FICTION | From the Tree

By Ryan Vonder Haar



When Christine saw the search history on the family computer, she wondered how she’d failed her two boys. The list of recent searches told a shameful story. The first was “Big Boob Porn.”


The older boy came into the kitchen for a drink. “Taylor, can you come here a minute?” Christine called. “Do you know anything about this?” She pointed at the screen.


Taylor’s face never learned to hide emotions. His expression went from boredom, to confusion, to amusement. It wasn’t him. He was a good boy.


 “No. That’s hilarious, though. It must be Timmy.”


“This is unacceptable. Could you imagine if one of the neighbors were over and saw this?”


“Here,” he said, taking the mouse from her, “I’ll delete it. You’d think he’d use his phone, but I suppose it’s a smaller screen. Still, out in the open like this is bold. There, done.” He leaned back on the island counter, saw that she didn’t like that, and stood straight.


“It’s not just the computer. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. The blanket and pillows on the couch, the safari ones, the nice ones, they’re crusty in places.”


“Are you suggesting he’s masturbating onto them? That’s disgusting.”


“I’m not saying anything, but I’ve taken them to the cleaners twice this month. The first time I thought was an accident, spilled food or something. Now, I’m not so sure.”


“Thanks for grossing me out. Noted: Don’t lie on the couch. I’m going to go now. I’m seeing Natasha.” He turned to leave.


“That’s fine, dear. But, before you go, can you speak to Timmy?”


He stopped. “Speak to him? What do you want me to say, ‘Hey bro, mom wants you to stop jerking off all over the house and watching porn on the family computer?’”


“Well, yes.” She considered. “No, no, I want you to teach him how to be responsible and clean up after himself. To be tidy.” Christine tucked in the chair, where it ought to be when no one was using it.


“You and dad never gave me the talk. All you guys did was leave condoms on my bed.”


“You never needed a talk,” she said, leaning over him. He looked better without his hair in his face. She adjusted it for him. “And that was your father’s idea. Timmy’s different. If it comes from your father or me, he’ll think it’s sort of a punishment.” Taylor waved her hand away. “He looks up to you. If you tell him, he’ll listen. Please?”


“Fine. I will.” He ran his hand through his hair. Some strands fell back over his face.


“Now. Before you go.”


“Fine, then I’m leaving.”


“Thank you. Love you.”


“Yeah, yeah. Tell that to the pillows.”


Taylor knocked on the door. Nothing. He tried the handle. Unlocked, he peeked in to find Timmy lying under his blankets. Taylor shut the door behind him, stepped closer, tried not to touch anything.


“Can we talk?”


Timmy poked his head out from the blanket, rubbed his eyes. “Talking.”


He was a good little actor. “Mom found your porn searches on the computer.”


His green eyes narrowed. “What?”


“Do you know how to delete a search history? I can show you. Really, you shouldn’t be using the family computer for that. You’ll fill it with viruses using random searches. Stick to the Hub. There’s more than enough on it.”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That wasn’t me.”


“You don’t have to get defensive. No one is mad. Everyone jerks off and watches porn.”


“I’m not mad. Or defensive. It’s not me.”


“Then what about the blanket on the couch? Look, it’s perfectly healthy and normal as you get older to have these types of urges and it’s ok to exercise them at the appropriate time and place, with the appropriate, uh, equipment. The family blanket is not one of them.”


“Taylor. What the fuck are you talking about?”


“Quit playing dumb. Quit watching porn on the family computer and stop jerking off with or on the damn living room blanket and pillows.”


“I have a flesh-light.”


“What?” What did he say?


He closed his eyes. “And I use my iPad. I told you, it’s not me. I know how to delete a search history. Anything else, mom?” Eyes opened; the green irises betrayed no lie.


“Just clean up after yourself, alright.” Taylor said, leaving.


Tim’s favorite was an amateur cam-girl, Krissy. She wore a ski mask. In front of a mirror, angled to see her head-on and from the back, she worked dildos, the kind that sticks to surfaces like plungers, nipple clamps, butthole plugs, and riding crops for spanking. He liked her videos because of how real she fucked. Her tenacity. 


