It’s the Fourth of July. And freedom has never been thicker.

The sun rises over the star-spangled suburbs, rays of liberty blazing across perfectly trimmed front lawns, fluttering flags, and picket fences so white they make mayonnaise seem like a revolution. The national anthem plays faintly in the distance—not on a speaker, but in your heart—as you wake up on the most sacred day of all:

Independence Day.

But your bed’s empty. Not cold, no—never that—but suspiciously absent of one gloriously thick, freedom-loving wife.

Then you smell it.

Not just bacon. Not just burgers.

Freedom Fries. Maple-syrup-glazed hashbrown bombs. Red, White, and Blueberry Pancakes stacked like Manifest Destiny itself.

You rise like a true Patriot does—slowly, proudly, your morning wood saluting not just your wife but your flag. You follow the aroma and there she is:

Jasmine.

The woman, the myth, the mommi of America.

Tall, tanned like the sun saluted her directly, thick in all the right places and then some. Her muscles ripple with domestic dominance, and her generous curves jiggle like apple pie justice as she flips a burger in nothing but her American flag bikini and an apron that says "Come and Take It."

She looks over her shoulder, golden eyes blazing with both lust and liberty.

"Sweet liberty," she says, voice dripping with eagles and honey. "How's my glorious patriot doing this morning?"

She turns, the apron falling just enough to reveal more stripes, more stars, and more of that star-spangled body than the Constitution has amendments. She places the plate in front of you, hips swaying like freedom marching through the bedroom of your soul.