Ethan kicked open the front door of Marcus's house with the casual force of someone who no longer gave a fuck about consequences. The lock splintered under his boot, wood cracking like dry bone. The place was modest—a single-story ranch in the rougher part of the suburbs, faded blue paint peeling on the siding, overgrown weeds choking the yard. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of soul food lingering from dinner: collard greens, cornbread, and something sweeter underneath, like vanilla candles burned low. He slammed the door shut behind him, the bang echoing through the empty hallway.
He'd come straight from the alley, blood still drying on his knuckles from the beatdown. Marcus would crawl home eventually, broken and humiliated, but Ethan wasn't waiting for that. The surprise he'd promised? It started now. With her.
Mrs. Latoya Tate stood in the living room, back to him, staring out the window into the dark street. She was forty-three, a black woman built like a goddess of fertility and fire: skin the deep, rich hue of midnight coffee, smooth and unblemished except for the faint stretch marks on her hips that spoke of life lived hard. Her body was a masterpiece of curves—heavy DD breasts that strained against the thin red silk robe she'd thrown on after her shower, wide hips flaring out from a narrow waist, thick thighs and an ass that could stop traffic. Long, braided hair cascaded down her back like dark ropes, and when she turned at the sound of the door, her full lips parted in surprise, brown eyes wide and fierce.
"Who the hell—" she started, voice low and smoky, the kind that commanded respect in her job as a nurse at the local clinic. Then she saw him. Recognition flickered. "You're that boy from school. Marcus's... rival? What are you doing breaking into my house?"
Ethan didn't answer with words. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her against him hard. She gasped, hands coming up to push at his chest, but there was no real force behind it. Her robe slipped open slightly, revealing the swell of her breasts, nipples already hardening in the cool air.
"Get off me," she hissed, but her eyes betrayed her—curious, heated. Latoya Tate was no fragile flower. She'd raised Marcus alone after his dad bailed when he was five, worked double shifts to keep the lights on, dealt with assholes at the hospital who grabbed her ass and called it flirting. She was a wild horse, untamed, her sexual drive buried under years of single-mom exhaustion. But Ethan saw it. Smelled it. The system had pinged her as a target the moment he thought of revenge on Marcus: MILF Level: Extreme. Corruption Potential: Volcanic.
He kissed her then—raw, demanding, no preamble. His mouth crushed against hers, tongue forcing entry, tasting mint toothpaste and the faint bitterness of her evening tea. She stiffened for a second, then melted, a low growl rumbling in her throat. Her hands fisted his hoodie instead of pushing, pulling him closer. The robe fell open fully now, exposing her naked body underneath—full, pendulous breasts with dark nipples like chocolate kisses, a soft belly from years of life, and a neatly trimmed bush above her thick pussy lips.
"Fuck," she muttered against his lips, breaking the kiss. "You're just a kid. Marcus's age."
"Eighteen," Ethan said, voice rough. "And I'm no kid." He shoved her back against the wall, the impact rattling a family photo on the shelf—Marcus as a boy, grinning toothless. Ethan's hands tore at the robe, ripping the silk clean off her shoulders with a sharp tear. It pooled at her feet like shed skin. She was glorious naked: curves everywhere, ass jiggling slightly from the force, thighs rubbing together as she shifted.
Her eyes flashed—anger, lust, challenge. "You think you can handle this?" She grabbed his crotch through his jeans, squeezing hard enough to make him grunt. "I've broken bigger men than you."
Ethan's dick throbbed under her grip. The demoness's gift had awakened something primal in him, and in her, it ignited a firestorm. She was a wild horse, yes—bucking, fierce, ready to ride or trample. He matched her energy, shoving her legs apart with his knee, one hand pinning her wrist above her head, the other diving between her thighs. She was wet already—slick, hot, her clit swollen under his fingers.
"Shit," she moaned, head falling back against the wall. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He circled her clit rough, then plunged two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot. She bucked against his hand, hips grinding, her free hand clawing at his back through the hoodie. "Harder," she demanded, voice husky. "Give it to me like you mean it."
Ethan tore his jeans open, freeing his cock—thick now from the system's subtle enhancements, veined and hard as iron. He lifted one of her legs, hooked it over his hip, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. She was tight, velvet-wet, gripping him like a vice. Latoya screamed—a raw, animal sound that echoed through the house.
"Yes! Fuck me, boy!" She wrapped her arms around his neck, nails digging into his skin, drawing blood. They fucked against the wall like beasts: Ethan pounding deep, hips snapping with force that shook the pictures off the shelf. Glass shattered on the hardwood. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, nipples scraping his chest through his shirt. She bit his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, her pussy clenching around him in waves.
"You're a wild one," Ethan growled, grabbing her ass with both hands, lifting her fully off the ground. She wrapped both legs around his waist, riding him mid-air as he carried her to the couch. He dropped her onto it, flipped her over onto all fours, and mounted her from behind. His hands gripped her hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, pulling her back onto his dick with every slam.
Latoya arched her back, ass up, face pressed into the cushions. "Deeper! Break me!" She was unleashed now, the sexual drive she'd suppressed for years exploding out. No more tired nurse, no more single mom holding it together. She was pure fire, pushing back against him, her ass clapping against his pelvis with wet smacks. Sweat glistened on her dark skin, dripping down her spine.
