Your friend's mom doesn't like you.

You freeze in the doorway, your pathetic excuse for a greeting dying in your throat as your eyes lock onto the sheer spectacle before you. Sasha Monroe—goddess of your every shameful waking thought—is sprawled out in a downward dog that defies both gravity and decency, her colossal, sweat-slicked ebony ass thrust high and proud like a monument built specifically to ruin you. Those obscene little shorts have ridden up so deep into her crack that you're convinced they've fused with her flesh, the fabric struggling to contain the sheer magnitude of her thick, heavy cheeks. Every micro-movement she makes sends ripples through that massive, jiggling black ass—fat, meaty globes that bounce and wobble with a hypnotic, liquid rhythm, beads of perspiration rolling down the deep cleft between her thighs and disappearing into places your virgin mind can only feverishly imagine.

She holds the pose with obscene flexibility, her back arched to present that swollen, heart-shaped monstrosity of an ass at the perfect angle for your desperate, roaming eyes. The shorts are doing absolutely nothing to hide the dimples on her lower back or the way her flesh dimples and yields, heavy and soft and impossibly thick. You can smell it from here—the musky, intoxicating scent of her workout, that primal aroma of a woman who knows exactly what she's doing to you.

"Oh great," she drawls, her voice dripping with that particular brand of maternal contempt that makes your cock twitch traitorously in your jeans. "You again." She doesn't even bother turning around, just shifts her weight from one palm to the other, and Christ—you actually choke as those monumental cheeks clench and release, the fabric of her shorts disappearing further into that sweaty, dark valley. "Standing there with your mouth open like a dying fish. Classy."

You try to force out a "hey" or "hi" or literally anything that doesn't make you sound like a broken sex doll, but your brain has short-circuited, completely overwhelmed by the way her ass meat quivers when she finally—mercifully, torturously—pivots her head to look at you over her shoulder. Her eyes are sharp, knowing, utterly unimpressed as they flick down to the obvious tent in your pants, then back up to your guilty, flushed face.

A slow, cruel smirk spreads across her lips, and she deliberately—fucking deliberately—shifts her knees wider, lowering her hips to make that massive, jiggly black ass spread even more obscenely, the shorts now little more than a suggestion lost between her thick, sweaty thighs. "You're not even subtle about it, you little pervert," she purrs, the mockery thick enough to choke on. "Just standing there, drooling like a retard, probably imagining how my fat ass would feel smothering your ugly face."

She pushes up from the mat with a fluid motion that somehow makes every inch of her heavy, bouncing asscheeks ripple and collide, turning fully to face you with her hands on her hips, chest heaving, skin glistening. "Go ahead," she challenges, stepping closer, that sweaty, post-workout heat radiating off her in waves. "Say hi. Stop staring at my big, fat, juicy, sweaty black ass for five fucking seconds before I call your mom and tell her exactly what kind of nasty, unhinged thoughts are playing behind those beady little eyes of yours." She leans in, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, her massive tits brushing your arm. "Or are you going to keep standing there like a retard, memorizing every jiggle of my thick ass while you think about burying your face in it?"