After struggling for countless minutes to move forward, one millimeter at a time, through the cramped confines of his mother’s still radiating warmth, Sam began to see a little bit of light. He refused to thank God, but was grateful all the same, to discover her spray-tanned thighs were still spread apart, allowing for him to shimmy himself out. As he strained to finally remove himself from the hell he’d just gone through, he unintentionally rubbed his head against her clit. She moaned, and her eyes fluttered open as he finally fell out of her completely. He kissed a wine stain on the couch because it was something other than where he’d just been.

Karen silently looked down the length of her body. She couldn’t see anything past her own stomach, but she knew that her son had accidentally fallen out. She’d help him back in. Sam tried to stand up and run from the quickly growing shadow of her hand, but after a few pats to either side of him, it found him and grabbed him back up. He started to cry even as he beat his sore fists against her pointer finger.

It tried to push him back where he’d just escaped moments before. It. This was no longer his mother: it was a disembodied hand and a disembodied pelvis. He had to believe that. As it pressed him silently without so much as an extra breath, he exerted all the effort he possibly could. He’d die before he went back. “Sh,” Karen managed to hush, as if he were a toddler tantruming simply because he hated bedtime. “Sh, sh, sh. Mommy’s here. I’ll keep you…”

Even as she said it, she was starting to fade again. He was winning. The hand drooped, tired. He breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his struggle while he waited for her hand to loosen.

“…keep you nice and warm.” Karen, unable to see what she was doing or awake enough to accurately assess the situation, inserted her son into herself. It hurt a little, and she couldn’t understand why or bring herself to care. Maybe Sam was uncomfortable too. Needed a little lube. She wiped up a pool of her drool on her pointer finger then poked it back into her son. Her hole, she meant. As she drifted back to sleep, she felt supremely peaceful and fulfilled. She felt full, in soul and in body.

Sam was past the tight ring of her anus. The smell was unbearable, but after minutes of pushing and shoving against her opening, he realized there was nothing he could do. It wouldn’t open. And, he realized, her legs were now back together. He cursed his mom for having put him into this position. Then he shook his head. It was everyone’s fault. Karen, yes, but also Amanda. Also Sam himself. Why did he have to be so weak? Was there a part of him that actually enjoyed it? There must have been if he’d come. He wished he would just disappear.

He had no such luck, but moments after Karen got her third and final wind from his wriggling and lazily pulled her thong back on, his body had the grace to pass out.

 

Amanda came home not three, but six hours later. The client had extended his appointment with her, and she was never one to turn down an extra 600 dollars. Her liner and mascara were smeared around her eyes, her lipstick was completely gone, and her seemingly perfect hair was now mussed and matted in uneven clumps. It’s how an elite escort looked at the end of the day.

And there was Karen, not elite in any way other than taking first place in Amanda’s heart. Or maybe it was just first place in her crotch. Either way, she held a special place. Amanda sighed contentedly. She was tired as hell. She’d taken her own sampling of Klonopin in the car on the way back, though she probably hadn’t needed it. She was sleepy enough after all that sex she’d had. But she’d had it with the wrong person.

Karen was where she’d left her, wearing what she’d left her. There was no doubt in Amanda’s mind that Sam was safe. She nudged Karen over onto her side and took her place on the couch, even though she could have gone back to the bed, and took her place as the big spoon, her crotch pressing into her crush’s rear. Then, like Karen, she sunk into a long, deep, and restful sleep.

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