Banging My Son's Bully

WARNING: This story is really dark and pretty horrible in many ways. It contains dubious consent/blackmail, interracial themes, humiliation, verbal degradation, cheating, rough sex, and extreme psychological manipulation. It also features themes of bullying and parental betrayal. All characters depicted are 18 years of age or older. This content may be deeply disturbing to some readers and is intended for mature audiences only. I really wrote this as a pure exercise and did not intend to post it. But just putting it up in case anyone else enjoys these sort of things...

--- You have been warned! ---

The oven timer dings just as I'm piping the last rosette of buttercream onto my lavender-infused French macarons. Perfect timing. These finicky little bastards better be worth the three hours I've spent on them. The spring open house at Wildwood Estates doesn't technically require homemade refreshments, but Stephanie from Coldwell Banker brought those pretentious cake pops to the last one, and I refuse to be outdone.

"No, Jennifer, you absolutely cannot use gray paint in the dining room of a Tudor," I say into my AirPod, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I slide the parchment paper of completed macarons onto the granite counter. "I don't care what your client saw on HGTV. It's a 1920s restoration with original moldings. You'll tank the value with that contemporary bullshit."

I adjust my Lululemon Define jacket, which is struggling to contain my tits even though it's a size up from what I'd normally wear. The zipper digs into my cleavage, leaving a little red line I'll have to cover with concealer before the open house. My post-yoga body is still cooling down, little beads of sweat gathering at my temples despite the headband.

"Listen, put them in touch with my guy at Benjamin Moore. He'll set them straight with a historically appropriate palette that won't send potential buyers running." I pause, eyeing my creation. The macarons are the precise shade of lavender that matches the accent pillows I've staged in the living room of the $1.2 million property I'm showing tomorrow. "Trust me, Jen, colors sell houses. You want that commission or not?"

The front door slams, and I glance at the Wolf clock on the wall. 3:47. Tyler's home early.

"Gotta go, Jen. My son just got home. Check your inbox—I sent you that contact." I tap my AirPod twice to end the call just as Tyler tries to dart past the kitchen toward the stairs.

"Hey honey! You're home—" My voice cuts off when he turns slightly, keeping his face angled away from me. Mother's intuition kicks in immediately. "Tyler. Look at me."

He hesitates, shoulders hunched in his navy blue Winchester Prep windbreaker. When he finally turns, my stomach clenches like I've been punched. His left eye is swollen, the skin around it already darkening into what will be a spectacular bruise by tomorrow. There's a small cut on his cheekbone that's crusted with dried blood.

"Oh my God," I whisper, abandoning my baking masterpiece and rushing to him. He flinches when I reach for his face—actually flinches away from his own mother. "Who did this to you?"

"It's nothing, Mom. I just... I fell during gym." His eyes drop to the floor.

"Bullshit." The word snaps out of me before I can stop it. "You don't get a black eye from falling. Who hit you?"

Tyler's eyes well with tears, and my heart breaks for my baby even as rage begins to simmer beneath my skin. He's too sensitive for this cruel world, just like I was. Mark keeps saying he needs to toughen up, but what does he know? He's barely home three days a week.

"Nobody. It's fine. Please don't make a big deal—"

"Here," I interrupt, grabbing a macaron from the tray and holding it out. "These have twenty-four steps and took me all afternoon. Tell me who did this to you, or I'll call Principal Edwards right now and make such a scene they'll name the detention hall after me."

Tyler takes the macaron but doesn't eat it. His hand trembles slightly, the purple confection looking absurdly delicate in his palm. "It was Cyrus," he finally mumbles. "Cyrus Jackson."

The name hits me like ice water. I've heard it before, in hushed conversations with other mothers. The troublemaker.

"Did you tell a teacher?" My voice rises an octave.

Tyler's face crumples. "Mom, please. You'll just make it worse. He said... he said if I told anyone, next time would be much worse."

I grab my phone from the counter, ignoring the smear of purple buttercream my fingertip leaves on the screen. "I'm calling Jessica right now."

"Who?"

"Tiffany Miller's mom. She's on the school board. She'll know where this little thug lives."

"Mom, no!" Tyler's voice cracks with panic, but I'm already typing.

*Jessica, it's Karen. Need Cyrus Jackson's address ASAP. Emergency situation. He assaulted Tyler today.*

"Mom, seriously, please don't do this." Tyler's voice is desperate now.

I put my phone down long enough to look my son directly in the eyes—well, eye, since the other is rapidly swelling shut. "Listen to me, Tyler James Thompson. No one, and I mean no one, puts their hands on my child and gets away with it. Not while I have breath in my body."

My phone pings with Jessica's response. She's included not only the address but a note that Cyrus has been in trouble repeatedly, that the administration's hands are tied because of his "difficult home situation," whatever that means.

"I'll handle this," I say, already walking to grab my Louis Vuitton tote from the entryway bench. "Put some ice on that eye. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off."

"Mom, you can't go to his house!"

I spin around, one hand on my hip. "I sell multi-million dollar properties to celebrities and CEOs. You think I'm afraid of some teenage boy?"

"He's—"

"Tyler, enough." I soften my tone, reaching out to gently touch his uninjured cheek. "This is what mothers do. We protect our children. Now go ice that eye while I go have a word with this boy's parents about raising a child who thinks it's acceptable to bully others."

I check my appearance in the entryway mirror, fluffing my red bob and reapplying my MAC Russian Red lipstick. My yoga outfit is probably a bit much for a confrontation—the Lululemon leggings hug every curve of my ass and thighs like they're painted on—but I'm not taking the time to change. Sometimes the soccer mom look is exactly what you need to remind people you're a force to be reckoned with.

"Mom, please," Tyler tries one last time as I grab my car keys.

"Not another word. I'll be back in an hour."

"His parents won't care. They're not even—"

"I said not another word." I blow him a kiss and stride out to my immaculately clean white Nissan Rogue, sliding into the driver's seat with the kind of determination that's sold over thirty houses this quarter alone.

The GPS directs me to Lakeside Heights, a neighborhood I've driven clients past but never through. "Not a good investment at this time," is my standard line. "The area is still... transitioning."

As I drive, the pristine landscaping of Winchester Heights gives way to patchy lawns and houses that desperately need a power wash and fresh paint. My realtor brain automatically calculates the drop in property values with each block—$50k less here, $100k less there. I pass a corner store with a group of young men loitering outside, their eyes following my car as I drive by.

The apartment complex I'm looking for appears on my right, a faded three-story brick building with rusting iron balconies and window air conditioning units dripping condensation onto the sidewalk below. Cars are parked haphazardly on the street—late model Chargers with tinted windows, an old Cadillac on blocks, economy sedans that have seen better days. No designated parking spaces, no landscaping to speak of. The grass is more dirt than green.

I park directly in front of the building, making sure my car is in full view of the street. I may be angry, but I'm not stupid. I toss my phone into my bag and stride toward the entrance, stepping carefully around a broken beer bottle on the concrete.

The security door is propped open with a brick, the intercom system clearly non-functional. The hallway smells like weed, Fabuloso cleaner, and something fried. Bass-heavy music thumps from behind one of the doors, and I catch snippets of a heated argument from another.

Apartment 2C, according to Jessica's text.

I climb the stairs, my designer sneakers making little sound on the dirty steps. My heart is pounding, but not from the climb. I'm furious—at this Cyrus kid, at his parents, at a school system that allows thugs to terrorize kids like Tyler. By the time I reach 2C, my adrenaline is pumping so hard I can feel my pulse in my temples.

I straighten my shoulders, adjust my sports bra to make sure my cleavage isn't too obscene, and knock on the door with three sharp raps.

"Time to teach this kid a lesson in respect," I mutter under my breath, preparing the verbal lashing I'm about to deliver to whatever neglectful parents raised a child who thinks it's okay to hit my son.

The heavy bass of hip-hop music thumps from behind the door. I wait five seconds, then knock again, harder this time.

The music volume drops, and I hear heavy footsteps approaching. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.

I'm ready for a parent—a tired mother in house clothes, perhaps, or a disinterested father. What I'm not prepared for is the massive young man who fills the doorframe, looking down at me with dark, suspicious eyes.

He's shirtless, wearing only basketball shorts that hang low on narrow hips, revealing a chiseled V-line that disappears beneath the fabric. His chest and shoulders are corded with muscle, a large tattoo reading "LOYALTY" emblazoned across his pectorals.

The door swings open wider as he steps back, one arm braced against the frame. His eyes travel slowly down my body, lingering on my chest before lazily returning to my face. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

"Can I help you with something?" His voice is deep, almost adult-sounding, with a casual confidence that immediately sets my teeth on edge.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how my heart is hammering. "I'm looking for Cyrus Jackson's parents. Are they home?"

He lets out a low chuckle that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "You're looking at him. I'm Cyrus."

I blink rapidly, trying to process this information. This can't be right. The boy who hit my son isn't this... man. Tyler had said Cyrus was a senior, but this person looks like he could be in college. His shoulders are broader than Mark's, for God's sake.

"You're... you're Cyrus Jackson? The student at Winchester Prep?"

"That's me." He smirks, clearly enjoying my confusion. "And you must be Tyler's mom. Damn, shorty didn't tell me his mama looked like this."

The casual disrespect in his tone snaps me back to my purpose. I straighten my spine and lift my chin. "My name is Mrs. Thompson, and yes, I'm Tyler's mother. I need to speak with your parents immediately about your behavior."

Cyrus leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, the movement making his muscles flex. "Ain't no parents here. Just me."

"I... I don't understand. You live alone?" I glance past him into the apartment, scanning for any sign of adult supervision.

"My aunt owns the place. She's in Atlanta." He watches my face as this information sinks in. "You wanna come in and talk about whatever got you all worked up, or you gonna stand in the hallway where everybody can hear your business?"

Every instinct screams that I should leave, that this isn't a good idea, but my anger propels me forward. I step past him into the apartment, immediately assaulted by the competing smells of weed, cologne, and something mechanical—oil maybe?

The living room is surprisingly neat, if sparsely furnished. A large leather couch faces an enormous TV mounted on the wall, a gaming console and controller on the coffee table. There's a half-empty Gatorade bottle and what looks like some kind of circuit board next to it.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to the couch as he closes the door behind me. The click of the lock engaging sends a jolt of unease through my body.

