She had a dream about her mom’s dick.
Even in the dream she was confused. Like, why does mom have a dick?
Her dad was there, too. She asked him about it.
She said, “Why does mom have a dick?”
He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the dick, fully entranced. He pointed at it, eyebrows up, like Get a load of THAT.
The dick wasn’t long, but it was wide—a chode, they call dicks like her mom’s—and it was all fucked up. Diseased, for sure, but like, naturally fucked up too. Birth defect fucked up. The squat shaft was covered in boils, with coiled skin that piled like soft serve on a cone and a giant vein snaking back and forth that ended at what looked like some sort of underdeveloped pig-faced burn victim with botched skin grafts. The wide dick hole stretched wider every time the vein pulsed, like it was gasping for air.
Her dad came up behind her and whispered in her ear.
“Suck it,” he said.
She didn’t want to suck it.
“I don’t want to suck it,” she said.
She could feel his disappointment, and the feeling said, All your mother’s done for you? All she’s done, and you can’t even suck her dick?
She looked away from the preemie burn victim pig face of a dick and up at her mom, who looked back at with a patient smile and soft eyes.
Her mom nodded, just a little nod. A nod that said, It’s okay.
The nod made her feel safe.
She said to herself, “It is okay,” and dropped to her knees.
She put her hand around her mom’s dick. It was clammy, a little sticky, and stiffened at her touch. The penis hole gasped, the vein pulsing with her mom’s rising heart rate.
She looked at her dad. He was trembling, shifting his weight back and forth.
She scooted in, brought her face closer to her mom’s dick.
But she heard something coming from the penis hole.
Singing.
She put her ear to the hole. Puffs of air tickled her hair. The voice was beautiful, a child’s voice, and it was singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
“Waaaaay uuup hiiiiigh,” it sang.
She knew that voice, that dickhole voice, familiar and comforting.
She smiled, unhinged her jaw, and took her mom’s dick in her mouth.
The whole thing.
Preemie pig faced burn victim and all.
The whole thing.
Boils ruptured. Puss ran from her lips, dribbled down her chin.
It tasted wholesome.
She moved her mouth up and down on her mom’s dick.
Bobbed her head.
Her dad squealed, hopped in place, clapped his hands.
She gripped the shaft, bobbed her head faster.
And faster.
And faster.
Her mom groaned, thrust her hips.
And then…
And then…
Her mom came.
Her mom’s preemie pig faced burn victim dick became a hot spring, and she gulped with each pulse, in rhythm.
But it kept cumming.
The pressure was too great. Cum shot from her nose, her ears, dripped from her eyes. It pushed through her pores, entered her bloodstream, moved through her organs and into her heart.
Joy. Electric joy, ecstatic joy.
She sat back onto the floor and cried. Cried tears of joy. Of joy and cum. Her parents came to her, wrapped their arms around her, cried with her in the cum puddle.
Then she became someone else, somewhere else. She was a child—her mother as a child. She still sat back on her knees, but on a worn rug in front of a black and white television. Judy Garland was on the screen, wearing a checkered dress and a look of nostalgia.
Judy was singing.
“Sooooommewheeere oooover the raaainbow…”
Her mother’s voice sang along, her child’s voice tender, matching Judy’s nostalgia.
“Bllluuuuuue biiirds flyyy
Aaaand the dream that you daaare to
Oooh whyyy, ooOoh whyyy caaan’t iiiiiiiii.”