I Prepared for the SAT with My Mom

Chapter 1

It was just me and Mom, Linda, now. Dad was already gone for the night, working late at the office like he always did. Mom was in the living room, meticulously rearranging the throw pillows on the couch. Even after a day of hosting her gossiping group, she was fussing about the presentation. She still had that perfectly coiffed blonde bob, the one that makes heads turn even in this sleepy suburb. A hotness, even at her age (39), a bit overbearing sometimes. Turns out motherhood couldn't completely crush that vivacious spirit of hers. Mom had basically been my moon, rotating its gravity around my study habits and anxieties ever since she'd decided that an Ivy League education was the only measure of my success.

"Ethan," she called out, her voice laced with that familiar mixture of concern and authority. "Are you going to study or stand there daydreaming?"

My mom, always the picture of efficiency, started moving around the kitchen with a purpose. She set out plates, silverware, napkins -- everything laid out perfectly, like a miniature still life. She hummed along to some pop song she'd caught on the radio, her blonde hair shimmering under the kitchen lights. Even the way she made a simple gesture like pouring water felt almost choreographed. It was like watching a performance, and she, the star, was captivating in her own way.

"Mom," I said, finally tearing my gaze away from the way the sunlight caught the curve of her neck, "I've been studying all day. Maybe I could use a break?"

"You'll break down from stress if you don't keep at it," she shot back without missing a beat, placing the well prepared plate in front of me. "Have it in your mind that this exam is the key to your future. You can't afford to relax."

I glanced at the food, but I lacked the appetite she seemed to have. "I know, mom, I know. But even prodigies need a break every now and then."

I hated how she'd always reduced everything to 'prodigies', pushing me to be the perfect son, the academic overachiever. I was tired. Tired of the pressure, tired of living up to her expectations.

"Just one hour," I pleaded.

Silence fell over the room for a moment, fractured only by the chirping of crickets outside. It was quiet before the storm. That's how it always felt with Mom, like I was always tiptoeing around a hurricane.

Finally, she sighed, a weary sound that somehow didn't diminish her aura of control. "Fine," she said, folding her hands on the table. "One hour. And you better use it wisely."

I nodded, my limbs suddenly too heavy to move. My mom was never one to give ground easily, so I knew this was a hard-won victory, even though I hadn't felt anything remotely close to victory today.

But that hour of reprieve wasn't for me. It was about my physical freedom, about getting my mind off my mother, and off the SATs. I had a plan, a dangerous, reckless idea brewing in the recesses of my mind.

Mom was a force of nature, controlling every corner of our lives. Designed everything to be perfect: the way the house looked, the food she cooked, even my future. But right now, my perfect future felt more like a gilded cage, a trap of her making. Those anxieties, that pressure, they were strangling me. I needed to break free, to even the score. Tonight, I was taking back my life, my agency, however twisted it might seem.

"I'm going to my room, Mom," I said, pushing away the untouched meal.

I could feel her eyes on me as I walked away, calculating, dissecting. "Don't waste it," she called after me, her voice sharp.

I slammed my bedroom door shut. That hour felt enormous, the weight of my plan heavy on my chest. It was reckless, insane even. But her constant scrutiny, her suffocating control, had pushed me to the edge. The air in my room felt thick, the heat of the late summer afternoon making the silence feel oppressive.

I paced to and fro, counting down the minutes until I could put my plan into action. The tension coiled in my stomach, a mix of fear and excitement. I needed a distraction, something to take my mind off what I was about to do. My hand hovered over a lone game disc on my desk, a forgotten escape route from reality.

Mom appeared at the door, her expression back to default -- a mix of maternal concern and disapproval. "You're staying in your room?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost questioning.

"Yeah," I mumbled, eyes fixed on the disc. It was a dinosaur game -- ridiculous, childish even.

"Don't waste your time," she said, her voice clipped, then followed up with a soft, bewildered, "I really don't understand why you aren't more excited about your future."

She stood there a moment longer, watching me, before stepping back into the hall, the door closing with a soft click.

Finally, I was alone.

This was it.

I stepped off the edge of the bed, the silence amplifying the beating of my heart. The weight of what I was about to do pressed down on me, a heavy cloak of uncertainty mixed with adrenaline. I knew what I had to do, I'd thought this through, but that didn't make it any easier.

I broke out in a sweat, palms slick as I reached for my phone. My finger hovered over Mom's number. I was about to call her, to lure her into my plan, to finally turn the tables.

My trembling hand swung around and slammed shut the offending compartment.