I remain standing, clutching my purse to my chest like a shield. "I prefer to stand, thank you. This won't take long."

Cyrus shrugs and drops onto the couch, sprawling his long limbs across it, completely at ease. His basketball shorts ride low on his hips, revealing the elastic of his Calvin Klein boxers and the defined muscles of his lower abdomen.

"So what's good? What you wanna talk about?" He picks up his phone, glancing at it dismissively as if I'm barely worth his attention.

My rage bubbles over at his nonchalance. "What's 'good' is that you gave my son a black eye today. Tyler is a peaceful boy. What kind of person assaults someone smaller than themselves for no reason?"

He looks up from his phone, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Your son needs to learn how to stand up for himself. World ain't kind to soft boys."

"That is not your job!" My voice rises, and I force myself to take a deep breath. I will not lose control here. "You have no right to put your hands on my child. I want you to apologize to him and stay away from him from now on."

Cyrus laughs, a deep sound that reverberates through the room. "Or what? You gonna call the school again? Principal already knows I don't give a fuck about detention."

I'm taken aback by his casual profanity, the way he seems completely unfazed by my anger. My fingers tighten around the strap of my purse. "I'll go to the police. File assault charges."

"Go ahead." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly more engaged. "You think that's my first rodeo with the cops? They got bigger shit to worry about than some prep school beef."

I can feel my cheeks flushing with frustration and something else—fear, maybe, at how quickly I'm losing control of this situation. I try a different approach.

"Look, Cyrus, I understand teenage boys fight. But Tyler has never done anything to you. Why are you targeting him specifically?"

He tilts his head, studying me with those unnerving dark eyes. "Maybe 'cause his mama keeps sending him to school looking like a walking target. Boy dresses like his daddy picks his clothes and acts like he's better than everybody else just 'cause he lives in the nice part of town."

My jaw clenches. "So this is about class differences? You're bullying my son because we live in Winchester Heights?"

"Nah," he says, leaning back again, spreading his arms along the back of the couch. "I'm teaching him how the real world works. His daddy ain't around to show him, so somebody's gotta do it."

The casual mention of Mark's absence hits a nerve. "My husband travels for work. He provides very well for our family."

"Yeah, I bet he does," Cyrus says, his eyes drifting down to my chest again. "Got you in them fancy workout clothes, big house in the good neighborhood. But he ain't there, is he? Left you to handle all the hard shit while he's out doing whatever."

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. "Don't you dare presume to know anything about my marriage. And stop looking at me like that."

He smirks, completely unrepentant. "Like what?"

"Like..." I struggle to find words that won't acknowledge the blatantly sexual way he's appraising me. "Just focus on what I'm saying. I want you to leave my son alone."

"Or what?" he challenges again. "What exactly you gonna do about it, Mrs. Thompson? Run to the principal again? Call my parents that ain't here?"

"I'm talking to you right now, aren't I? I'm trying to resolve this reasonably, adult to—" I stop myself from saying "adult," because despite his size and apparent independence, he's still just a high school student. "Person to person."

"Nah, what you're doing is wasting both our time." He picks up the controller from the table, turning it over in his hands. "You came all the way to the hood thinking you could scare me with your mom voice and your rich lady attitude. But see, that shit doesn't work on me."

I can feel my control slipping. "I am not leaving until we resolve this. You cannot continue to harass my son."

"Harass?" He laughs again. "Lady, if I was really trying to hurt your boy, he'd be in the hospital, not hiding behind his mama's fat tits."

The crude comment makes my breath catch. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

"How dare I?" His voice takes on a mocking tone. "This ain't your fancy neighborhood where everybody talks all proper and pretends to be nice. You came to my house. You wanted to talk to me like I'm the problem. But the real problem is you."

"Excuse me?"

He stands suddenly, his full height towering over me. I take an instinctive step back.

"Yeah, you. Raising a son who can't defend himself. Sending him to school looking soft as hell. Where's his father at? Oh right, 'traveling for work.'" He makes air quotes with his fingers.

Something snaps inside me. "You don't know the first thing about me or my family. My husband is ten times the man you'll ever be!"

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I've made a mistake. Cyrus's expression changes, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes.

"Oh word?" He takes a step closer to me, and I back up until I feel the wall behind me. "Ten times the man, huh? You sure about that?"

I swallow hard, suddenly very aware of how alone we are in this apartment, how much larger he is than me. "I should go. This was clearly a mistake."

"Nah, you don't get to come into my house, disrespect me, then just bounce when you don't like how the conversation's going." His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "You wanna compare men? Let's compare."

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his basketball shorts, and I freeze, my body going cold with sudden realization.

"What are you doing?" My voice sounds pathetically weak. "Stop that right now!"

But he doesn't stop. Instead, he drops back onto the couch, legs spread wide, his eyes never leaving mine as he slowly—agonizingly slowly—begins to pull his shorts down.

"You said your husband is ten times the man I am," he says, his voice thick with mockery. "Let's see if that's true."

My mouth goes dry as the fabric slides down inch by inch. First revealing more of that defined V-line, then the tight black curls of public hair, then—oh God—the base of what appears to be an enormous shaft.

"Stop this immediately!" I try to sound authoritative, but my voice cracks. "This is sexual harassment! I'm leaving right now and calling the police!"

But I don't move. I can't move. I'm paralyzed, watching in horrified fascination as more and more of him is revealed. The shorts slide lower, and suddenly it flops out—a massive, semi-flaccid cock that dangles obscenely between his thighs, swinging slightly from the momentum of being freed.

"Jesus Christ!" The words escape my lips before I can stop them. It's easily eight inches long completely soft, drooping over a pair of heavy, egg-sized testicles. The skin is darker than the rest of him, almost purplish-black at the large, partially hooded head. A single prominent vein runs along the underside, pulsing visibly.

"What's wrong, Mrs. Thompson?" He smirks, kicking his shorts the rest of the way off. "Never seen a real man before?"

His balls hang unevenly, the left one dangling noticeably lower than the right, swaying slightly as he adjusts his position. The entire package is nestled in coarse black hair that looks untrimmed, wild. I can smell him from here—a musky, sweaty, distinctly male odor that makes my nostrils flare.

"This is completely inappropriate," I stammer, but my eyes remain locked on that monstrous appendage. "I came here to discuss my son, not to—"

"Yeah, let's talk about your son," he interrupts, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head, making no move to cover himself. "Tyler, right? The pussy who can't take a hit?"

"Don't call him that." My hands are trembling. I should leave. I need to leave. Why aren't I leaving?

"What, a pussy? That's what he is." As Cyrus speaks, I notice with horror that his cock is beginning to stir, thickening slightly against his thigh. "Boy needs to learn to stand up for himself instead of sending his hot mama to fight his battles."

"I'm a married woman," I say weakly, as if this fact should somehow protect me from what's happening. "And a mother. This is completely—"

"I don't give a fuck what you are," he cuts me off, his dick continuing to plump up with each passing second. "Right now, you're just a white bitch who came to the wrong neighborhood thinking she could tell me what to do."

His cock twitches as he speaks, rising slightly off his thigh as blood flows into it. I can't tear my eyes away. It's like watching a snake being charmed.

"Let me make this real simple for you," he continues. "I can keep beating the shit out of your soft-ass son every day for the rest of the year. Maybe invite some friends to help. Make his life a living hell."

My stomach lurches at the threat, but still, I can't look away from his steadily growing member. It's pointing at a forty-five-degree angle now, the foreskin beginning to retract as the head swells.

"Or..." he pauses, letting the word hang in the air between us.

"Or what?" I whisper, already knowing.

"Or I could be persuaded to leave him alone." His hand moves down to grip the base of his cock, lifting it slightly. "You love your son, don't you, Mrs. Thompson?"

The implications hang in the air like poison gas. I feel light-headed, nauseous.

"You can't be serious." My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.

"Dead serious." He gives his shaft a single, lazy stroke, and I watch in horrified fascination as a bead of clear precum forms at the tip, then slowly drips down, leaving a glistening trail along the underside. "One little favor from you, and Tyler never has to worry about me again."

I want to scream, to run, to slap him across his smug face. Instead, I stand frozen, watching as that massive organ continues to grow between his spread legs.

"I'm a real estate agent," I hear myself say, as if my profession could somehow make this situation less depraved. "I sell million-dollar properties. I'm on the PTA board. I can't possibly—"

"You think I give a fuck about any of that?" He laughs, and his cock bounces with the movement, now easily ten inches long and still growing. "You're just a white milf with fat tits and a phat ass to me. Now you got two choices—either get on your knees or get the fuck out and let me handle your son tomorrow."

The way he says "handle" sends a chill down my spine. I've seen the damage he's already done with one punch. What would happen if he really wanted to hurt Tyler?

"Just... just this once?" My voice is barely audible.

"We'll see," he says with a shrug that makes his cock sway. "Depends how good that mouth is."

I feel like I'm going to faint. The room seems to spin around me as I stand there, designer sneakers planted on his cheap carpet, my entire world collapsing. I'm Karen Thompson. I drive a Nissan Rogue with a "Proud Winchester Prep Mom" sticker. I made lavender macarons this morning. I have a husband who loves me.

And I'm about to get on my knees for a teenage boy.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for. "There has to be another way."

"Ain't no other way." His cock is fully erect now, standing at attention, a grotesque monument to my failure as a mother. It must be more than twelve inches long, as thick as my wrist, with a bulbous head that's now completely exposed, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a glistening purple-black helmet. "Either suck this dick or get the fuck out. I got shit to do today."

My legs move of their own accord, carrying me forward until I'm standing directly in front of him, looking down at that obscene display of manhood. His balls look even larger from this angle, each one visibly pulsing and shifting.

"I can't believe this is happening," I murmur, slowly lowering myself to my knees, my expensive Lululemon leggings pressing against the dirty carpet. I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as I settle between his spread legs.

"Believe it, bitch." He reaches out and grabs a handful of my carefully styled red hair, not painfully, but firmly enough to make it clear who's in control. "Your son's safety is worth a little dick-sucking, ain't it?"

