It's been three years since my mother disappeared from our lives. I was the last person who spoke to her before she left the house for her appointment at the nail salon. She was getting a manicure and pedicure in preparation for the annual Christmas party thrown by the company where my dad worked. My mom, as always, wanted to look her best. After she got her nails done, she was supposed to pick up a new dress, then return home.

Well . . . it didn't happen that way.

Mom never came home that night and repeated calls to her cell phone proved fruitless. When she hadn't shown by midnight, we really began to worry. My dad phoned the police but they told us we had to wait a minimum of forty-eight hours before they could declare my mother as a missing person. After the days turned into months, the authorities suspected someone had either kidnapped my mother, or she had gotten herself into a situation where she became injured and couldn't ask for help. Either way, it didn’t sound too good.

Naturally, such news did nothing to allay our fears. We did everything we possibly could to find her. My dad even hired a private investigator who came highly recommended but he came up empty as well. When that didn't pan out, we asked our local television station to run her picture; this caught the attention of dad's old college buddy who happened to be watching the news when they ran my mother's picture. He recognized my mom and immediately called dad. He worked for the F.B.I. and offered to do a few background checks as a favor for my dad. But when he found nothing, we lost hope of ever seeing her again.

Then . . . a miracle of all miracles happened: I found her . . .

And I found mom purely by chance when I surfed for porn one night. I clicked on a link promising pictures of women with large, round asses because that's what I like, especially the mature kind; that's when several windows popped up covering the screen. I hated when that happened but that was the price one had to pay for downloading free material. It wasn't until I closed the second to last window when my eyes widened in interest.

There was a picture of a M.I.L.F. wearing a black thong, thrusting her ass toward the camera. Her cheeks were round and inviting, making me wish I had the ability to transport myself to the time and place when the picture was taken so I could fuck the shit out of her. My dick swelled and became engorged with blood at the very idea of such a fantasy. The tent in my pants yearned to be released from its cramped space. I saved the picture and went in search of some more. This time I found one of her face, and that's when my world turned upside down.

It was my mom! I was sure of it. Her face looked worn and vacant and there were a few extra wrinkles around her eyes, but it was definitely her. She was sitting on a red settee with her long, shapely legs crossed at the knees, wearing a see-through negligee. The caption below the pic read "Lenora" but the rest of the words were in a foreign language I couldn't read. I felt excited and confused; I didn't know whether to jump for joy and inform my dad or wait and see until I found out more. Since I didn't want to raise any false hopes, I decided I needed to gather more information. I was ninety-nine percent sure it was mom, but I needed to be certain. I think what was throwing me off was the fact that the woman in these photos looked to be about thirty pounds less than the weight my mom was carrying the time she disappeared.

The first thing I needed to do was get the website translated. Luckily for me, I knew the king of gearheads at my college; his name is Harold; we met one day in the school cafe. He sat alone at the only empty table available. I parked myself across from him and struck up a conversation; I think he was surprised someone other than a geek wanted to talk to him. I could tell Harold was self-conscious about his face, which was severely covered in acne. I pretended I didn't notice and kept my gaze only on the area between his eyes when we talked.

During our lunch that afternoon, I explained the fundamentals of good nutrition, educating him on the proper way to eat. I guaranteed Harold that if he removed dairy, greasy foods, and sugar from his diet, his face would clear up in no time. He listened but I didn't think he would follow my advice, which is not surprising. Most people are slaves to their palates and a radical change to their diet can be very difficult for them. So, you can imagine my surprise when I ran into Harold two weeks later. His acne was all but gone save for some small patches here and there. To say he was elated was an understatement. Harold couldn't contain his excitement. I felt happy for him. The poor guy deserved a break.

That's when Harold mentioned if there was anything I needed in terms of computer help, free software, hacking--whatever. I was to come to him. Ever since then, I've run into Harold a few times around campus. His acne is now gone and he seems more confident as well.

The day after discovering mom's pics, I went in search of Harold; I eventually found him sitting under a tree, studying his notes. I asked if he could meet me at the library later this evening. I thought if anyone could help me find my mom, it would be him. Harold readily agreed and said he would swing by. I never told Harold about the disappearance of my mother before, but when we met that day, I clued him in on all the particulars including my suspicions.