Instead of calling her, I hid the phone, coldly. Slapped it onto the bed. It was a stupid move, sure.

I needed to think clearly. I moved, almost robotically, towards the mirror in my room. I needed to see myself, assess. My reflection stared back, a pale shadow of the person I pretended to be. An awkward, boyish face stared back at me. My eyes were wide with a frenzied energy. I shook my head as if trying to clear the fog. My higher brain told me I was crazy, off the rails. I gave myself a few seconds of reprieve, a necessary battleground in my mind.

I needed to do this.

I needed to be someone else tonight, someone in control, someone who could finally make my mom see. And if that meant blurring the lines of right and wrong, then that's what I would do.

The weight of my plan pressed down on me, an oppressive cloak. Her voice, her name for me, it all came back in a rush. Mom. Linda. She didn't say it often, Ethan son. It was more of a scientific term, like a specimen under observation.

The urge to get up, flee, vanished. It was the lure of the impossible, the only option that felt something like free, something like revenge. I knew I shouldn't. I knew it was twisted, insane. But in my head, that rational part was just a tiny voice drowned out by the storm.

I felt a prickle of fear, then a surge of raw anger. I focused on that, on the years I'd spent living under her thumb, on the pressure she'd placed on me, on her unwavering obsession with my success. My success. It was my life, my future she'd decided for me.

Taking a deep breath, I walked towards the bed. This was going to be my rebellion, my twisted ballet of power. I wasn't a prodigy, I was a man, a man broken and angry and desperate.

A knot tightened in my stomach, but I shoved it down. I would need all my courage to pull this off. I needed to be ready. I didn't know what the hell was going to happen next, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be pretty. I had a feeling it would be more than just a simple exchange of words, more than just some twisted power play.

I turned off the lights of my room earlier than usual, and got into the bed, and started waiting. I knew that my control freak mom would recognize that, and come check in on me, and "realize" that I was crying little she knew they were my crocodile tears.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken tension. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside my window felt magnified, a symphony of anticipation. Finally, the click of the doorknob broke the stillness.

Mom stood there, bathed in the faint hallway light. Her face, always smooth and composed, now held a worried crease between her brows. The empathetic look she always wore, the one that could make even my most outrageous demands seem reasonable, seemed strained.

"Ethan," she said, her voice softened. "Are you alright, sweetheart? Why are you not studying?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I mumbled, turning away from her towards the wall. Voice barely a whisper.

"Come now," she coaxed, moving towards the bed and gently sitting beside me. She seemed so concerned, so close to actually reading me. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat tightening. It was now or never.

"Mom," I started, choosing my words carefully. "There's something... something you should know."

She touched my arm, her touch light but lingering. "What is it, honey?"

This was it. The moment I'd been building up to, and fearing.

"I... I ca... can't... I can't get hard anymore," I blurted it out, forcing the words like a confession. "I think it's because of all the pressure you put on me."

The silence that followed was longer than any I'd ever experienced. I could practically feel her going through all the scenarios in her head, trying to figure out how to best counsel me, how to fix me. Finally, she spoke, her voice unsteady, "Ethan..."

"It's true, Mom," I interrupted, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm becoming... broken. It's like everything you do, everything you say, it's just crushing me."

I could see her concern mounting, the order she usually exuded cracking. This wasn't the conversation she had in mind for her emotionally stable, high-achieving son.

"My father..." I leaned in, my tone a mix of fear and accusation. "He would be devastated. He'd hate it if you knew about this, about what you're doing to me."

I met her gaze, laying bare the truth of my statement. That's all it took. The facade she held so carefully crumbled.

I watched as the carefully constructed mask of control Mom always wore slid a fraction, revealing the fear that lurked beneath. It was a flicker, a fleeting expression -- worry mixed with panic. That's what I needed.

"He can't bear to see me fail at anything," I continued, letting the words hang in the air. "He'd feel like a failure too. And it wouldn't just be me. You'd be the reason, Mom. The reason your perfect son is... broken."

My voice caught in my throat, the lie feeling like a bitter pill to swallow. I knew the truth -- this wasn't all her fault. I was the one who felt this pressure, who let it consume me. But in this moment, she needed to understand. Needed to feel a sliver of the pain she'd inflicted.

"Mom, please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "It's getting so bad... I can't even... I can't even think straight or focus on studying. You have to help me."

She flinched at my words, her eyes wide with a fear I couldn't quite place. It was a different fear than the controlled anxiety she usually displayed. This was raw, genuine, unfiltered. Maybe, just maybe, I'd finally gotten through to her.