From this position, his cock looks even more monstrous—a veiny, pulsing tower of flesh pointing directly at my face. The smell is overwhelming now, a pungent cocktail of sweat, musk, and something distinctly male that makes my nose wrinkle. The pisshole at the tip dilates slightly as another bead of precum forms, this one thicker, more opaque.

"Never sucked a black dick before, have you?"

I don't answer, can't answer, my eyes fixed on the display in front of me.

"I asked you a question," he says, his fingers tightening in my hair. "You ever suck a black dick?"

"No," I whisper, face burning with shame. "I haven't."

"Figured. I bet you cross the street when you see niggas like me coming, don't you? Now look at you."

His cock twitches right in front of my face, as if emphasizing his point, and another glob of precum oozes out, hanging in a sticky strand from the tip.

"Just... just this once, okay?" I plead, my hands resting limply on my thighs. The diamond on my wedding ring catches the light, a cruel reminder of the vows I'm about to break.

He doesn't answer, just uses his grip in my hair to pull me closer to his crotch. His cock is now inches from my lips, radiating heat. I can see every detail—the thick vein pulsing along the underside, the way the foreskin bunches slightly below the head, the small beads of sweat nestled in his pubic hair. It's nothing like Mark's modest, neatly trimmed penis. This is raw, animalistic, terrifyingly large.

"It's... it's so big," I stammer, staring cross-eyed at the monstrous appendage.

"And you're about to take every inch," he says, his voice full of smug satisfaction. "Open wide, mommy. Do a good job for me."

His hand on my head forces me forward those final few inches. I close my eyes, parting my Russian Red lips, feeling the smooth, hot head press against them. The taste hits me immediately—salty, bitter, with an underlying muskiness that makes my stomach turn. My perfect MAC lipstick leaves a scarlet ring around his dusky cockhead as it spreads my lips wide.

"Goddamn," he groans above me. "Look at those fake-ass lips wrapped around this black dick. Fucking nasty."

I'm Karen Thompson, top-selling realtor at Winchester Heights Properties. I donate to charity. I organize bake sales. And here I am, on my knees in a rundown apartment, my mouth stretched obscenely around a teenager's cock.

My heavy breasts press against his thighs as he pulls me closer, the thin fabric of my sports bra doing nothing to disguise how large and soft they are. My nipples, traitorously, have hardened to stiff points that rub painfully against the compression fabric with every slight movement.

"That's it," he says, feeding more of his length into my unwilling mouth. "Take that shit. Fucking uptight white bitch."

The head hits the back of my throat and I gag reflexively, tears springing to my eyes. I try to pull back, but his hand holds me firmly in place.

"Nah, don't pussy out now. Your son takes worse beatings than this."

The reminder of why I'm here—to protect Tyler—gives me the strength to suppress my gag reflex and take another inch. My jaw aches from being stretched so wide, and saliva pools in my mouth, trickling down my chin.

"There you go," he says, his voice a mocking purr. "Now you're a black cock-sucking slut. Now you REALLY got a diverse resume, Mrs. Thompson."

I try to block out his words, to detach myself from what's happening, but it's impossible. Every degrading syllable cuts through me. I'm acutely aware of how I must look—a 35-year-old mother on her knees, mascara beginning to run from tears, lipstick smeared all over a black teenager's cock.

"Show me how bad you want to save your pussy-ass son."

I begin to move my head back and forth, taking as much of him as I can without choking. The obscene sounds fill the room—wet, sloppy SCHLRRP, SLURP, GLUK noises that make my face burn with shame.

"Fuck yeah, just like that," he groans, his cock somehow swelling even larger in my mouth. "Use your tongue. Lick under the head."

I comply, swirling my tongue around the sensitive spot where the head meets the shaft, tasting the acrid saltiness of more precum that oozes from his pisshole.

"Look at me," he commands.

I raise my eyes, meeting his dark gaze while his cock stretches my lips wide. He grins down at me, a predatory flash of white teeth against dark skin.

"If your husband could see you now," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "His perfect wife with a mouthful of black dick. What would he say, Mrs. Thompson?"

Tears slide down my cheeks at the mention of Mark.

"I bet this ain't your first time being unfaithful," Cyrus continues, punctuating his words with small thrusts that make me gag. "Girls like you always pretend to be so perfect, so above it all. But deep down, y'all just hungry for some real dick."

I make a muffled sound of protest around his shaft, but it only turns into another wet, gurgling GLUKK as he pushes deeper.

"That's it, use those DSLs," he says, referring to my artificially plumped lips that cost me $500 every six months to maintain. "Fucking dick-sucking lips. That what you got them done for?"

I did get my lips done because Mark once commented on how sexy fuller lips were. And now they're wrapped around another man's cock—no, not even a man, a teenage boy.

"Take it out," he says suddenly. "I wanna see you work the shaft."

I pull back with a wet POP, gasping for air, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening cock. It stands before me, angry and purple, coated in my spit and smeared lipstick.

"Lick it," he commands. "From balls to tip. Show me how grateful you are that I'm letting your son off the hook."

Humiliation burns through me as I lean forward, extending my tongue to trace along the underside of his shaft. The taste is even stronger now—sweat, musk, and the faint tang of urine. I try not to gag as my tongue traces the prominent vein that runs the length of him.

"That's it," he says, watching me with hooded eyes. "Worship that black dick. You secretly always wanted to try one, didn't you?"

I don't answer, focused on the degrading task at hand. When I reach his balls, I try to pull back, but his hand in my hair forces me lower.

"Don't forget these nuts," he says. "Give 'em some attention too."

The humiliation is complete as I extend my tongue to lap at his heavy testicles, feeling them shift and pulse against my lips. They smell even stronger, muskier, with an almost cheesy undertone that makes my stomach heave.

"Fuck yeah," he groans, his cock twitching against my cheek, leaving a smear of precum on my skin. "You a natural dick-sucker, Mrs. Thompson. Who would've thought?"

I try to hate this—I should hate this—but my mouth seems to have developed a mind of its own. My lips glide along the side of his shaft, my tongue bathing it with saliva. The repulsive taste is becoming more familiar now, my taste buds seemingly numbed by the repeated exposure to his musky, unwashed cock.

"Let's see them titties," he demands suddenly, grabbing the zipper of my Lululemon jacket and yanking it down before I can protest. My sports bra is revealed, my massive G-cups straining against the fabric, nipples visibly poking through. "Goddamn, you got some mommy milkers on you. No wonder your kid's such a pussy—probably still sucking on these."

I make a muffled noise of protest, but it turns into a wet gurgle as he shoves his cock back between my lips, pushing deeper this time.

"Yeah, that's it. Those dick-sucking lips were made for this shit. Look at how they stretch around my cock."

My mouth hollows as I suck, cheeks caving in, creating an obscene vacuum around his thick shaft. The wet, sloppy noises grow louder—SCHLUUURP, SLURP, GUKK—filling the apartment with the undeniable soundtrack of oral sex.

"How far are we going with this?" I manage to gasp when he allows me to pull back for air, a thick rope of saliva connecting my bottom lip to his cockhead.

"As far as I want, mommy," he says with a cruel smirk, his hand gripping the base of his cock, waving it tauntingly in front of my face. "I think you know what you need to do to convince me."

His words send a chill through me. This won't end with just a blowjob. I can see it in his eyes, in the confident way he's lounging on the couch, completely in control.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for anymore.

"Please what? Please let me deepthroat that big black dick? Please let me be a proper cock-worshipping white milf? Say it."

I shake my head, unable to form the degrading words he wants to hear. In response, he grabs my hair again, roughly this time, and guides my open mouth back onto his shaft. I gag as he pushes me down farther than before, the massive head hitting the back of my throat.

"Fucking take it," he growls. "Show me how bad you want to protect your pussy boy."

My jaw aches, stretched beyond capacity by his girth. Drool escapes the corners of my mouth, running down my chin and dripping onto my exposed cleavage. I'm making the most undignified sounds—wet, struggling GAHK-GAHK-GUHHHK noises as I fight to accommodate his size.

"That's right, uppity bitch. Gag on this dick. Show me what that throat do."

His words should disgust me, should make me pull away and storm out, but instead, I find myself relaxing my jaw further, trying to take more of him. My hands, which had been passively resting on my thighs, now move up to grip his legs for support as I bob my head with increasing urgency.

"Look at you, fuckin' slurping on it like it's the last dick on earth," he taunts, his voice thick with pleasure. "Your husband know you suck dick like this? Or you save the sloppy shit for strange black cock?"

I'm not even trying to maintain my dignity anymore. Saliva streams down my chin in thick rivulets, soaking into my sports bra. My lipstick is completely ruined, smeared all over his cock and probably my face as well. My carefully styled bob is a mess from his rough handling.

"Take it deeper," he commands, placing both hands on the back of my head. "I wanna see how far down your throat this monster can go."

I panic as he applies gentle but firm pressure, forcing me to take more of him than I thought physically possible. His cock is pushing against the entrance to my throat now, and my body's natural reflexes fight against the intrusion.

"Relax that throat, mommy. Breathe through your nose."

I try to follow his instructions, focusing on breathing steadily through my nostrils as he continues to push deeper. My throat burns as it stretches to accommodate him, my esophagus literally reshaping around his enormous girth.

"That's it," he groans as my lips inch closer to the base of his shaft. "Take that fucking cock. Show me what a desperate mom will do for her baby boy."

Tears stream freely down my face now, my mascara leaving black trails on my cheeks. I'm taking more cock down my throat than I ever thought possible, more than Mark has ever even attempted to give me. The physical sensation is overwhelming—my throat bulging obscenely, my airway partially constricted, my gag reflex continuously triggered but somehow suppressed.

"Almost there," he encourages, watching with sadistic pleasure as I struggle. "Just another inch and you'll have it all."

With a final push, he forces the last inch into my throat. My nose is buried in his coarse pubic hair, my lips stretched so wide they might tear, pressed against the very base of his shaft. His heavy balls rest against my chin, vibrating slightly as he moans.

"Holy fucking shit," he breathes, holding my head firmly in place. "You took the whole damn thing. Your throat is fucking squeezing my dick like a vise."

I can't breathe. I can't think. My entire existence has narrowed to the massive intrusion stretching my throat. I can literally feel the shape of his cockhead bulging my neck outward, visible to anyone who might see me. It's the most primal, animalistic form of domination—my body physically altered to accommodate him.