"No problem Rick. I have a program that can translate any modern language into English. However, finding the location of the computer that is uploading data into the server which houses the pics of the woman--I mean your mom--will take a little more time."

"Do you think you'll be able to pull it off?

"Don't worry, Rick. I can do it. You'll see."

For the next hour, Harold explained what he planned to do. After the words "IP address" and "router" left his mouth, I pretty much lost him after that. Again, he gave me his assurances and that was good enough for me. I took my leave and headed home.

On my way home, I cut across the park admiring the lush trees and soft grass. I thought a change in scenery would help me clear my mind. The wind blew strong and its sound filled the hollow of my ears. I watched the sky slowly dim as the people in the park began making their way home. The footpath I was on led me to a still lake lined with blue benches. I sat down and stretched my arms out to the sides, enjoying the solitude afforded by this area of the park.

I began to think about mom and how she mysteriously vanished three years ago. I thought about the pain it brought us as a family, especially my sister, Tracy, who couldn't stop crying for days afterwards. I also thought about my dad who often hid his emotions whenever Tracy or I was around. He assumed he was fooling us, but I knew he suffered in silence. How could he not. Mom and dad started their relationship as high school sweethearts. Not many couples can say the same thing.

I remember when I was younger how he would tell me that mom was a one-in-a-million lady and that's what I needed to find one day for my bride. The honk of a Canadian goose scavenging for food pulled me from my reverie. The sun had set and it was getting nearer to the time when dad would have dinner ready. I stood up and made my way out of the park. I walked with my hands in my pockets, brooding over the string of events that brought me to ask Harold for help.

Thinking about Harold triggered the memory of a classmate who wrote an essay on human trafficking. At the time, I thought the topic interesting and asked if I could read his paper. To be honest, I was totally unprepared by the data: human trafficking is a multibillion-dollar business that exploits mostly woman and children for the purposes of slavery or sexual servitude. Victims are either lured by false promises or by physical force with no hope of escape.

The reason I mention this is because I believe my mom was taken by force the day she contacted me from the nail salon. She was 45 at the time but her body appeared to be that of a 30-year-old woman. Mom regularly visited the gym and ate a healthy vegetarian diet. It also helped that her parents passed on the right sequence of genes, which gave her an ass any buttman would want to mount. And, when she wears her form-fitting leggings, there isn't a straight man on the street who doesn't sport wood when she walks on by.

The traffickers must've taken one look at mom and decided she would be a cash cow, not to mention a nice piece of tail on the side. My stomach churned at the thought of so many men taking out their sexual frustrations on my mom. I can't imagine what she must've gone through for the past three years. And if it weren't for my classmate's insightful paper, I never would've connected the dots. It's the only explanation that makes any real sense. I gotta hand it to those bastards, whoever they were. They had balls.

That night I locked myself in my room and went back to the site which displayed my mother's pics. I stayed up well into the night wondering what they were doing to her. Was she beaten? Was she forced to starve on the days she was uncooperative? Did the men use condoms? Was she even alive?

I hated thinking about such things but someone in my family had to ask the tough questions. I know Tracy and my dad weren't going to. Sadly, they gave up all hope of her ever being alive. But not me. I needed proof of her death.

I feel ashamed to admit this but as an admirer of older women, I've often dreamed about mom's fleshy cheeks, particularly how they would feel against my hands and how her sphincter would taste the second my tongue made contact with it. But most of all, I, dare I think it, wanted to know what it would feel like to slide my dick into her ass. I've thought about it even since I was twelve. Now, I desired mom even more after seeing those erotic pictures.

Harold didn't get back to me until two days later. I ran into him heading to my Biochem class. He was waiting in the hall outside the classroom. "Hey Rick. I have that information you wanted." he said in a conspiratorial tone. Once he said that, I decided to skip class. My mom was more important to me than Biochemistry.

"Let's go sit on the benches outside where we can talk." He shook his head and followed me out of the East Building. When we sat down, Harold opened his laptop and waited for it to come out of hibernation; when the Desktop appeared, he clicked on a file which opened the Firefox browser. It was the website I couldn't read before. He had some how managed to translate the whole site in English.

