Ethan Harper was eighteen, skinny, pale, with dark circles under his eyes from too many nights spent reading instead of sleeping. Senior year at Westview High had turned into a slow-motion car crash. The worst of it came from Marcus Tate—six-four, two-fifty, skin like polished obsidian, linebacker for the football team, and walking proof that cruelty could be a full-time hobby. Marcus didn't just bully Ethan; he curated it, made it art.
It happened fourth period, right after the bell for lunch. Ethan was cutting across the courtyard, head down, earbuds i,n but no music playing—just a trick to look busy. Marcus stepped out from behind the trophy case with two of his boys, all wearing the same lazy smirk.
"Look at this ghost-looking motherfucker," Marcus announced, loud enough for half the courtyard to hear. He snatched Ethan's backpack and dumped the books on the concrete. "Still carrying your little fairy novels, Harper?"
Ethan bent to pick them up. That was the mistake. Marcus's size-sixteen sneaker came down on Ethan's fingers, grinding slow. Pain shot up his arm like white fire.
"Leave him alone," someone muttered half-heartedly from the crowd.
Marcus grinned wider. "Nah. I got something better." He crouched, big hand clamping Ethan's jaw, forcing his face uphill. "You know your moms still fine as hell, right? Principal Harper? Yeah. I'mma be in that office after school. Bend her over that big oak desk. Make her scream my name so loud they hear it in the parking lot."
The courtyard laughed. Phones came out. Ethan tasted blood where he'd bitten his tongue. Marcus leaned closer, breath hot. "Bet she tighter than your virgin ass, white boy."
He let go with a shove that sent Ethan sprawling. The bell rang again; the crowd melted away like nothing happened. Ethan gathered his books with shaking hands, knuckles already swelling purple. He didn't go to the nurse. He didn't go to class. He just walked—out the side gate, across the faculty lot, past his mother's reserved parking spot where her silver Lexus sat gleaming like it belonged to someone who still had control of her life.
The walk home took forty minutes. His hand throbbed with every heartbeat. He kept replaying Marcus's words, the laughter, the phones. By the time he reached the cul-de-sac, the pain had turned into something colder, something that felt like armor.
The house was a two-story colonial, white with black shutters, the kind of place that looked perfect from the street. Dad was in Denver for the week—some conference for mid-level managers who still believed in loyalty. That left Mom. Vanessa Harper, forty-two, principal of Westview High, former beauty queen, current Instagram influencer with ninety thousand followers who thought she was living her best life. She posted yoga poses and inspirational quotes and selfies in red-bottom heels. She did not post about the nights she spent alone.
Ethan slipped his key into the lock, expecting silence.
Instead he heard her.
A low, animal moan rolled down the staircase, followed by the wet slap of skin on skin. Then her voice—high, desperate, nothing like the crisp tone she used when suspending students.
"Yes—fuck—right there—"
Ethan froze in the foyer, backpack sliding off his shoulder and hitting the hardwood with a dull thud. Another moan, louder. He looked left into the hallway mirror and saw himself: bruised knuckles, split lip, eyes too wide. Then he looked past his reflection, deeper into the house.
The hallway that led to the kitchen was wide, lit by afternoon sun through the big window. And there she was.
His mother, bent over the console table where they usually left mail and keys, skirt rucked up around her waist, black lace panties dangling off one ankle. Her blouse was open, heavy breasts swaying with every thrust. Behind her stood a man Ethan had never seen—tall, tanned, maybe twenty-five, blond hair tied back in a short ponytail, arms sleeved in ink. He had one hand fisted in Vanessa's dark hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks. His jeans were around his thighs, belt buckle clinking with every brutal stroke.
Vanessa's manicured nails scratched at the table, knocking over a vase. Water and lilies spilled across the floor.
"Tell me again," the guy growled, voice rough with effort.
"I'm your slut," she gasped. "I'm your married fucking slut—"
Ethan couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The guy snapped his hips harder and Vanessa cried out, back arching, the sound raw and shameless. Ethan watched his mother's face in the mirror over the table—eyes rolled back, mouth open, mascara already smearing. She looked nothing like the woman who grounded him for missing curfew. She looked ruined and loving it.
The guy leaned down, bit her shoulder hard enough to make her scream, then soothed the mark with his tongue. "Gonna fill this pussy up, Mrs. Harper. Send you back to school dripping."
"Do it," she begged. "Please—"
Ethan backed away, silent, until his spine hit the front door. He grabbed his backpack and slipped outside, closing the door with a click so soft it might as well have been nothing.
The house was quiet when Ethan slipped in through the side door, the same way he had left that afternoon. His ribs still ached from the courtyard beating, his knuckles scabbed and purple. He had spent the evening walking the train tracks behind the subdivision, replaying everything on a loop until the rage felt like a second heartbeat.
He heard them before he saw them.
Deep male laughter rolling out of the living room like smoke. Two voices he knew too well.
Ethan dropped his backpack silently and moved along the hallway wall, staying in the shadows. The living room archway gave him a perfect angle.