The way her pelvis, pussy, ass, thighs, and legs worked. The way her skin glistened and reddened with vigor.


Massive tits bounced. Those glorious cupcakes were perky around the nipples. Everest nipples. Sometimes, Krissy squeezed them. Sometimes, she pinched the tips.


The average duration of her videos was around twenty-three minutes. Plugged in with good headphones, he listened on full volume. On some clips, he’d fast-forward through repetitive, unimaginative scenes. Hers were the exception. Her ass never bored him, pumping muscular dedication. It was an ass that his dick could get lost in.


His left hand never left his cock. With his right, he reached for a dollop of oil. Halfway through – or if someone really caught his eye – he’d switch to the flesh-light.


He didn’t like the look of the flesh-light. The faux rubber lips were so obviously fake that he’d lose wood staring at it. Especially, if he focused on the tear, which slowly got bigger and bigger, and broke his concentration as he tried to mimic the thrusts and match the wet noises – sometimes even the groans if he was inspired.


At each climax, Tim removed the wet hug and thrust his cock to the sky, like a lightning rod. Then the feeling died, and he’d start over, either starting another video or opening a new playlist. He’d start stroking again until the skin was dry and raw and in need of oil.


Famished, Tim walked through the darkened hallway. Music dripped through the ceiling like rain from mom upstairs, but that didn’t bother him. He turned into the kitchen.


His eyes adjusted to the dark. He saw a person – his father – at the family computer. Thick headphones on, moans slipping through. The pixels pulsated rainbows on dad’s unsuspecting face. Bunched around the old man’s lap, a blanket, which he maneuvered up and down with his hands around his mushroom dick.

The pixels pulsated rainbows on dad’s unsuspecting face.

Tim cringed, thought about giving up, but tip-toed to the fridge. If caught, it served dad right – but he still opened the fridge as quietly as possible.


Inside was half a pizza. He snagged two slices and a water bottle and returned to his room. While eating and creating a new list, he saw Krissy had posted a new video.


Stan never had sex anymore. He stared at his wife.


Christine said, “What are you staring at?”


“Oh, nothing dear, I thought I saw a fox.” The pillows were arranged on the bed. She got upset when he laid on them. She got upset about a lot of things that made little to no sense to him. He laid sideways as a form of compromise, trying to remain as motionless as possible. It wrinkled the fancy cover, she said, moving around would ruin it, but what was the point of a bed? – and his body dangled off either end. He watched her move around the room, putting his things away. She was beautiful, and that ass…


“You should know, one of our sons is using the family computer to watch porn.”


“Good for them. What I’d give to be that young again. They should enjoy their youth, and the perks that come along with it while they can. I remember when I used to.” He leaned up. “We used to have sex.”


“You used to be able to pick me up. Remember, that was your rule.”


He laid back down. “Why do you always have to bring that up?”


“It’s your rule.” She touched her toes as she put away the socks.


“I know what I said.” Could he touch his toes?


“That you’ll always be able to pick up the girl you’re sleeping with.”

He covered his eyes with his hands. “Yes,” Stan said, “I remember what I said.” He was also going to the gym twice a day as a young buck, he wasn’t paying a mortgage, and wasn’t saving for two college funds.


“So, can you? Pick me up?”


This was a test. He rose to his feet. “I already called you a fox. What, do you want me to grovel? Or do you want it rough.” He intercepted Christine and pushed her to the wall.


Mom was not impressed. “I could kick your ass,” she said.


They both knew it. Dad leaned in anyway.


“I’m not trying to fight. Remember, you wanted me to pick you up. Some wild hogs need to be finessed.” Why did he say that?


She spat in his face. The disrespect hurt them both more than any physical violence and she shouldered past him. “Look,” she said, “you wrinkled the comforter.”


He wiped away the spit. “I didn’t want it to go like this, you know. In my head this all went differently and a lot nicer. There was still spitting, but…what can I do?”