"Hold it there," he commands, keeping me impaled on his length. "Yeah, that's it. Just hold it..."

As I kneel there, fully skewered, he casually reaches for something on the coffee table. Through tear-blurred eyes, I watch in disbelief as he lights a joint, taking a long drag while I struggle not to pass out with his cock lodged in my throat.

"This is the fucking life," he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "Got a fine-ass milf deepthroating me while I blaze. If your bougie friends could see you now."

The lack of oxygen is making me dizzy. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. Just when I think I might lose consciousness, he finally allows me to pull back, his cock withdrawing from my throat with an obscene, wet SCHLOOOP sound.

I gasp desperately for air, my chest heaving, but before I can fully recover, he pushes me back down. This time, the penetration is easier, my throat somehow remembering the shape of him, accommodating his girth with less resistance.

"Look at that," he marvels, pointing to my neck. "I can see my dick moving in your fuckin' throat. That shit is wild."

He's right. The outline of his massive cock is clearly visible, creating an obscene bulge that moves up and down with each thrust. My neck has become nothing more than a sheath for his pleasure, my entire body reduced to an orifice.

"Your husband ever fuck your throat like this?" he asks, taking another drag from his joint. "Nah, I bet he asks permission before he even touches those big-ass tits."

When he pushes me down again, I fall forward slightly, one hand landing on his thigh to brace myself. The new angle allows him to penetrate even deeper, his balls now pressed firmly against my chin, almost to my throat. It shouldn't be physically possible to take this much cock, yet somehow my body is adapting, submitting.

The biological reality of what's happening is horrifying—my esophagus, a tube meant for food and air, is being used as a sex organ. The tight ring of muscle at the entrance to my throat spasms around his shaft, creating a rippling sensation that makes him groan. My airway is completely blocked each time he hilts himself, forcing me into a rhythm of desperate gasps whenever he withdraws.

"Fuck yeah, Mrs. Thompson," he growls, grinding his hips upward to force the last fraction of an inch in. "Taking black dick like a fucking champ. Who would've thought the stuck-up white realtor was such a throat-GOAT?"

I can't respond, can barely think through the oxygen deprivation and overwhelming stimulation. My world has contracted to this single point of connection—his massive cock reshaping my throat, claiming territory no man has ever reached before.

"I should record this shit," he says, rolling his hips lazily as I remain impaled. "Send it to the PTA group chat. 'Check out Mrs. Thompson's real talents.'"

The threat makes me whimper around his shaft, sending vibrations through his length that make him hiss with pleasure.

"Relax, I'm not gonna expose you," he chuckles, taking another hit from his joint. "Long as you keep me happy, your reputation stays clean. Your boy stays safe. Win-win, right?"

The wet, sloppy noises intensify as I struggle to handle his enormous girth, my jaw stretched so wide it feels like it might dislocate. My perfect suburban life is dissolving with each obscene GLURK-GLURK-GAHK that erupts from my throat. Saliva pools under my tongue, overflow ing down my chin in thick, viscous rivers that drip onto my heaving tits.

"Goddamn, white mamas know how to suck a dick," he groans, his hips lazily thrusting upward. "That fancy Winchester Prep education teaching you how to throat a nigga properly?"

I make a muffled sound of protest around his shaft, but it only produces more disgusting wet noises that seem to echo through the apartment. My lipstick is completely destroyed now, leaving obscene red smears along his length like crime scene evidence.

"Hold up," he says suddenly, reaching for his phone on the coffee table. "This shit too good not to document."

My eyes widen in panic, but before I can pull away, his free hand clamps down on the back of my head, holding me firmly in place with his cock lodged halfway down my throat.

"Smile for the camera, bitch," he chuckles, holding his phone out at arm's length. The camera app makes a distinctive CLICK as he captures the most degrading moment of my life. "Perfect. Just another white bitch hungry for some black meat."

He turns the phone around, showing me the screen, and my stomach drops. The woman in the photo doesn't even look like me anymore. My carefully maintained image—the successful realtor, the devoted mother, the faithful wife—has been replaced by something unrecognizable. My mascara has left black streaks down my flushed cheeks. My eyes are watery and vacant. My mouth is stretched obscenely wide around his thick shaft, which is visibly bulging against my right cheek, distorting my face into something grotesque and animal-like.

"See that?" he says, swiping to take another as he forces me farther down his length. "This what you really are. Not some fancy-ass real estate agent. Just another cock-hungry white slut who needs a real man to show her who she really is."

The humiliation burns through me like acid, but something else is happening too—a treacherous heat building low in my belly as he continues to degrade me. I hate myself for it, hate how my nipples have hardened to painful points against my sports bra, hate how my thighs are clenching together of their own accord.

"Look at them titties bouncing every time you gag," he observes, taking another photo from a different angle. "Your husband ever fuck your face like this? Make you choke and drool all over yourself like the nasty bitch you are?"

I can't answer with his cock plugging my throat, but the truth is written all over my face. Mark has never been this rough, this dominant, this utterly unconcerned with my comfort or dignity. Our sex life is scheduled, polite, forgettable.

"Got a little collection going now," he says, swiping through the photos with a cruel smirk. "Bet these would look good as your profile pic on that real estate website. 'Karen Thompson: I'll blow away the competition.'"

He laughs at his own joke, his cock twitching in my mouth with the movement. Then he starts typing something on his phone, still holding me in place with his other hand.

"Let's see what your boy thinks about his mama now," he says casually.

Pure panic surges through me. I try to pull away, making desperate noises around his shaft, but his grip on my hair is too strong.

"Too late," he says, showing me the screen again. My heart stops.

It's a Snapchat message, sent to an account called "TylerT15." The image shows me from above, both hands wrapped around the base of Cyrus's enormous cock, my lips stretched to their limit around the shaft, with Cyrus's hand clearly visible on the back of my head. The caption below reads: "don't send ur mom to me u little faggot, this is what u get"

A scream builds in my chest but emerges only as a gurgling noise around his shaft. My whole world collapses in that instant. My son. My baby boy. Seeing his mother like this. The thought is so devastating I feel physically ill, bile rising in my throat even as it remains stuffed with teenage cock.

"Sent," Cyrus announces with sadistic satisfaction, dropping his phone back on the couch beside him. "Now your pussy boy knows what happens when he sends his bitch mom to fight his battles."

I finally manage to wrench myself off his cock, a thick string of saliva and precum stretching between my swollen lips and his glistening head.

"You... you monster," I gasp, my voice raw and broken. "How could you?"

"He's 18. Old enough to know his mama's a cock-sucker," Cyrus shrugs, completely unmoved by my distress. "Don't act all high and mighty now. You're the one on your knees with dick-spit all over your tits."

I look down and see he's right—my expensive sports bra is soaked with my own saliva, the fabric clinging obscenely to my heaving breasts. I've never felt so utterly degraded, so completely stripped of dignity.

"The deal is still the deal," he says, grabbing his shaft and waving it tauntingly in front of my face. "Either you finish what you started, and I leave your boy alone, or you walk out that door, and tomorrow I bring three of my boys to really fuck him up. Your choice."

"But you sent him—"

"Yeah, I sent him a pic. So what? Now he knows his mom's a slut. But he can be a living son with a slut mom, or a hospital case with a slut mom. Up to you."

My mind reels with impossible choices. Tyler has already seen the photo; that damage is done. But I can still protect him from physical harm. The thought of my sensitive boy facing Cyrus and his friends tomorrow makes my blood run cold.

"That's what I thought," Cyrus says, seeing the resignation in my eyes. He grabs a fistful of my hair again, yanking me back toward his throbbing cock. "Now get back to work, mommy. Show me how bad you want to protect your little bitch boy."

I open my mouth again, letting him guide his massive head between my lips. The taste is even more revolting now—the bitterness of his precum mixing with the saltiness of my tears. But I take it. I have no choice.

"Fucking sloppy," he groans as I begin sucking again, my technique deteriorating into desperate, wet slurps and gurgles. "You're pretty, but you look better with a face full of black dick."

His words should hurt, should fill me with righteous anger, but something inside me is breaking down. Each degrading comment chips away at my resistance until I'm moving on autopilot, my head bobbing with increasing speed, taking him deeper with each downstroke.

"Yeah, that's it," he encourages, his hand still heavy on my head but no longer forcing me down. I'm doing that all by myself now. "Suck that big black dick. Show me what that throat do."

The sounds coming from my mouth grow more obscene—GLUCK-GLUCK-SHLURRRP-GAHHHK—as I work my lips up and down his shaft with increasing urgency. Drool pours from the corners of my mouth, soaking my chin, neck, and the tops of my breasts. I can feel it pooling in my cleavage, hot and sticky against my skin.

"Fucking nasty bitch," he marvels, watching me debase myself. "You getting into this shit now, ain't you? Your pussy wet? Bet that married cunt is soaking through them fancy yoga pants."

I want to deny it, but my body betrays me. There's an unmistakable dampness between my thighs, a throbbing heat that intensifies with each filthy word from his mouth. What kind of mother am I? What kind of wife?

Cyrus suddenly grabs my hair again, pulling me off his cock with a loud, wet PLOP. My lips feel swollen and numb, my jaw aching from the strain.

"Tell me who the real man is," he demands, his cock inches from my face, angry and purple and glistening with my spit. "Who's your daddy, bitch?"

Tears stream down my face as I stare at the monstrous appendage, both hands still gripping the base without me even realizing I'd placed them there. My wedding ring catches the light.

"Y-you are," I whisper, the admission burning my throat more than his cock did.

"I can't hear you," he taunts, slapping his wet cock against my cheek with a heavy THWAP. "Who's your fucking daddy?"

"You are," I say louder, shame washing over me in waves. "You are... daddy."

The corner of his mouth curls in triumph. He presses his cockhead against my cheek, smearing it with precum as he distorts my face. "You like this big black dick, don't you?"

"It's..." I struggle to form the words, to admit the unthinkable. "It's so hard. So much bigger than my husband's."

"You a little slut, ain't you, Mrs. Thompson? A nasty white mommy slut?"