"Ethan, sweetheart, there must be something else going on," she said, her voice a strained whisper. "We need to find a doctor, talk to someone."

"No," I cut her off, feeling a surge of anger challenging the fear that had gripped me. "I don't want to go to a doctor. You're the only one who can fix this. You're the reason for what's happening to me."

Her eyes widened, fear clouding her usually controlled expression. She opened her mouth to speak, to try and explain, to rationalize, but I wasn't listening. I was too close to the edge, too consumed by this twisted plan.

"Dad... he loves me," I said, my voice barely a whisper, letting the words hang heavy in the air between us. "He'd be devastated if he knew what you were doing to me. To his son."

I watched her closely, reading the subtle shift in her features. Her gaze darted to the back of the room, her hand unconsciously smoothing down her blouse. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, forming a strangled gasp.

"It's happening because of you, Mom," I pressed, knowing this was the part that would break her, the part she couldn't ignore. "I'm... I'm not able to... you know... to get hard anymore. It just doesn't happen."

The revelation hung in the air, a venomous dart aimed straight at her heart. I saw the color drain from her face, her eyes clouding over with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

"Ethan," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "Don't say that."

But it was too late. The spell was broken. Her composure completely shattered. This time, it wasn't the worry or concern I was used to seeing. It was fear. Raw, exposed fear.

"I can't live like this, Mom," I said, hoping my voice sounded desperate enough to break through her shock. "I need you to help me. You have to fix this."

Her eyes held mine, wide with a fear I'd rarely seen. It was a look that transcended my usual motherly feigned concern. This was something different, something raw and vulnerable.

"Ethan," she whispered, her voice cracking, "Please. We'll find someone, I promise. There must be a solution."

But her words felt hollow, empty promises from someone trying desperately to maintain control. It wasn't enough.

"But," I continued, my voice tight with barely restrained rage, "what if I told you..." I leaned closer, my breath mirroring her quickened breaths, "What if I told you that the only solution is you."

Her head tilted back, a perplexed gasp escaping her lips. My heart pounded against my ribs, a drumbeat of anticipation. This was the moment I'd been strategizing for days, the culmination of a twisted plan fuelled by years of simmering resentment.

"Ethan... what do you mean?" in disbelief.

"You've always known how to get me to do things," I whispered, my gaze locking onto hers. "You made me study until my eyes bleed, pushed me to succeed, manipulated me into thinking my value was measured by grades and achievements."

My voice dropped to a dangerous murmur, "You need to do the same thing now. Show me you're there for me, show me you care."

The silence stretched, taut and suffocating. Her eyes darted around the room, then settled back on me, a flicker of understanding slowly dawning.

I couldn't tell if it was fear or something else entirely -- something darker -- that I saw in her eyes. But it wasn't the maternal love and worry I'd grown accustomed to. It wasn't her usual, "concerned-mother" facade. It was something else. It was raw, vulnerable, and terrifyingly close to comprehension.

"Ethan, please," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "We can talk about this, there's..."

Her words died in her throat as she met my gaze. She knew. I knew she knew. All those years of veiled threats, canned anxieties about my future, carefully planted seeds of doubt about my competence -- it all came down to this.

"Talk?," I laughed, a hollow, humorless sound that echoed in the suffocating silence. "Mom, your words used to mean something. They held weight. But they don't anymore. Not when I can barely function, when I feel like I'm collapsing in on myself." I let my gaze sweep over her nervous tics, the way her fingers clenched and unclenched in her lap. I saw her fight to maintain control, the ultimate mask slipping just a fraction. It was a delicious, terrifying sight.

"I need more than words, Mom," I continued, my voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "I need action. I need you to show me you care. Show me you understand."

She flinched, her eyes flickering to the door, to the window behind me. She was searching for an escape, a way out of this conversation, this exchange. But there wasn't one. This was her reality now, her responsibility.

I watched as she weighed her options. Every twitch, every stutter in her breath, told me she was acutely aware of the power she no longer possessed.

Then, slowly, she walked to the door and reached for the knob. My heart pounded as she turned, her back to me for the briefest of moments, the dread building in me as she started to lock the door. My plan was working. I'd pushed her, cornered her, made her see that everything, all of her meticulously curated life, rested on the thin line between her control and my descent.

I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. The weight of the situation pressed down on me, but there was a perverse sense of satisfaction in the feeling. I was no longer the malleable, obedient son. I was the one in control, the one dictating the terms.