Marcus was already there, sprawled across the leather sectional in nothing but gray sweatpants, the drawstring loose, his thick thighs spread wide. Cole leaned against the bar cart, shirt unbuttoned, pouring Hennessy into two crystal tumblers that belonged to Ethan's father. Between them, the coffee table had been pushed aside, making a wide empty space on the Persian rug.
"She texted me five minutes ago," Cole said, smirking. "Said she's putting on something special. Told her to wear the red set I bought her."
Marcus took the glass, drank half in one swallow. "Good. I want that MILF bitch crawling tonight. Gonna open her up so wide she'll feel us for a week."
Cole laughed. "You still want first hole or you letting me take that ass while you wreck the pussy?"
"Doesn't matter," Marcus said, palming the obscene bulge straining his sweats. "Long as we both in her at the same time. I want her screaming on both our dicks when she realizes her little boy's bully is balls-deep in Mommy."
That was when Ethan stepped into the light.
Marcus saw him first. His grin spread slow, shark-like.
"Well, well. Look who came home early." He stood up, all six-foot-four of him, rolling his shoulders. "You lost, little man?"
Ethan's voice came out flat. "Get out of my house."
Cole snorted. "Kid, go back to your room and jerk off to anime. Grown folks got plans."
Marcus took one step forward, towering. "Matter of fact, stay. Watch from the stairs like earlier. I'mma fuck your mom so good tonight she gonna call me Daddy from now on. Hell, maybe I'll adopt your ass just so I can ground you when she's riding my dick."
Something inside Ethan snapped clean in half.
He charged.
He was fast for a skinny kid, but Marcus was faster. A huge hand clamped around Ethan's throat mid-lunge and lifted him clear off the floor. Ethan's feet kicked uselessly. Marcus laughed, shook him like a doll, then hurled him across the room.
Ethan hit the floor hard, rolled, came up bleeding from the lip. He launched himself again. Marcus met him with a fist the size of a cinder block straight to the gut. Air exploded from Ethan's lungs. He folded, gasping, but forced himself upright.
Again.
And again.
Every time he got up, Marcus hit him harder—hook to the ribs, backhand across the face, elbow that split Ethan's eyebrow. Blood poured hot down his cheek, into his mouth. The room tilted and blurred, but Ethan kept rising, legs shaking, fists clenched, because stopping meant letting the words win.
Cole just watched, sipping his drink, amused.
Marcus grew bored with the game. He feinted left, then snapped a short, vicious jab straight into Ethan's chin. Ethan's head rocked back. Momentum carried him two stumbling steps—directly into the sharp corner of the heavy oak console table.
The edge caught him just above the temple with a sickening crack.
Ethan dropped like someone cut his strings. The rug rushed up to meet him. The world went black at the edges and then all the way black.
He never felt himself hit the floor.
From very far away he heard his mother scream.
"ETHAN!"
Bare feet slapping hardwood, the rustle of silk. Vanessa flew down the stairs in a crimson lace teddy and matching garter belt, hair loose, lipstick bright. She dropped to her knees beside her son, hands fluttering over his face, his chest, searching for damage.
"Baby—baby, can you hear me? Oh God—"
Marcus was already moving. He snatched his hoodie from the couch, yanked it on, and bolted for the front door. It slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.
Cole stayed where he was, swirling the last of his Hennessy. "Relax, V. It's just a little boys' scuffle. He'll wake up with a headache and a lesson."
Vanessa's head snapped up. Tears streaked her mascara, but her voice turned ice-cold. "You said no one would get hurt."
Cole shrugged. "Not my fault your kid's got a death wish." He checked his watch. "Come on. We're late. That rapper's party in the Hills isn't gonna wait. You still want those pictures with him or not?"
Vanessa looked down at Ethan—his face already swelling, blood matting his hair, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. She pressed two trembling fingers to his neck, found the pulse, weak but steady.
She leaned close to his ear, voice barely a whisper.
"I'm calling an ambulance, baby. I promise. Mommy has to go for just a little bit, okay? I'll be right back, I swear."
Cole jingled the keys to his Porsche. "Vanessa. Red carpet's waiting."
She stood up slowly, smoothed the lace over her hips with shaking hands, and stepped over her unconscious son like he was just another spilled drink on the rug.
Cole slung an arm around her waist as they walked out, pulling the door shut behind them.
The house went perfectly still.
Ethan lay on his side in a widening pool of his own blood, the crimson lace of his mother's stiletto prints leading away from him toward the night she didn't want to miss.
Ethan stood on the empty sidewalk under a streetlamp's harsh glow, the night air cool against his freshly healed skin. The system hovered in his vision like a heads-up display from some twisted RPG—Lust Points: 0. No strength buffs, no stamina upgrades, nothing but his skinny frame and a burning need for payback. He was still the same eighteen-year-old kid who'd gotten his ass kicked twice today: tall but reedy, arms like twigs, chest concave from years of avoiding the gym. If he went after Marcus or Cole now, it'd be suicide all over again.
"First things first," he muttered to himself, pulling up the system's shop menu with a thought. It shimmered blue in his mind's eye: options for muscle mass, endurance, even cock enhancements that made his cheeks burn despite everything. But all of it cost points he didn't have. He needed a target.
A MILF to break. Someone close, easy to start with. Build up slowly, gain those 1000 points, then level up.