Something inside me finally snaps, the last thread of resistance giving way to pure animal submission. "Yes, daddy," I hear myself saying, my voice unrecognizable even to my own ears. My mouth opens again without prompting, tongue extending lewdly toward his cock like a desperate supplicant.

Both my hands wrap around his shaft now, holding it like a baby with a bottle, my fingers not even close to meeting around its girth. I begin licking inside his foreskin, tasting the accumulated filth and smegma hidden there, my tongue probing the sensitive spot just beneath his cockhead.

I look up at him as I work, seeing the naked contempt and triumph in his dark eyes. His full lips are curled in a smirk, gold tooth catching the light. A thin sheen of sweat makes his chiseled chest glisten, the "LOYALTY" tattoo stretching as he flexes unconsciously.

"Fucking white milf throat," Cyrus grunts, his cock twitching against my tongue. "Pop them big titties out, bitch."

I pull back, spit and precum connecting my lips to his cockhead in obscene, glistening strands. "No, I can't—"

He cuts me off with a hard slap across my cheek that makes my ears ring. "Did I fucking stutter? Pop. Them. Titties. Out."

My hands shake as I reach behind me for the clasp of my sports bra. This is going too far, crossing a line that can't be uncrossed. But when I hesitate, Cyrus takes a long drag from his joint and blows the smoke directly into my face.

"Do what your daddy tells you, cum-slut. Or your little boy gonna get fucked up tomorrow."

The crude threat propels my fingers into action. I pull my Lululemon jacket fully open, then grasp the bottom of my sweat-soaked sports bra and yank it up and over my head in one fluid motion. My massive tits spring free with a heavy PLAP-PLAP, bouncing and jiggling before settling into their natural state—two pale, veiny globes capped with large pink nipples that have hardened to stiff points.

"Holy fuck," Cyrus breathes, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of my exposed breasts. "Look at them fat white titties. Fucking grade-A milk jugs right there."

I kneel before him, completely topless now, my heavy tits swaying slightly with each rapid breath. The cool air of the apartment makes my nipples tighten even further, standing out like erasers from my flushed aureolas.

"Get 'em up here," he commands, gesturing to his still-throbbing cock. "Wrap those fat udders around my dick."

My face burns with humiliation as I shuffle forward between his spread legs, bringing my chest up to his groin level. His cock stands tall and menacing, slick with my saliva, twitching with each heartbeat. I hesitate, unsure how to proceed.

"Like this," he says impatiently, grabbing my wrists and placing my hands on either side of my breasts. "Squish 'em together around that black meat."

I sink my fingers into the soft flesh of my tits, feeling them yield under the pressure as I press them together to create a deep, pale cleavage. Cyrus grabs his cock and guides it into the channel I've created, the hot, pulsing shaft nestling between my breasts like a snake burrowing into warm earth.

"Fuuuuck," he groans as his cockhead emerges from the top of my cleavage, leaking a fresh bead of precum. "Now move them titties up and down. Milk this dick with your fat fucking chest."

I begin sliding my heavy breasts along his length, the flesh making obscene squishing sounds as it molds around his shaft. The position forces me to arch my back, pushing my ass out behind me, my leggings stretched tight across my round cheeks. His cock is so long that even with my substantial G-cups completely enveloping his shaft, the purple head still pokes out above them, close enough for me to extend my tongue and lick the swollen tip.

"That's it," he encourages, leaning back on the couch to enjoy the show. "Use them white girl titties. Bet your husband never gets to fuck these."

He's right. Mark has always been respectful, almost timid with my body. He's never suggested anything like this—using my breasts as nothing but warm flesh to masturbate with. This SHOULD repulse me, but instead, I find myself moving more enthusiastically.

"Squeeze them shits harder," he commands, his hips starting to pump upward to meet my movements. "Crush that big black dick with them pale-ass titties."

I comply, sinking my fingers deeper into my breast flesh, watching the skin dimple and pale around my grip. The obscene size difference between us is stark—my hands can barely contain my own tits, while his cock looks enormous even nestled between them, the dark skin a stark contrast against my milky paleness.

More smoke hits my face as he takes another drag from his joint, blowing it directly at me. I cough and sputter but don't stop the fluid up-and-down motion of my breasts along his shaft.

"Got me a rich white bitch with her titties out, working my dick like she born to do it," he chuckles, holding his phone up to take more pictures. "Say cheese, mommy."

The flash goes off just as I'm circling my tongue around his exposed cockhead, my eyes half-lidded and watery, my hair a disheveled mess, my massive tits compressed around his shaft with my own hands. I can't imagine a more debauched image—the perfect suburban mom reduced to a topless cock-worshipper.

"Fuck yeah," he groans, showing me the screen. "That's your new contact photo in my phone. 'Tyler's Mommy.'"

The mention of my son makes me falter, but Cyrus grabs the back of my head roughly, pushing my face down until my lips close around the tip of his cock as it emerges from my cleavage.

"Don't stop now, bitch. We're just getting started."

I resume the rhythm, lifting my heavy tits up to the top of his cock, then letting them drop down with a wet PLAP-PLAP-PLAP. His foreskin pulls back each time I bring my breasts down, revealing the swollen purple head in all its obscene glory. The up-and-down motion creates a lewd squelching sound as my breasts slide along his spit-slickened shaft.

"Fuck, your titties feel good," he groans, his cock twitching between them. "They're like two big-ass water balloons, all soft and squishy."

I move my breasts independently now, alternating left and right in a twisting motion that makes his eyes roll back. My sports bra and jacket now lie discarded on the floor.

"That's right, use them udders," he encourages, his breathing getting heavier. "Fucking milk this dick."

Each time I lift my tits, they jiggle and wobble, the flesh rippling and quivering with every movement. When I drop them down, they make a heavy SLAP against his groin, the impact sending shockwaves through the soft tissue. His cock disappears completely between them, only to emerge again from the top of my cleavage, red and angry and leaking.

"You ever let your husband titty-fuck these big-ass milkers?"

"No," I admit, my voice barely recognizable—husky and raw from the throat-fucking. "We don't... we never..."

"Of course not," he laughs cruelly. "Bet he's too scared to ask for what he really wants. Bet he treats you like some delicate-ass flower instead of the nasty white slut you really are."

His words should cut me to the quick, but instead, they send a shameful pulse of heat between my legs. My leggings are soaked through now. I'm betraying Mark in every possible way—not just physically, but emotionally too.

"Look at you, getting all into this shit," Cyrus observes, noticing how I've started grinding my hips subtly as I work my tits along his length. "Your pussy wet, ain't it? You getting off on being treated like the cock-hungry milf you are."

I can't deny it. My clit throbs with each crude word. My nipples have never been harder, jutting out from my compressed breasts like two pink rockets. When he reaches down to pinch one roughly between his fingers, I let out an involuntary moan that sounds nothing like me.

"Yeah, you love this shit," he grins, twisting my nipple until I gasp. "Bet you been craving some young black dick since the first time you saw me."

The rhythm of my tit-stroking increases, my breasts making wet SPLAT-SPLAT-SPLAT sounds as they slide along his spit-soaked cock. My tongue darts out to lap at his cockhead each time it emerges from my cleavage, tasting the bitter saltiness of his precum.

"Fuck, you're getting sloppy with it," he groans appreciatively, watching my drool mix with his precum to create a slick, messy lube between my tits. "Nasty white mommy loves her some black cock."

"Yes," I hear myself whisper, shocking even myself with the admission. "I love it, daddy."

My massive tits have become nothing but sex toys, flesh pillows used to stroke and pleasure his enormous shaft. I squeeze them together tighter, creating the perfect warm, wet tunnel for him to thrust into. The physical sensation is overwhelming—the hot, hard length of him sliding between my sensitive breasts, the occasional bump of his cockhead against my chin or lips, the weight of his heavy balls sometimes slapping against my tummy.

"Get your mouth on it too," he commands, pushing my head down. "Suck the tip while you work them titties."

I angle my neck to take his cockhead between my lips each time it emerges from my cleavage, creating a perfect rhythm—up with my tits, down with my mouth, over and over in a fluid motion that has him groaning and cursing.

"Goddamn, you were made for this shit," he pants, his cock twitching and swelling between my compressed breasts. "Fucking dick-sucking, titty-fucking white MILF whore."

The crude words only spur me on, making me work him faster, squeeze my tits tighter around his shaft. My lipstick has left red rings at various points along his length, like obscene measuring markers of how deep I've taken him. My chin and chest are glazed with a mixture of saliva and precum, a sloppy mess that only adds to the lubrication between my breasts.

Cyrus pulls his phone out again, showing me the screen with a cruel smirk. "Check this out. Just sent this to your son."

The image makes my stomach drop—it's me, topless, with my massive tits wrapped around his enormous cock, my lips stretched wide around the head. My eyes are half-lidded, almost drunk-looking, mascara smeared down my cheeks. The caption reads: "She begged to suck my dick... I'm gonna be ur new daddy"

But something has changed inside me. Where minutes ago I would have been horrified, now I just feel a sick flutter of excitement. My tongue continues to circle the underside of his cockhead, tracing the ridge where his partially retracted foreskin bunches up beneath the glans.

"That's gonna fuck him up real good," Cyrus chuckles, putting his phone down. "His mama's a straight-up black cock slut."

My fat tits continue their obscene journey up and down his shaft, making wet SPLORCH-SPLORCH noises as they glide along his spit-slickened meat. My nipples have hardened to painful points, scraping against his balls when I push down far enough.

"Fuck, you gettin' nasty with it now," he groans, leaning back into the couch cushions, spreading his legs wider. "You ain't even fighting it no more."

He's right. Something has broken inside me—some dam of restraint and dignity has crumbled. My mouth opens wider, a long string of drool hanging from my bottom lip as I lap at his cockhead like a starving animal.

"SLRRRRP-SLRRRP-SCHLUUUURP," the sounds coming from my mouth are primal, bestial, completely divorced from the refined Karen Thompson who sells million-dollar homes and organizes charity galas. My tongue bathes his cock in saliva, making it glisten in the dim apartment light.

"Goddamn, bitch, you drooling like a fucking dog," Cyrus observes, his hand resting casually on my head, not forcing me but asserting ownership. "You ain't never sucked a real dick before today, have you?"