I waited, listening to the click of the lock echoing through the room. My eyes squeezed shut, my breaths coming harder, faster. The silence stretched, each tick of the clock an agonizing reminder of what was to come.

Then, the duvet fluttered as she sat back onto the bed, but kept her distance, huddled in the far corner, almost shrinking into herself.

The mattress creaked under her weight, each groan a testament to the unspoken truth: she'd accepted.

She was a tightly wound spring, every muscle in her body tense. My mom, who usually radiated an aura of controlled grace, now looked fragile, hunted. Her eyes darted around the room, her gaze finally settling on me.

I saw shame flush her cheeks, mixing with fear and a hint of something I couldn't quite place -- resignation? Maybe even a flicker of something akin to desire.

Fear, shame, resignation, desire -- the emotions warred across her face, painting a portrait of a woman desperately trying to reconcile her carefully constructed facade with the raw reality of the situation.

She opened her mouth, but no words came. I watched her struggle, her pride wilting under my gaze. I held her there, captive in my scrutiny. She was my weapon now, just as she'd been my adversary for years.

I forced myself to smile, a twisted mockery of her usual warm, sunny grin. "It's okay, Mom," I said, my voice soft but laced with an underlying steel. "I know this is a lot to take in. You just need to relax."

The words hung in the air, a mixture of reassurance and threat. Her lips parted, hesitantly, as if trying to find the right words.

I watched her closely, that flicker of resignation hardening into something akin to acceptance. Shame simmered on her face, battling with the burgeoning fear, creating a raw, exposed vulnerability I hadn't seen before.

I unbuckled the strap on my sweatpants, sliding them until fall to the floor with a soft thud. My hand lingered on my thigh, tracing the line of tension in my skin. She watched me as I lowered my shorts, my exposed skin feeling hot and foreign, a source of both terror and a perverse kind of power.

A whimper, barely audible, escaped her lips as I pulled my briefs down. My chest tightened, the tension in my body making every breath a shallow gasp. This was happening. This was real.

"Mom, it's okay," I said, my voice as soft as velvet, the words meant to soothe but laced with a predatory edge. "Just... help me."

Her eyes flicked down, meeting the sight of my nakedness. A shudder ran over her frame, but her gaze held mine. She reached out, her hand hovering hesitantly over my thigh. Her touch was featherlight, her fingers tracing the contour of my leg, exploring, testing. A jolt shot through me, a mixture of yearning and revulsion. This was so wrong, so twisted, yet there was a primal pull, an undeniable need that warred with the shame burning in my gut.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice raspy. She hesitated, her hand trembling slightly as she moved from my leg to my groin, her fingers tracing my veins. Her touch was a strange comfort, a familiar warmth that I craved and hated simultaneously.

I guided her, more for my own benefit than hers. My body screamed with a conflicting medley of emotions, fear, anger, lust, all churning within me. As her hands moved lower, I felt my breath hitch.

She reached my waistband, her touch gentle but probing. My muscles clenched involuntarily, and a wave of heat flooded me, but it wasn't the release I craved. It was a pressure building inside me, a tightness that had nothing to do with arousal. It was stress, fear, a primal knot of panic and shame that had me on the edge.

Mom's expression shifted, turning from concern to a dawning understanding. Her eyes widened, reflecting the harsh light from the bare bulb hanging over the bed. I saw a flicker of thought cross her face, a question forming and dissolving in her eyes. She leaned closer, her gaze locking onto mine.

She didn't say anything. Didn't need to. The unspoken question hung in the air, a heavy, accusing weight pressing down on us both. Was it true? Was I really... broken?

I kept my gaze locked with hers, the shame warring with the bitter satisfaction of knowing she was finally seeing me, not the idealized son she'd crafted but the damaged, flawed creature I'd become.

"Try to relax," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a mix of caution and encouragement. The pressure in my chest pulsed, a caged beast desperate to break free, but the knots tightened further. My skin prickled with heat, my breath shallow and quick.

She wasn't touching me directly anymore but her presence was suffocating, a tangible wave of warmth and desperation that seemed to intensify the tension in my body. Her edges were softer tonight, her usual sleek lines softened by the tension in her shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on her temple. The silk of her minidress clung to her curves, highlighting the delicate line of her neck. It felt wrong, this vulnerability she oozed, this glimpse of something familiar yet disconcertingly foreign. I shouldn't find her attractive in this moment, should feel anything but revulsion. But the gaze that met mine across the space between us was raw, unguarded, and there was an undeniable pull towards it.