It’s been going on for a month; her trying to straighten everything out without touching him. Was it a midlife crisis? They had both put on some weight. Neither of them was young anymore, but she was still beautiful, and he a man.


“I’m going to take a bath.”


Bath meant alone time; hours of loud music, candles, and steam from the bath. He slunk to the backyard.


On the ground floor, it was silent except for the muffled electronic music coming from the bathroom upstairs.


He went outside and lit a joint. He stalked the borders of his domain. The least he could do as a fat, lazy animal. From fence to fence, he patrolled with breaks for more hits, walking alone, in the dark.


A car was parked on the curb, not the driveway but between the houses. He saw his son in the passenger seat. It wasn’t his car. Movement; Taylor remained still, but there was motion in the car. Good for him. Stan inhaled, and reveled in his son’s victory, reminiscing on his old glory days. It made him hungry.


A father had to help himself. He went to the kitchen, cooked a pizza, but his hunger persisted. He switched on the computer. Typed into the search bar, found a professional.


He unzipped his pants. He got a blanket from the couch. It was soft.


“He’s a little young,” Taylor said. “Don’tcha think?”




“I mean, when I was that age,” he remained still for Natasha, who moved a lot. “I can’t even imagine having that kind of access. That kind of feeling. Can you?”




“I suppose it’s different for girls. Still, it’s too young. Then you have to wash it out, what does that do to a young psyche? How can you look at that rubber thing after it’s been in the sink where you brush your teeth? What do you think?”


She, Natasha, removing his penis from her mouth, said, “I think you’re over thinking it.”


“You think so?”


She stroked him. “I think you should be happy your little brother has pleasure and joy in his life. Are you going to cum?”


Sometimes he did. Sometimes, he didn’t.


“I don’t know.” Her head returned to his lap, bobbing up and down.


Natasha made it her personal mission to make him cum. She’d gag, choke, and drool over his dick and balls until they were sloppy and soaked. Her hands could build a fire. When she took all of him, and his soul rattled some, she thought she had him, but he took out his phone.


It was a text message. From Timmy, Taylor said. “Pizza is in the fridge. What does that mean? I don’t want his scraps. That’s disgusting.”


She shoved a finger in his ass. It came inside like a hooked claw. Taylor squealed. “What the fuck.”


“Don’t be a pussy.”


He came. Despite the volcano’s eruption and the fireworks in the sky, he felt nothing. She wasn’t expecting it, however, and it caught her in the face.

He came. Despite the volcano’s eruption and the fireworks in the sky, he felt nothing.

“Well?” he said indicating his dick, where a dollop of semen remained.


“Get the fuck out of my car. This instant.” Some had gotten in her hair.


He left, walked back home.


Inside, dad slept on the couch with the tv on, pillow under his head. He didn’t know about the blanket. Taylor turned off the tv.


On the table was a half-smoked joint. He picked it up, wiped away the ash. Mom would be pissed if she found it – she’d probably think it was his.


Pizza was in the fridge as promised. He took a slice and ate it on the way to his room. Passed Timmy’s, the light was on under the door, he tip-toed by into his, shutting the door as quietly as possible.


He could hear mom’s music in the room above. EDM – electric dance music. Last week was rap. She was finding herself. Poor dad.


He didn’t mind the noise. After changing, opening the window, and laying on the bed, he lit the joint. The sound drifted like bubbles in the air.


She thrust for all her fucking worth. Her calves were on fire. Naked on the tiles, she worked out her frustration with a purple dildo.


Her ass cheeks clapped together. Her tits bounced. The black ski mask soaked up her sweat. With it on, she was no longer Christine, the subdued house wife and mom, she was Krissy, a goddamn queen.


Krissy pinched her nipple, rubbed her clit, her legs, spartan-strong, pistoned her body up and down, again, and again, and again.


Between editing on her laptop, she poured a glass of wine, and lit a new lavender mint candle. People, faceless avatars, tipped her real money. She earned it. They sent gifts, and direct messaged her, saying “I love how you twerk that ass” or “Mommy.” When she was done, she showered, the water washing away who she wanted to be until she was just Christine again.

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