I shake my head, my mouth too full of cock to answer properly. My husband's modest five inches has never stretched my jaw like this, never made me drool uncontrollably, never dominated me so completely.

Cyrus leans back, joints his ankle over his knee, fully reclining like a king receiving tribute. I follow his movement, unwilling to let his cock slip from between my tits or mouth. My body hunches forward, my massive breasts smashing against his thighs as I take him deeper.

"GLUK-GLUK-GLUK-GAHHHK!" I'm choking myself on his cock now, no hands forcing me down. My tits squish and deform against my own collarbone as I impale my throat on his length, taking him so deep my nose presses into his pubic hair.

My eyes water as I stare up at him, mascara running in black rivers down my flushed cheeks. The position is lewd beyond description—my tits crushed against my face, spread out like two pale pancakes as I deepthroat him. His cock visibly bulges my neck outward, stretching my esophagus to its absolute limit.

"SLKKK-SLKKK-SLKK-SLERRRRRP!" I pull back just enough to catch a desperate breath, then plunge back down, my throat making obscene wet squelching noises as it struggles to accommodate his girth. My lipstick has created red rings at various points along his shaft, marking how deep I've taken him.

"Fuck, you a natural-born head doctor," Cyrus laughs, taking a long drag from his joint. "Look at them fat titties all squished up."

I make a gurgling noise around his shaft, unable to form words with 14 inches of black cock stuffed down my gullet. My tits jiggle and wobble with each frantic movement of my head, the flesh rippling like disturbed water. They're so compressed against my chest and face that they've lost all shape, just two massive mounds of quivering white flesh.

"Yo, this shit is better than porn," he says, holding his phone up to record me.

The wet noises intensify as I work myself into a frenzy, bobbing up and down, taking him from tip to base with each stroke. My throat bulges obscenely, the outline of his cockhead clearly visible through my distended neck. Spit pours from my mouth, coating my chin, neck, and tits in a glistening sheen.

"You want that nut, don't you?" Cyrus grunts, his cock swelling even larger in my mouth. "You thirsty for that black baby gravy, ain't you, mommy?"

I make a muffled "MMMPH-MMMMPH" sound that could only be interpreted as desperate agreement. My eyes have gone glassy, my face flushed a deep red from lack of oxygen and unbridled lust. My pussy is throbbing so intensely I can feel each pulse against the seam of my leggings.

"Broke you in real easy," he taunts, grabbing a fistful of my hair. "You was all high and mighty when you walked in here. Now look at you."

He's not wrong. The Karen who stormed in here to defend her son has disappeared, replaced by this cock-hungry creature I don't recognize. My movements have become increasingly desperate, my jaw slack, my eyes hooded with unthinking lust. I'm not even trying to maintain my dignity anymore—I'm slurping and gagging on his cock like it's the last meal I'll ever have.

"I'm about to bust," he announces, his voice tight with approaching climax. "You ready for this load, bitch?"

I pull back just enough to mumble, "Yes, daddy," my voice a raw, broken whisper. "Cum for me, please."

"Stick out that tongue," he commands, grabbing my chin roughly.

I obey immediately, extending my tongue flat and wide, my eyes crossing as I stare at his cock just inches from my face. He pinches my tongue between his thumb and forefinger, holding it in place as he aims his massive cockhead directly at my open mouth.

"Gonna paint that throat white," he growls, his free hand working his shaft with quick, brutal strokes.

I watch in cross-eyed fascination as his pisshole dilates, opening like a tiny mouth. For a moment, nothing happens, then—

"SPLOOOOORTTT!"

The first rope of cum launches from his cock with such force it hits the back of my throat, a thick, chunky wad of off-white sperm that makes me gag with its sheer volume. Before I can even process it, a second massive glob follows—"BLOOOORRRT!"—landing on my extended tongue with the consistency of warm pudding.

"FUCK!" Cyrus roars, his cock pulsating visibly with each ejaculation. "Take that fucking nut!"

"SPLUUURT-SPLUUURT-SPLOOOORT!" Three more heavy ropes of cum fire into my mouth in rapid succession, filling it to capacity with thick, chunky semen. It's nothing like my husband's watery emission—this is dense, globby, almost like tapioca pudding in consistency. The taste is overwhelmingly bitter and salty, with an underlying musky sourness that makes my eyes water.

Cum overflows my mouth, pouring over my bottom lip and down my chin in thick, viscous rivulets. My tongue is completely coated in his sperm, the white goo so dense it barely moves when I try to swallow. Instead, it sits in my mouth like a living thing, heavy and hot.

"SPLORT-SPLORT-SPLORRRRRT!" His cock continues its relentless ejaculation, now aiming higher to paint my face. A thick rope lands across my right eye, sealing it shut with its sticky weight. Another coats my nose and left cheek, the hot spunk clinging to my skin like glue.

"Holy—GUHKK—shit," I gasp between spurts, cum bubbling from my lips as I speak. "You cum like a—HNNNGH—firehose!"

"Keep them titties together," he commands, aiming his still-erupting cock at my chest.

I quickly press my massive breasts together, creating a deep cleavage that he immediately targets. "SPLOOOORRRT-SPLURT-SPLURT!" Three more heavy ropes of cum land between my tits, filling the channel with thick white goo that has the consistency of school glue.

"BLOOOORT-SPLOOOOSH!" Another massive ejaculation arcs over my shoulder, landing with an audible SPLAT on the wall behind me. The sheer volume is impossible—it's as if he's been saving this load for months.

His cock is still twitching and pulsing, drizzling the last few spurts onto my heaving tits. I instinctively mash them together, taking his still-spurting cockhead into my mouth with a muffled, "HMMPFH—MMMLFRFF—so much... cum..."

The final few jets fire directly down my throat, his cockhead pulsing against my tongue with each ejaculation. The semen is so thick and copious that it backs up into my nasal passage, making me snort cum through my nose in thin white streams.

"Yeah, taste that nut, bitch," he groans, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. "Tell me how much you fucking love it."

I look up at him through cum-glazed eyes, his sperm dripping from every part of my face—eyelashes, nose, cheeks, chin. "It's so fucking nasty," I mumble, my voice thick with the semen still coating my tongue. I feel so dirty.

His cum is running down my chest in thick rivulets, collecting in the hollow of my collarbone before continuing its journey down between my breasts. It's staining my expensive Lululemon leggings where it drips onto my thighs, leaving dark, wet circles on the fabric.

"That was... amazing," I pant, trying to catch my breath, my entire upper body painted white with his seed. "Now... you'll leave Tyler alone after this, right?"

Cyrus looks down at me, his cock still rigid and twitching, smaller spurts of cum continuing to ooze from the tip. His eyes harden.

"Bitch, you really think a little throat-job pays your son's debt? Strip them fancy-ass leggings off. Now."

My heart sinks into my stomach. "We had a deal—"

"The deal changed," he cuts me off, his voice ice-cold. "Or you want me to text your son those pictures right now? Maybe send 'em to your husband too?"

My hands shake as I reach for my cum-stained leggings. "Please..."

"Please what, white bitch? Please let me go home to my weak-ass son? Please let me pretend I'm not a cock-hungry slut? Fuck outta here." He takes a long drag from his joint, then blows the smoke directly at my face. "Get them designer pants off before I rip 'em off."

I slowly peel my leggings down my trembling legs, my face burning with humiliation as I reveal my soaked thong underneath. Cyrus watches with predatory eyes, his still-hard cock bobbing in front of him.

"Them panties too. Show me that married pussy you about to give up."

I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my black lace thong—the one I wore because it made me feel sexy during yoga—and slide it down my legs. I step out of my clothing completely, standing naked except for my sneakers in the middle of this teenager's apartment, cum dripping from my face and tits.

"Goddamn," he whistles, eyes roaming over my exposed body. "For a old-ass mama, you keep that shit tight. Turn around. Let me see that ass."

I rotate slowly, showing him my backside, my heavy tits swinging with the movement.

"Fuck yeah. Winchester Heights must have some good-ass pilates classes. Bend over."

"Cyrus, I can't—"

"What you call me?" His voice drops dangerously.

I swallow hard. "Sir... I just think—"

"You ain't here to think," he snaps. "You here to make up for raising a pussy-ass son who can't handle his own business. Now bend the fuck over and show me what I own now."

The cruel words cut deeper than any physical blow. I slowly bend at the waist, placing my hands on my knees, presenting my ass to him like a bitch in heat.

"Nah, against the wall. Hands up high where I can see 'em."

I shuffle to the nearest wall, placing my palms flat against it, arching my back to push my ass out, my face profile against the wall. I can feel his cum drying on my skin, tightening as it begins to crust over.

Cyrus approaches behind me, his heat radiating against my exposed backside. I feel something hot and heavy slap against my ass cheek with a wet THWACK.

"Look at this shit," he mocks, spanking my ass with his rigid cock. "Karen fucking Thompson. Top-selling realtor. PTA president. Face covered in black teen nut. Ass up against my wall."

WHAPP! His cock slaps against my right cheek, the impact making the flesh jiggle and ripple.

"You know why your son's such a bitch?" SMACK! His cock lands on my left cheek now, harder. "Because his mama's a cock-hungry slut who'd rather be on her knees than teach him how to be a man."

THWACK! Another heavy blow from his meaty shaft makes me yelp. "That's why he sends you to fight his battles." SLAPP! "That's why he can't stand up for himself." WHAPP! "That's why I'm about to fuck his mama's brains out while he sits at home crying."

Each blow from his cock sends shockwaves through my ass, the flesh wobbling and bouncing with the impact. The wet sounds of his cum-covered shaft slapping against my skin echo through the apartment.

"HNNNGG!" I cry out as he lands a particularly brutal cock-slap right between my cheeks, the head brushing against my exposed pussy lips.

"You white Winchester Heights bitches are all the same," he continues, punctuating each point with another cock-slap. "Driving your fancy SUVs." WHAPP! "Shopping at Whole Foods." SMACK! "Raising soft-ass boys who can't take a punch." THWACK!

"AIEEE!" I scream as he lands the hardest blow yet, his shaft connecting with my pussy from behind, sending a jolt of unwanted pleasure through my core.

"Look at this," he says, spreading my ass cheeks with his hands. "Mrs. Thompson's million-dollar pussy, all wet and sloppy. You getting off on this shit, ain't you? Getting spanked by your son's bully got you dripping."