She reached out again, her fingers tracing the light short hair on my balls, softly cupping them and complimenting this movement with small strokes on my dick finally. Each touch sent a jolt through me, contradicting its intended soothing effect. She was so close, her perfume a heady mix of floral and musk, sending waves of mingled disgust and a need I couldn't define through my body. The air throbbed, charged with a palpable electricity that had nothing to do with usual sexual tension. It was the tension of a repressed volcano, ready to erupt.

Her finger grazed my tip, a feather-light touch that ignited a spark of something dangerous within me. My muscles surged with a primal need, a yearning so intense it felt like a physical ache. But it wasn't the same kind of need I'd felt before, the anticipation of release, the hot, visceral hunger.

I felt her hesitation, the barely perceptible quiver in her hand, and something inside me snapped. My own fingers tightened around hers, holding her in place, my eyes boring into hers.

"Do it, Mom," I whispered, the name tasting like ash on my tongue. It wasn't a request, not anymore. It was a demand, an unholy offering of myself in this twisted act of desperation.

She looked at me then, her eyes widening ever so slightly as if she finally understood. Not the words, not the specifics of my plan, but the desperation, the overwhelming need that fueled it. A flicker of something dark and dangerous passed across her features, a predator sensing weakness. And with that moment of understanding, her touch changed. It became firm, possessive, a claim on me that felt both terrifying and electrifying.

Her hand moved over me, lingering on the curve of my hip, her fingers tracing the outline of my outline below. The scent of her perfume, laced with something sharp and citrusy now, filled my senses. The air itself seemed to crackle with a raw energy I couldn't control.

Her touch ignited a fire in my veins, a fevered heat that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with a desperate need to be seen, to feel something real in this manufactured world.

She brushed her lips against my ear, a whisper grazing my skin. "Don't worry, Ethan," she murmured, her voice smoky and low. "I've got you."

"Mom," I ground out, the word foreign on my tongue, laced with a tension that bordered on pain.

She brushed her fingers down my waist, her touch a predator's caress. "Ethan," she breathed, my name rolling off her tongue like a secret, a shared transgression. I shuddered at the intimacy, at the intimacy we'd never been allowed before. Only now, stripped bare in this moment of twisted vulnerability, did I realize how deeply it gnawed at me.

Her hand hovered over my thigh, tracing the vein that pulsed beneath my skin. I felt a flicker of fear, a raw, primal terror that clawed at the edges of my composure. I knew this was wrong, fundamentally wrong, yet the defiance intertwined with my desperation thrummed in my veins.

"You promised you'd help me," I managed, my voice a rasp. My words were not a plea, not anymore. They were a challenge, a brittle thread binding two souls in a darkly charged embrace.

She tilted her head, her gaze intense, unwavering. "I always keep my promises," she said, her voice a low murmur that sent shivers down my spine.

That chilling certainty in her voice ignited something within me. Not desire, not lust, but a surge of something raw and untamed. This wasn't a sexual predator, not in the traditional sense. This was someone who understood power, who wielded it with a cold, calculating grace that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

Her hand moved, gentle yet firm, cupping my hard-on. I clenched, the pressure gathering inside me, threatening to overwhelm me.

"Focus, Ethan," she whispered, a dangerous amusement playing on her lips. "Let me see what you've been hiding."

Her touch wasn't what I'd expected. It was firm, commanding, almost as if she was peeling back layers of myself, uncovering a raw vulnerability I hadn't known existed.

But it wasn't working. My cock throbbed, anticipating a release that wouldn't come. The tension ratcheted up, a coiled spring threatening to snap.

Mom's gaze locked onto mine, her eyes sharp and assessing. She didn't say anything, but her silence was more potent than any words. A flicker of frustration crossed her face, quickly replaced by a steely resolve.

"This isn't working, your dad will be home soon." she murmured, her voice husky. "I need to try something else."

Her voice sent another jolt through me, a strange mix of shame and anticipation. She moved then, sliding off the bed and stepping behind me. I felt her warm breath on my neck as she shifted, her hands reaching around to cup my hard-on.

"Don't yell," she whispered, her voice low and guttural against my skin.

Her lips found my pulsing cock. Not a tentative caress, but a firm, immediate suction that sent tremors through my entire body.

The air crackled with an electric intensity, heat pooling in my groin as she began to work her mouth around my shaft. Her tongue darted out, flicking across the sensitive skin, sending shivers down my spine. It was more than just a touch; it was a powerful declaration, a silent acknowledgment of my need and her willingness to satisfy it.

