Anita Ascendant (Chapter 1) (Patreon)

Anita spiraled through the calming abyss, both dizzyingly fast and at the pace of a lazy river at once. Her long golden locks streamed in all directions like shooting star tails; her oceanic irises had become like major bodies of water unto themselves; her pert cleavage swelled with deep heaving breaths, nipples erected to mountains and her skin prickling with goose flesh; and her limbs stretched to the widest possible wingspan for her swiftly-evolving silhouette as though she was laid out on silk sheets and moaning with the anticipation of the cosmos’ next libidinous extraction from her absolutely pulsating nethers. While the first touchless orgasm had startled her, not the least of which because her marriage had been a dry affair for quite some time and her lustful drive had been stunted by overall frustration with her entire existence, Anita soon became accustomed to the regular jolts of nectar-gushing climax she was experiencing now with every mile she gained in stature at the apex of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck, YES. That’s… the stuff,” she huffed, quietly but still with sufficient volume to be heard by any lesser life forms in range, the laws of physics be damned. “Give it to me. Goddamn, UGH! Right… there… yes!”

Each new explosive finish not only granted her another spine-tingling height expansion among the blackness of space, but gave her cause to luxuriously squirm and writhe, wrenching her limbs and arching her back with violence that could’ve ended worlds, yet for the growing forty-five-year-old (former) mother of three, it was just the next necessary impulse for this foreign but all-too-welcome marathon of euphoria. While she’d of course never have been able to describe this particular insane surreality as an aspiration before in her general aimlessness and dissatisfaction with the imprisonment of her domestic home life, it was becoming clear that she’d needed “this” on many levels, psychological and confidence-wise, as well as sensual.

At first the rush of her rapid growth had made her too delirious, both with sexual gratification as well as the overall existential madness of becoming the largest living creature in the universe in a matter of minutes, to recall the circumstances that gifted her this rise. But after the tenth or so orgasm, the details started to trickle back into her mind (insignificant though they now seemed to a being of her unthinkable grandeur), and the anger and self-righteousness intermingled again with her lasciviousness and surge toward deific scale.

“Oh, that selfish ungrateful little…” she murmured with a galaxy-spanning boom.

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Anita massaged her temple as she stood in the bedroom doorway, fidgeting with irritation that was peaking fast toward outrage. When she looked up again with rosy cheeks and fire behind the eyes at her twenty-five-year-old son, technically a grown man though he was, he appeared smaller than ever to her: the same little boy who’d for so long failed to recognize her full authority, as either head of the household or a woman capable of so much more, despite the ways this family tree had tied her down. Her daughters too were distractions from Anita’s untapped potential, but her eldest especially, the boy, had been an annoyance for so long, that seeing the same-old nonchalance in his face now, the lack of appreciation for the endless parade of adolescent sins he’d committed against her, practically made her foam at the mouth. This was the last straw. Ordinarily she received a secret thrill from her victories in these easily-ignited verbal spars with her children and rightfully soft-spoken Beta-shmuck husband, but today, she just felt nauseous with resentment.

“So what you’re telling me is…” she uttered in a rage-fueled tizzy, stomping into the room and jabbing her forefinger at her son’s chest. “…you decided that even though I made a point of telling you to help get the house picked up, just for a measly few hours, you went out. With your friends. All night. Again.”

“What do you care?” he scoffed. “It still got clean without me. You know, I’m not seventeen anymore. You can’t just yell stuff at me like a drill sergeant and expect it to happen.”

“No. Listen here. You may have grown a little since you were down at my waist, but so long as you continue to defy me and flout the rules of this house, MY house, where you are privileged to live and where you will respect and obey my rules, then I will continue to treat you like the little pants-pissing runt you were back then,” Anita barked. She strutted in a domineering circle around her boy, disgusted at the very sight of him and feeling as though he was shrinking before her very eyes back to that suitably-shrimpy bratty-child scale, though his body language still didn’t communicate apology. “Do you know what I gave up to have you and your sisters? To have this… stagnant, mind-numbing existence be the only thing I have to fucking look forward to until I just drop dead of goddamned boredom?”

“If you hate us all so much, why do you stick around? You’ve never let any of us be normal. Like you just have to stick your fingers in everything we do, and criticize us, and make us feel like shit, even though you act like everything’s perfect to everybody else. So why can’t you just leave us the hell alone already?”

Pausing to stifle a choke, the woman had to pause just to wrestle with herself. The truth was, she’d have gladly stripped herself of the leaden burdens that were her family, if only the opportunity had arisen to do so without damaging herself or her chances of finding a better life.

“Because I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you WIN!” Anita snarled through gritted teeth, grabbing her boy by his shirt in the way of an unruly puppy. The fury was bubbling up like a chemical reaction, and in this moment, she felt the same sentiment toward her disappointing son that an artist might’ve felt toward a failed lump-of-clay sculpture, something she wouldn’t have minded having the chance to pound back into a doughy nothing. “I’ve spent all these years doing everything I can to help you see the hierarchy here. You are not owed everything you think you are, and you have got to learn to recognize your superiors, me above all else. I… am… your… mother, and I may regret that, but you will start to fucking ACT like it’s true sooner or later, so help me God!”

“I hate you,” he muttered.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Anita spat in his face. The blonde-crowned matriarch snatched her son’s jaw, gripping it hard and forcing him to stare directly into her eyes. “Look at me, you little shit. Don’t say another goddamned word, or I will slap it right back into your ungrateful mouth. I don’t know what it’s going to take. But I am going to make you understand that you are subordinate to me, if it’s the last thing either of us ever do.”

Anita’s memories became blurriest at this juncture, as her near-blinding anger, much like the erotic drive granting her galactic-spanning growth spurts now, was reaching a high point. All she knew was that her son pushed back, a struggle ensued, and both of them fell away, the self-appointed queen of the house herself toppling against a closed suitcase on the desk which then spilled open. She’d heard her husband and daughters racing upstairs at the commotion, even saw a glimpse of their concerned faces in the doorway, and a final peek at her undeserving shit-stain of a son’s unsorrowful grimace that made her scream with hatred, before the flash bathed everything in white. The only sensory perceptions Anita could trust for certain then, until she was left to float blissfully in outer space, were the shredding of clothes, the cracking of papery walls, seismic shudders from the crumbling of earthen crust, and the quartet of winnowing shapes representing her flattened family’s bodies quickly dominated and then rendered less than nothing against the enlarging swell of her astronomic booty cheek flesh.