He's right. Despite everything—the humiliation, the degradation, the betrayal of my family—my body is responding. My pussy is embarrassingly wet, my nipples diamond-hard against the wall.

"This what happens when you raise a pussy," he says, releasing a cloud of smoke that wafts over my shoulder. "You get fucked by his bully. Poetic justice and shit."

I feel the bulbous head of his cock press against my entrance, parting my soaked lips slightly. The size difference is terrifying—his cockhead alone feels wider than Mark's entire shaft.

"Get ready, mommy," he growls, gripping my hips with his large hands. "You about to take this whole fucking thing. Gonna reshape that married pussy."

A sob escapes me as I feel the pressure increasing, my body tensing against the intrusion. But some broken part of me pushes back against him, my hips betraying my mind.

"D-do it," I whimper, surprising even myself. "Give it to me, sir. I've been so bad..."

"Damn right you have," he chuckles darkly, using his cockhead to polish my slick entrance, coating himself in my juices. "Bad mother. Bad wife. Now you gonna be my bad bitch."

The broad mushroom head notches more firmly against my opening, stretching me in a way I've never experienced before. It feels impossibly large, like trying to fit a baseball into a keyhole.

"P-please," I gasp, not even sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue. "It's too big..."

"Nah, you can take it," he says, gripping my hips tighter. "Your pussy was made for this. All you white bitches secretly crave it."

The bulbous cockhead pushes forward with relentless pressure, slowly forcing my entrance to yield. I feel myself stretching beyond what I thought possible, my pussy lips distending around his girth as he feeds the first inch into me.

"FUCK!" I cry out, the sound echoing off the apartment walls. "Wait, please, I can't—"

"Shut the fuck up," he growls, snaking one hand around to grab my throat from behind. "You think your husband can fill you up like this? You think any of them white boys you sell houses to got dick like this?"

Another inch penetrates me, and I swear I can feel my insides rearranging to accommodate him. My legs tremble, threatening to give out as he continues his slow, inexorable invasion.

"Look at you," he taunts, his grip on my throat tightening just enough to make breathing difficult. "Million-dollar realtor. Big-time mommy. Taking black teenage dick like a two-dollar whore."

His words should hurt, should fill me with rage, but instead, they send a perverse thrill through my body. My pussy responds by gushing more wetness, easing his entry slightly.

"That's right," he chuckles, feeling the change. "Your cunt knows what it needs, even if your white-bread brain don't want to admit it."

With a sudden, brutal thrust, he sheathes himself completely inside me—fourteen inches of thick, throbbing cock buried to the hilt in my married pussy. His heavy balls slap against my thighs, hanging low and full despite his recent massive ejaculation.

"OH... MY... AAUUUGHHH!!!" I scream, my back arching involuntarily as the air is driven from my lungs. The sensation is beyond pain, beyond pleasure—it's a complete reconfiguration of my internal anatomy.

His free hand reaches around to press against my lower abdomen, and I can actually feel the outline of his cockhead pushing against my stomach wall from the inside. "Feel that?" he grunts. "That's what a real man feels like."

I'm impaled like a butterfly on a pin, stretched so completely I fear I might tear in half. His cock feels like it's reached my fucking womb, pressing against places no man has ever touched. The sheer physical fullness is overwhelming, making it hard to think, to breathe, to do anything but exist as a vessel for his pleasure.

"How's it feel, bitch?" he asks, his hand still wrapped around my throat, squeezing just enough to make me light-headed. "How's it feel to get fucked by a real nigga?"

His hips draw back, almost withdrawing completely, then SLAM forward again with bruising force. "SMACK! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!" The wet sounds of his pelvis colliding with my ass echo through the apartment as he establishes a brutal rhythm.

"T-TOO BIG!" I wail, tears streaming down my cum-crusted cheeks. "UNNNGH! TOO DEEP!"

My tits are mashed against the wall with each thrust, the sensitive flesh flattening before bouncing back, only to be crushed again with his next stroke. The heavy globes swing and slap against each other when I move, creating their own obscene percussion to accompany the wet slapping of our connected bodies.

I twist my neck to look back at him, my back arched painfully, catching a glimpse of his face upside down above me. His expression is one of pure dominance and contempt as he blows another cloud of smoke directly into my face, making me cough and sputter even as he continues to pound into me.

"CLOP-CLOP-CLOP-CLOP!" The sound of his cock plunging in and out of my soaked channel grows louder, wetter, more obscene with each stroke.

"Shut the fuck up," he snarls, his pace increasing. "You'll get used to it. That pussy's mine now anyway."

The brutality of his fucking is matched only by the brutality of his words. Each thrust feels like it's driving his cock deeper into my soul, claiming parts of me I didn't know existed. My legs spread wider of their own accord, my ass pushing back to meet his punishing strokes.

"Look at this white bitch taking dick," he marvels, reaching for his phone again. "Gotta document this shit."

I hear the telltale sound of the camera app opening, and a fresh wave of humiliation washes over me. But it's too late to protest—I'm too far gone, my body responding to his invasion with shameful enthusiasm.

"Your pussy strangling my dick," he grunts, filming our connection from above. "Them tight white walls gripping me like they don't want to let go." He pans the phone up to capture my face, twisted in a grimace of pain and unwanted pleasure. "Say some shit for the camera, mommy. Tell me how much you love this big black dick."

"C-Cy—Sir, wait—" I stammer, but he cuts me off with a particularly brutal thrust that makes my eyes cross.

"Your son is a little bitch," he says suddenly, his voice taking on a cruel edge. "He deserves to get bullied. Say it."

"I can't—AAIIIEEE!" I squeal as he bottoms out inside me, the head of his cock battering against my cervix.

"Say it, or I'm sending this to everyone at Winchester Prep," he threatens, still recording. "Your son, your husband, the PTA moms—everybody gonna see what a black-dick-loving slut you really are."

Something breaks inside me—the last thread of maternal protection, of dignity, of self-respect. The camera captures it all as my face contorts with a mixture of intense pleasure and utter degradation.

"AAAAUUGHHH GOD!" I scream, my pussy clenching involuntarily around his invading shaft. "MY SON IS A LITTLE BITCH! HE DESERVES TO BE BULLIED!"

"Louder," he commands, slowing his thrusts to make sure the audio is clear.

"TYLER IS A FUCKING PUSSY!" I shriek, my voice unrecognizable even to my own ears. "HE'S WEAK! HE'S PATHETIC! HE DESERVES EVERYTHING YOU DO TO HIM!"

"That's fucking right," Cyrus growls, his pace picking up again as he continues filming. His hand grips my ass cheek hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, spreading me open for the camera. "Tell me how good this dick feels compared to your husband's little white needle."

"SO MUCH BETTER!" I sob, all pretense of resistance gone. "YOUR COCK IS SO MUCH BIGGER! MARK COULD NEVER FUCK ME LIKE THIS!"

The camera captures everything—his massive black shaft disappearing into my stretched pink pussy, my ass clapping against his groin with each impact, my heavy tits swinging violently beneath me. But worst of all, it captures my face—contorted in ecstasy, mouth hanging open, eyes rolling back, completely surrender to the teenager destroying my pussy.

"POUND MY ASS, DADDY!" I babble, beyond shame now, beyond anything but raw animal need. "BEAT THAT FUCKING PUSSY UP, JUST LIKE YOU BEAT UP MY FAGGOT SON!"

I don't even recognize myself anymore. I'm not Karen Thompson, successful realtor and devoted mother. I'm just a set of holes, a cum receptacle, a cocksleeve for my son's teenage bully. And some sick, broken part of me is loving every second of it.

"Your boy seeing this shit right now," Cyrus laughs, and I realize with horror that he's not just recording—he's livestreaming to Tyler.

"TYLER IS SUCH A LOSER!" I continue, unable to stop the filth pouring from my mouth. "I'M SO ASHAMED OF HIM! I'M GLAD YOU BULLY HIM! I HOPE YOU NEVER STOP!"

Cyrus laughs cruelly, adding a caption to the video: "she been here 5 mins and already love me more than u lol"

His cock feels like it's grown even larger inside me, stretching me to the absolute limit as he pounds me against the wall. Every thrust sends shockwaves through my entire body, my breasts flattening against the wall before rebounding, my ass rippling with the impact.

"You nothing but a fuck toy now," he grunts, his hips pistoning with increasing speed. "Gonna use this rich white pussy whenever I want. Gonna make you come back for more."

"FUCK! FUCK! FUUUUUCK!" I scream as something inside me begins to build—a pressure unlike anything I've ever felt before. My pussy clamps down on his massive invading shaft, walls fluttering and contracting uncontrollably.

"This white bitch about to cum on this dick!" Cyrus laughs cruelly, slowing his thrusts to torturous long strokes. "Look at her fucking face!"

Each time he pulls back, my greedy pussy lips cling desperately to his shaft, stretching outward obscenely as if trying to prevent him from leaving. The sight is humiliating—my own body betraying me, hungry for the cock that's destroying me.

"Please don't stop," I beg, all dignity abandoned. "I'm so close, please, please—"

"Beg for it, you stuck-up cunt," he growls, almost withdrawing completely, the fat mushroom head of his cock stretching my entrance like a gaping mouth. "Beg to cum on this young black dick."

"PLEASE!" I sob, pushing my ass back desperately. "PLEASE LET ME CUM ON YOUR BIG BLACK COCK! I NEED IT! I'LL DO ANYTHING!"

With a sadistic grin, he SLAMS back into me with full force, bottoming out in one brutal thrust that hits something deep inside me. The pressure explodes like a dam breaking, and suddenly I'm SQUIRTING—gushing hot fluid from my pussy with such force it sprays all over the floor, splattering his legs and balls.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" I scream, my entire body convulsing with the most intense orgasm of my life. My vision whites out, my legs buckle, and only his grip on my hips keeps me upright as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me.

"Nasty-ass bitch," Cyrus mocks, continuing to pound into me as I squirt again and again. "Spraying your fucking juice all over my floor. You ain't never squirted for that husband, have you?"

"N-NEVER!" I admit between convulsions, my pussy continuing to eject fluid with each brutal thrust. "ONLY YOU! ONLY YOUR COCK!"

