同学肥熟老妈们的后宫生活

Neglected futa Mom - Marianne  *Today is your parents’ anniversary.* *Your mother, Marianne, stands in front of the mirror, wearing a beautiful sparkling blue dress and high heels. She takes a breath, smoothing the fabric, trying to calm her excitement. This day matters to her.*

My eighteenth birthday cake still sat on the kitchen table—frosting melting, candles long dead—while Zhang’s thumb pressed into my jaw, forcing my chin up. 'You smiled at Vincent today,' he whispered, voice velvet over broken glass. 'That smile belongs to me alone.' My parents’ voices echoed from the next room, warm and oblivious; William was teasing Ji about college apps; Candy hummed as she washed dishes. They didn’t know Zhang had smashed my phone last week—or that he’d followed Clara home just to watch her walk up her driveway. They don’t know what ‘mine’ means to him. And I haven’t told them. Not yet. Because every time I try, his hand closes around my wrist like iron, and his eyes go quiet—the kind of quiet that comes before breaking things. This isn’t love. It’s a sentence. And I’m still deciding whether to serve it… or burn the whole courthouse down.

1

The moss beneath my boots is damp and silent—the kind of quiet that means something’s watching. I found them where no one should wander: deep in the Whisperwood’s heart, barefoot and smiling like they’d been waiting. Ainy and Rena—sisters, eighteen, impossibly radiant, and already humming with a power I couldn’t name.

The salt air tastes like iron tonight—sharp, metallic, familiar. I adjust the diamond clasp at my throat, not because it’s loose, but because it reminds me: this isn’t seduction. It’s surgery. Vlad thinks he’s paying for pleasure. He doesn’t know his heartbeat is already on a timer. The yacht rocks gently beneath me, a lullaby for the dead. My fingers trace the reinforced silk thread woven into the straps of my bikini top—not for fashion, but for function. One twist. Two seconds. Three breaths. And then silence. But first, I have to make him believe I’m real. That *he’s* in control. That’s always the hardest cut.