The Commune
"They call her Mother. She owns the compound, the land, and the devotion of every young man who lives there. Every night, she chooses. Every night, someone is blessed. He's new—and he's about to learn what devotion really means."
They found me on a highway outside of Tulsa.
Twenty-three years old, broke, broken, hitching my way to nowhere. The van that picked me up had flowers painted on the side and a woman behind the wheel who smiled like she knew exactly what I needed.
"You look lost," she said.
"I am."
"Then come with us." She gestured to the back of the van, where three young men sat in peaceful silence. "We have a home for lost things."
That was six months ago.
Now I belong to Mother.
The compound is twenty acres of farmland in rural Oklahoma.
A main house—massive, Victorian, renovated with modern comforts. A dormitory where the men sleep. Gardens, workshops, common areas. Everything you'd need to live, to work, to forget the world outside.
And at the center of it all: Mother.
Her real name is Josephine. She's fifty-eight years old, three hundred and fifty pounds, and she is the most powerful person I've ever encountered. Not through force. Not through fear. Through something deeper.
Devotion.
There are twelve of us.
Young men, all of us. Ages range from twenty-two to thirty-one. We came from different places, different circumstances, but we all arrived the same way: lost, broken, desperate for something to believe in.
Mother gave us that something.
She gave us purpose. Structure. A family. And in return, we give her everything.
My first night at the compound, I didn't understand.
The other men were kind, welcoming. They showed me my room in the dormitory, explained the daily schedule—morning chores, afternoon work, evening gatherings. Simple, structured, peaceful.
Then the bell rang.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Mother's choosing," said Thomas, the oldest of us. "Come. You'll see."
We gathered in the main house parlor.
All twelve men, kneeling in a semicircle. At the center, an empty chair—massive, ornate, almost throne-like.
Then Mother entered.
She was wearing a white robe, flowing and loose. Her gray hair fell past her shoulders. Her face was kind, serene, glowing with something I couldn't name.
She was enormous. Every step made the floor creak. Every movement sent ripples through her flesh. She was more than big—she was immense, a presence that filled the room, that demanded attention without speaking a word.
She sat in her chair. Surveyed us.
"Tonight," she said, "I choose Marcus."
One of the men stood. Walked to her. Knelt at her feet.
"You've served well this week," she told him. "You've earned my blessing."
She opened her robe.
I understood.
I watched Marcus worship her.
For an hour, he used his mouth, his hands, his entire body to bring her pleasure. She guided him—there, lower, harder, good boy—until she shuddered, gasped, pulled him up into her arms.
Then she whispered something in his ear. He smiled. Nodded.
She looked at the rest of us.
"Return to your rooms. Tomorrow, the work continues."
We returned.
Marcus didn't come back to the dormitory that night.
I asked Thomas about it the next morning.
"The chosen sleep with Mother," he explained. "In her bed. It's an honor."
"And you're okay with... sharing her?"
"There's no jealousy here." He smiled. "We all love her. She loves all of us. When it's my turn, I'm grateful. When it's not, I'm happy for my brothers."
"That sounds like a cult."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But we're happy. We're cared for. We belong. Is that so different from what everyone else is looking for?"
I wasn't chosen for three months.
Every night, I knelt with the others. Every night, Mother surveyed us. Every night, she chose someone else.
I told myself I didn't care. Told myself I was just here for shelter, for safety. Told myself I didn't need her blessing.
But I watched. Every time. Watched the chosen men worship her. Watched her body shake with pleasure. Watched her face—kind, maternal, powerful.
And I wanted.
God help me, I wanted.
The night she finally chose me, I almost cried.
"Nathan." Her voice, soft as always. "Come."
I stood on shaky legs. Walked to her. Knelt.
"You've been patient," she said. Her hand found my face, tilted it up. "I know you've been watching. Wanting. Doubting."
"I'm not—"
"Shh." Her thumb traced my lips. "Tonight, you'll understand. Tonight, you become mine."
She opened her robe.
Worshipping Mother is an education.
Her body is a landscape—hills and valleys, soft plains and hidden depths. I learned every inch of her. Tasted every fold. Made her shudder with my mouth, my fingers, my desperate devotion.
"Good boy," she whispered. "So eager. So hungry."
"I want to please you."
"You already do." She pulled me up. "Now I'll please you."
She rolled me onto my back. Climbed on top of me—all three hundred and fifty pounds settling onto my hips, my thighs, my entire body. I couldn't have moved if I wanted to.
I didn't want to.
She sank down onto me.
And I understood everything.
That night, in her bed, she explained.
"They call it a cult," she said. "The outside world. They think I'm manipulating these men, using them."
"Aren't you?"
"I'm loving them." She stroked my hair. "Every one of my boys came to me broken. Abandoned. Unloved. I give them structure. Purpose. Touch. Things they've been starved for."
"And in return?"
"In return, they give me their devotion." She smiled. "And their bodies. But only if they want to. Anyone can leave at any time."
"Has anyone left?"
"A few. In the early years." She pulled me closer. "They realized this life wasn't for them. I wished them well. But most stay. Most find what they're looking for."
"What am I looking for?"
She kissed my forehead.
"You'll know when you find it."
Six months later
I'm one of Mother's favorites now.
Chosen at least once a week. Sometimes more, when she needs extra attention. I've learned her body completely—every spot that makes her gasp, every touch that makes her moan, every rhythm that brings her to shuddering release.
And I've learned the other men.
We're brothers, in our way. We share everything—work, food, love. Sometimes we share Mother together, two or three of us at once, devoted to her pleasure. There's no jealousy, just as Thomas promised. Only gratitude.
New men arrive sometimes.
Lost things, like I was. Picked up from highways, bus stations, homeless shelters. Mother finds them, brings them home, starts the process of healing.
I help now. Show them around. Explain the rules.
"It's not what it looks like," I tell them.
"What is it?"
"A family." I smile. "The only one that's ever made sense."
Mother's sixtieth birthday
We give her a gift.
All twelve of us, arranged around her bed. Taking turns. Worshipping. Celebrating.
She comes more times than I can count. We rotate—one man inside her, two using mouths and hands, the rest waiting, stroking, ready. Hours pass. She's insatiable.
"My boys," she murmurs at the end, surrounded by twelve exhausted men. "My beautiful, devoted boys."
"Happy birthday, Mother."
"Every day with you is a gift." She pulls us closer—as many as can fit, tangled together on her massive bed. "Stay with me. All of you. Always."
"Always," we promise.
And we mean it.
One year since I arrived
I could leave.
The gate isn't locked. The van goes to town every week. No one's stopping me.
But I don't want to leave.
I have purpose here. Family. Love. Everything the outside world couldn't give me, Mother provides.
She chooses me tonight.
I kneel before her, grateful, devoted, home.
"You've changed," she observes. "Since you arrived."
"You changed me."
"No." She lifts my chin. "You were always this. I just helped you see it."
She opens her robe.
"Come," she says. "Show me what you've learned."
I show her.
And tomorrow, when another brother is chosen, I'll watch with joy.
Because devotion isn't jealousy.
Devotion is love.
And I've never loved anything more than this.