The squelching noises have become obscenely loud, my pussy making wet SPLORCH-SPLORCH-SPLORCH sounds as he pistons in and out of my gushing hole. Puddles of my ejaculate collect on the floor beneath us, splashing with each drop that continues to spray from me.

"You cheating whore," he grunts, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my head back painfully. "What you think of your precious husband now?"

"FUCK HIM!" I snarl, shocking myself with the venom in my voice. "HE'S NEVER MADE ME FEEL THIS GOOD! YOU'RE THE ONLY REAL MAN I'VE EVER MET!"

His grip on my ass tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. "This white booty is mine now," he declares, spreading my cheeks wider for deeper penetration. "This married pussy belongs to me."

"YES!" I agree eagerly, pushing back to meet his thrusts. "IT'S YOURS! MY PUSSY BELONGS TO YOU! I BELONG TO YOU!"

"Gonna bust inside you," he warns, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more powerful. "Gonna flood that white womb with black seed."

Instead of protesting, I find myself begging for it. "PLEASE! PLEASE CUM INSIDE ME!"

"SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!" The sound of our colliding bodies reaches a crescendo as he fucks me with increasing urgency.

"Take this nut, bitch," he growls through clenched teeth. "Gonna blow your fucking back out! Gonna knock your ass up!"

I'm on my tiptoes now, stretched to my absolute limit as he holds me in place for his final assault. His cock swells even larger inside me, the veins throbbing against my walls as he prepares to cum.

"OH MY GOD!" I scream as he delivers one final, brutal thrust, burying himself completely inside me. His cockhead feels like it's pressing against my cervix, demanding entry to my womb.

"NRRRGHHH! TAKE IT, YOU WHITE WHORE!" he roars, his entire body tensing as the first rope of cum erupts from his cock, blasting directly against my cervix with shocking force.

I can actually FEEL each massive jet of semen shooting into me—hot, thick, and so copious it seems impossible.

"FUCK YES!" I moan, a second orgasm crashing through me as he continues to fill me. "SO MUCH CUM! SO HOT! THANK YOU, DADDY! THANK YOU!"

"Getting knocked up by your son's bully," he taunts, grinding his hips against my ass to ensure every drop of his potent sperm is deposited as deep as possible. "Letting a teenage nigga nut raw in your married pussy. You ain't shit, Mrs. Thompson."

"I KNOW!" I sob, my body continuing to convulse around his spurting cock. "I'M SUCH A SLUT! I'M YOUR SLUT!"

The feeling of his hot cum flooding my womb triggers yet another orgasm, this one even more intense than the last. My pussy clamps down rhythmically on his shaft, milking every last drop of semen from his balls, as if my body is desperate to be impregnated.

"Yeah, take that shit," he grunts, delivering short, sharp thrusts to punctuate each spurt of cum. "You let a nigga nut in you raw, mommy. Probably gonna have a black baby in that belly soon."

For nearly a full minute, his cock continues to pulse and throb inside me, pumping what feels like gallons of thick, hot sperm into my unprotected womb. When he finally stops, he stays buried deep, grinding slowly to ensure his seed stays inside.

"I'm glad we had this talk, Mrs. Thompson," he says mockingly, suddenly pulling out with a wet SCHLORP sound.

Without his cock to hold me up, I collapse to the floor, my legs no longer able to support me. His cum immediately begins to BLORRT and SPURT out of my gaping pussy, pooling beneath me on the filthy carpet. My face and chest are still covered in his previous load, now dried and flaking. I've never felt so thoroughly used, so completely defiled.

"Now get the FUCK out of my house, bitch," he sneers, looking down at my cum-drenched, naked body with contempt. "And tell your little pussy boy I'll see him tomorrow."

---

The drive home is a blur. My legs tremble so badly I nearly crash twice. Cyrus's cum continues to leak from me, a hot river of shame that soaks through my hastily replaced leggings, leaving dark stains on the driver's seat of my Nissan. The smell fills the car—musky, potent, unmistakable. I've tried to clean my face with some napkins from the glove compartment, but I know I'm still a mess—mascara-streaked, hair wild, skin glistening with dried semen.

My phone buzzes continuously. Tyler. Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-eight text messages. I don't need to read them to know what they say. He's seen everything. The pictures. The videos. His mother debased, degraded, destroyed.

When I pull into our driveway, I sit for a long moment, staring at our perfect Winchester Heights home with its manicured lawn and tasteful exterior lighting. It looks like something from a real estate brochure—the kind of aspirational American dream I sell to clients every day. Inside that house is my son. My sweet, sensitive boy who I've just betrayed in the most profound way imaginable.

I wobble up the front walk, feeling Cyrus's cum still trickling down my inner thighs. The front door is unlocked. Tyler must have been watching for me.

He stands in the foyer, his face blotchy from crying, his injured eye now fully swollen shut. His phone is clutched in his trembling hand.

"Mom?" His voice breaks, a child's voice. "What... what happened? What did he make you do?"

Something inside me shifts, hardens. Looking at my son's tear-stained face, I don't feel the protective maternal love I've always known. Instead, I feel... contempt. Disgust. His weakness repulses me now.

"He didn't *make* me do anything, Tyler," I say coldly, brushing past him toward the kitchen. My legs are still unsteady, cum squelching in my sneakers with each step.

"But the videos—the things you said—" He follows me, his voice rising in panic.

I turn to face him, leaning against the granite island where I'd been making macarons just hours ago. A lifetime ago. "What about them?"

"You said I was... a faggot. A loser." His lower lip trembles. "You said you were glad he bullies me."

I shrug, reaching for the bottle of Chardonnay I keep in the refrigerator. "I said what I felt in the moment."

"Mom!" he gasps, shocked. "He was... he was *raping* you!"

The word makes me laugh—a harsh, brittle sound I barely recognize. "Is that what you think? That I didn't enjoy every second of it?" I take a long swig directly from the bottle. "Let me make something clear, Tyler. Your little bully has a cock that puts your father's to shame. And unlike you, he knows how to use what he's got."

Tyler's face crumples, fresh tears welling in his good eye. "Why are you talking like this? This isn't you!"

"Isn't it?" I gesture to my disheveled appearance. "Look at me, Tyler. Really look. Your mother just got fucked six ways from Sunday by a teenage boy, and you know what? I came harder than I've ever come in my life."

"Stop it," he whispers.

"No, YOU stop it," I snap, slamming the wine bottle down. "Stop crying. Stop whining. Stop expecting me to fix your problems. If you weren't such a pathetic little bitch, I wouldn't have had to go over there in the first place."

He recoils as if I've slapped him. "You're blaming ME? He sent me video of him... of you..."

"And? What did you do about it? Did you stand up for yourself? Did you stand up for ME? No. You called me seventeen times and cried like a baby."

"What was I supposed to do?" he sobs.

"Be a man!" I shout, the words echoing through our perfect kitchen with its Sub-Zero refrigerator and Viking range. "Cyrus is right about you. You're weak. You're soft. Your father's never around to show you how to be a man, and I've been coddling you for too long."

I take another long drink of wine, feeling it mix with the cum still coating my throat. "Maybe this is for the best. Maybe now you'll learn."

"Learn what? That my mom is a... a..."

"A what, Tyler?" I step closer, towering over him in my cum-stained yoga outfit. "A slut? A whore? Go ahead, say it."

He backs away, his face a mask of confusion and hurt. "I don't understand what's happening. This isn't you. Did he drug you or something?"

I laugh again, harder this time. "The only drug I got today was fourteen inches of black cock, and let me tell you, it was fucking *therapeutic*."

"Please stop talking like this," he begs.

"Why? Does it make you uncomfortable to know your mother likes to get fucked? That I'm still a woman with needs? Needs your father certainly isn't meeting when he's 'traveling for work.'" I make air quotes around the words. "For all I know, he's got some slut in every city."

"Dad loves you," Tyler insists.

"Your dad loves his job. And his golf clubs. And his scotch collection. Me? I'm just convenient. The trophy wife who keeps his house clean and raised his disappointing son."

I slump into one of our expensive kitchen chairs, suddenly exhausted. My pussy throbs—sore, stretched, forever changed. I can still feel Cyrus inside me, still taste him, still smell him on my skin.

"Let me make something clear," I say, my voice lower now. "What happened today was your fault. If you could handle your own business, I wouldn't have had to go over there. I wouldn't have had to kneel in front of your bully. I wouldn't have had to let him fuck me raw against his wall. But you know what? I'm almost glad you couldn't handle it, because now I know what I've been missing."

Tyler stares at me, wide-eyed and trembling. "Are you... are you going to see him again?"

The question catches me off guard. Am I? The answer forms in my mind before I can even process it.

"Yes," I admit, surprising even myself with the certainty in my voice. "And you're not going to say a word about it to your father."

"But—"

"But nothing." I stand up, wobbling slightly as another gush of cum leaks down my thigh. "This is how it's going to be now. Cyrus is going to keep bullying you at school, and I'm going to keep fucking him whenever he wants. Maybe if you watch carefully, you'll learn something about being a man."

I head toward the stairs, desperate for a shower, though part of me wants to stay marinated in Cyrus's scent.

"Mom..." Tyler's broken voice follows me. "I love you."

I pause, one hand on the banister. Something flickers in my chest—a ghost of maternal feeling, quickly extinguished by the new, harder woman I've become.

"Love didn't save you from getting a black eye," I say without turning around. "And it won't save you tomorrow, either."

As I climb the stairs, legs still shaking from the most intense sexual experience of my life, I hear Tyler collapse into sobs in the kitchen below. Once, that sound would have broken my heart. Now it only confirms what Cyrus made me see—my son is weak, and weakness deserves no mercy.

In the bathroom, I finally look at myself in the mirror. Makeup smeared, hair tangled, dried cum flaking from my skin. I look utterly ruined. Destroyed. And yet, there's something else there too—a gleam in my eyes I've never seen before.

I check my phone. A new message from an unknown number: "Tomorrow. 4pm. Don't be late."

I smile at my reflection, already imagining what new things Cyrus has planned for me. Already imagining what new truths I'll scream while impaled on his massive cock.

"Yes, sir," I whisper to the empty bathroom, and begin to undress.