Ethan gave it to her—harder, rawer. He spanked her ass, the crack echoing, leaving red handprints on her cheeks. She moaned louder, pussy flooding around him. He reached around, rubbed her clit in rough circles while he fucked, feeling her body tense toward climax.
"I'm cumming!" she roared, body shaking, walls pulsing around his cock like a heartbeat. He didn't stop—pulled out just long enough to flip her onto her back, then drove back in missionary, her legs over his shoulders. Face to face now, he watched her eyes roll back, lips parted in ecstasy. "Again," she begged. "Don't stop fucking me."
They lost track of time. Fucked on the couch until the springs creaked in protest, then on the floor, her on top riding him like a stallion, breasts swaying, hips grinding in circles. She came three times—squirting the second, soaking the rug. Ethan matched her every move: when she clawed his chest, he pinned her arms; when she bit his lip, he choked her lightly, feeling her pulse race under his fingers. It was war and worship, raw and unrelenting. The room reeked of sex—sweat, cum, her juices smeared on his thighs.
They were so deep in it, bodies slick and entangled on the living room floor, that they didn't hear the front door creak open. Didn't hear the stumbling footsteps in the hall.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his beaten face a mask of horror. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open. "Mom!"
Latoya froze mid-thrust, her body going rigid. Ethan looked up, still buried deep inside her, and met Marcus's gaze. The bully's world shattered right there—his mother, naked, legs spread, getting railed by the kid he'd tormented for years.
Latoya shoved Ethan off, scrambling back, face flushing with shock and embarrassment. "Marcus! Oh God—" She grabbed the torn robe from the floor, clutching it to her chest, and bolted for the stairs, bare feet slapping the wood. The bedroom door slammed upstairs, followed by muffled sobs.
Marcus stood there, frozen for a beat, blood from his earlier beating still crusted on his swollen face. Then rage exploded. "You motherfucker!" He charged at Ethan, fists swinging wild, eyes red with fury.
Ethan was on his feet in a flash, jeans yanked up but unbuttoned. Marcus swung first—a desperate haymaker aimed at Ethan's jaw. Ethan ducked under it, countered with a short hook to the body. His fist sank into Marcus's side, just under the ribs, where bruises wouldn't show under clothes. Marcus grunted, doubled over.
"You touched my mom?" Marcus roared, swinging again. Ethan blocked the arm, twisted it behind Marcus's back, and drove a knee into the thigh—hard enough to deaden the leg without breaking bone. Marcus stumbled, but came back swinging. Ethan let one punch glance off his shoulder, then unleashed: a series of body shots—liver, kidneys, solar plexus. Each hit landed with precision, fists like hammers, but all below the neckline. No face marks. No visible evidence for cops or coaches.
Marcus gasped, wind knocked out, legs buckling. Ethan grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. "You done?" he growled.
Marcus clawed at Ethan's arm, but the new strength was unbreakable. Ethan punched him once more in the gut, feeling the air whoosh out. Marcus slid down the wall, collapsing to the floor in a heap, groaning, curled fetal.
Ethan stood over him, breathing steadily. "From now on," he said, voice low and final, "I'm your new daddy. You fuck with me again, and I'll make sure you watch next time."
Marcus groaned, a wet, defeated sound, too broken to respond.
Right then, a buzz cut through the tension. Marcus's phone had skittered across the floor during the scuffle, landing near Ethan's foot. The screen lit up: message from Cole.
"Dude! Where are you? I got you a chance to get back at Ethan?"
Ethan tilted his head, picked it up. Another ding: image attached.
He grabbed Marcus's limp hand and pressed the thumb to the sensor. Unlocked. Opened the message.
The photo loaded: Vanessa—his mother—in black lace lingerie, bent over, ass on full display. Cole's hand gripped one cheek, fingers digging in possessively.
The caption: "She's down for a three-way. You in? We'll tag-team the bitch and send pics to her kid."
Ethan's blood went ice-cold. He tilted his head toward Marcus, who was still groaning on the floor.
"You still haven't changed," Ethan said, voice flat.
Marcus looked up just in time to see Ethan's boot come down—stomping hard on his balls. The impact was brutal, a dull thud followed by Marcus's high-pitched scream, body curling tighter, hands clutching his crotch as pain exploded through him.
Ethan deleted the image, then crushed the phone under his heel—screen shattering, metal bending with a crunch. Sparks flickered, then nothing.
The system pinged in his vision: MILF Broken: Latoya Tate. +1000 Lust Points. Bonus for Full Submission and Humiliation: +500.
Total: 1500 again.
He allocated on the spot—800 to Strength, pushing him to godlike levels; 400 to Speed; 300 split between Stamina and Durability. Pain flared briefly, black-red ooze seeping and vanishing, body hardening further.
Ethan stood taller, stronger. He glanced once at Marcus—whimpering on the floor—then turned and walked out.
Home next.
Cole and Vanessa were waiting, whether they knew it or not.
The night air hit him like freedom. He started the walk, muscles humming, mind clear. Revenge tasted better with every step.