For the first time, I felt a flicker of relaxation. The knot in my stomach loosened, replaced by a building heat that spread outward, radiating through my limbs. The world narrowed to the slick sensation against my skin, the rhythmic caress of her tongue ever-intensifying.

My breath hitched, gasps escaping my lips as her skills became more assured, more demanding. She sucked harder, her grip tightening around my cock as she worked it back and forth, a symphony of soft moans and murmured encouragement blending with my own increasingly shaky breaths.

This wasn't just oral sex from my mom. This was recovery.

The sensations overloaded me. I felt like a dam about to burst, the pressure building until it was all-consuming. I locked onto her again, the heat building behind my eyes, blind to everything but the feel of her tongue working on me, the power of her touch.

A strangled sound tore from my throat, a raw, animalistic cry that echoed unanswered in the suffocating quiet of the room. Then, there was nothing but the feeling was an impossible collision: joy and shame, swirling together, twisting like a blade inside me. I was lost, drowning in it, lost in her.

It hit me with the force of a tidal wave, a torrent unleashed. Silence followed. The only sound was my ragged breathing, each gasp a hammer blow against the bones of my chest. I slumped against the bed, drenched in sweat, the world tilting back into focus, blurry and strange.

I hadn't warned her. I couldn't have. It took over so fast, leaving me weak and spent, tainted by something shameful and exhilarating all at once.

I heard her intake a sharp gasp, the sound strangled. Her hand, strangely warm, found mine and squeezed.

I barely registered her gasp. The aftershocks of release still pulsed through me, leaving a strange hollowness in their wake. I looked down at my hands, at the way they trembled, still clutching hers. My heart pounded, a frantic bird trapped in my chest. Shame washed over me, hot and insistent, threatening to drown everything else.

"What... What just happened?" I whispered, the words barely audible, a betrayal of the turmoil raging inside me.

She didn't answer immediately. The only sound was the ragged thump of our breaths, mixing in the suffocating silence of the room. I saw her chest rise and fall rapidly, her face pale beneath the harsh light, lips parted in a way that gave away more than words ever could.

"Ethan," she finally said, her voice hoarse, tight with something I couldn't decipher.

I lifted my head, meeting her eyes. They were wide, startled. It wasn't the guarded, calculating look she usually wore. It was something different, something raw and unfiltered that terrified me more than any anger she'd ever directed at me.

Her face was showing her recent actions, it was tired, and her make up was not slick as it always was. Her nose and cheeks got their part from my cum, and there was a stream of cum from the left corner of her lips leaking, dripping down on her chest.

She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. Her touch was hesitant, tentative. "How do you feel?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I..." I stammered, the word catching in my throat. I didn't know. Confused, ashamed, nauseated, a strange blend of lightness and exhaustion.

"It's okay," she murmured, her thumb brushing against my cheek. "I was worried."

Worried? What did she have to worry about? Little she knew, I came up with this plan, and it was working.

"You're shaking," she said, her voice laced with concern.

I swallowed, trying to force myself to meet her gaze. "I'm fine," I managed, the lie tasting like ash on my tongue.

She didn't seem convinced, but didn't push. Instead, she took a step back, analyzing me with a new intensity. It felt invasive, like I was a specimen under a microscope.

"This... This doesn't change anything," she said finally, her voice clipped, precise. "We need you to do well on this exam."

Relief washed over me, a wave of exhaustion settling into my limbs. I was about to speak, to offer some incoherent thanks or protest, but she raised a hand, silencing my response.

"Don't overthink it, Ethan," she said, her voice softer now, the hardness gone from her gaze. "Just pretend it didn't happen."

"What kind of-" I started, then stopped myself. The words caught in my throat, strangled by a mixture of shame and a sudden, overwhelming confusion.

She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch my cheek. It was a motherly gesture, comforting, yet it sent a shiver down my spine, like a cold current cutting through the remnants of heat still clinging to my skin.

"It's just... a little stress reliever," she murmured, her lips brushing against my skin. "Don't let it get to you. Don't tell anyone, especially your father."

Her eyes were intensely focused on mine, holding mine captive. And for a moment, the chasm between us felt less like darkness, and more like a force field, built of unspoken agreements and shared secrets.

"Just... Don't mention this to anyone, understand? You'll ruin everything, and you know how hard I've worked. I do this for you, always."

She left for clean herself. I got some time to reflect on everything that happened in the last thirty minutes and replayed the recording of my webcam. The first stage of my plan was successful, I was able to relax and have a good sleep for the first time in the last couple of months.