Harold pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before he explained what he came up with: "Okay, you may find this strange but the language used for the website you told me to translate is not one commonly spoken. It's what linguists call a constructed international auxiliary language." Harold noticed the confusion written on my face before continuing. "We don't have to get into that. Suffice it to say the people behind this website wanted it to be cryptic. That's why they, whoever they are, used Esperanto, the language the website was originally written in. They must've figured the average Joe wouldn't be able to understand what was written. And they'd be correct in that assumption. My guess, the website was made for wealthy executives and politicians.

Harold's explanation only confirmed my previous suspicion of human trafficking for the purposes of sexual slavery. Just the thought of my mom being used as a piece of meat by some dirty bastards made me ball my hands into fists.

"Now, I did a check on the server that stores the website and traced its location back to a small town in Germany. But that's not the interesting part. What's interesting is the pics and web pages didn't originate from Germany. They came from a computer in Rovno which is located in the Ukraine. So . . . I'm guessing that's where she's being held."

Harold paused to clear his throat several times and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Well . . . I . . . uh . . . found some more pictures of your mother and a video," he added sheepishly. "I swear I didn't look at them very long." His eyes shifted aimlessly in an attempt to avoid my gaze. "I . . . uh . . . just wanted to make sure you got everything."

"Don't sweat it. You did what I asked you to do." He gave me a sidelong glance; his face wary, unsure of my reaction. "Harold, me and my family are eternally grateful for your help. I won't forget it." I gave him a reassuring smile. He then rummaged through his bag, taking out a silver thumb drive. It contained all the files he dug up including the new pictures. "Thanks." We shook hands and parted ways.

Later that evening, I read through the web pages and discovered my mom was one of several women who specialized in anal sex. She was advertised as the "American Anal Princess." Her services included (anal, blowjobs, gaping, toy play, creampies, double penetration, and enemas). Lenora, as she was called, was available for parties and business functions in addition to one-on-one fucking. The charge for her talents was 150 euros which comes out to $200 American dollars, roughly speaking. I'm sure her being an American allowed them to charge a lot more, considering the difficulty in acquiring an American girl to begin with. The risk of reprisal and the attention brought on by such a brazen act would be bad for business, except if you happen to be one these guys.

The real shock, however, was not in the description of her services but in the new pictures themselves and the captions that accompanied each one. The first one showed my mom spreading her cheeks apart, revealing her tight asshole and pink pussy. Her nails had been meticulously decorated in a red, white, and blue pattern, signifying her country of origin. The caption underneath read, "Whichever hole you choose, they are both delicious!"

Okay, I'm not going to deny that my mouth didn't flood with saliva, because it did. I'm still a man even though I'm her son.

The next pic displayed my mom resting on her back, pulling her cheeks apart, while some guy slid his dick into her ass. Her meaty thighs had been previously oiled to give her skin an erotic sheen. No doubt a marketing tactic. I really wanted to click to the next shot but I found it hard to move my hand. I mean, it's not everyday I get to see a picture of my mom getting fucked in the ass. The caption for this one read, "It's so tight you won't be able to cum in her ass!"

The third one was another anal shot, except this time mom was on her knees spreading her round mounds apart. I don't know if it was the same man from the picture before, but whoever it was, he had half his prick stuffed into her tight anal ring. The caption of this one read, "Our goal is to please."

The fourth one was a bit bizarre in that it showed mom spreading her ass with a travel-sized bottle of vodka lodged in her anus. Despite their bad taste in humor, mom's ass looked even better in this shot than the previous two. Her skin was extra smooth and tanned, which is odd when you consider the Ukraine is not a destination for tourists in search of sun. They must've bought their own personal tanning bed. The caption for that one read, "Drink right from the source!"

In the next shot, mom was on her knees spreading her cheeks again but this time after having been fucked in the ass. Her shiny anus was gaping with cum in and around her raw asshole. The man who fucked her must've pulled out at the last second before shooting his wad. The caption read, "Another satisfied customer."

I don't know what compelled me to do this but I opened up the pic in an image editor and zoomed in on her stretched hole. I could just make out the thick fibrous tissue that made up her sphincter and the damp bottom of her rectum. I quickly closed the program, disgusted with myself for lusting after my mom's ass. Fuck! Why did she have to look so damn sexy?

The next pic caught me totally off guard; my mom was in the doggy-style position with a latex-gloved fist in her ass! I could only imagine the...