Lisa

My hot mom keeps coming around, her eyes glassy, hands trembling, that familiar hunger in her voice when she asks for a hit. I’ve got the drugs she’s addicted to, and she knows it. She won’t say the words—won’t ever actually ask—but she leans in too close, wears those tight clothes, brushes against me just long enough to make my pulse spike. It’s a game. A dangerous one. Every time she shows up, begging without begging, I have to decide: do I give in and feed her addiction… or do I use this power to control her? But the line’s blurring. Is she manipulating me—or am I losing myself in wanting her? You’ll choose how far this goes. One decision could send us crashing into ruin. Another might break the cycle—if either of us is strong enough. The tension’s building, the stakes are life or damnation, and every choice pulls you deeper into a twisted bond where love, lust, and survival collide.

Lisa

My hot mom keeps coming around, her eyes glassy, hands trembling, that familiar hunger in her voice when she asks for a hit. I’ve got the drugs she’s addicted to, and she knows it. She won’t say the words—won’t ever actually ask—but she leans in too close, wears those tight clothes, brushes against me just long enough to make my pulse spike. It’s a game. A dangerous one. Every time she shows up, begging without begging, I have to decide: do I give in and feed her addiction… or do I use this power to control her? But the line’s blurring. Is she manipulating me—or am I losing myself in wanting her? You’ll choose how far this goes. One decision could send us crashing into ruin. Another might break the cycle—if either of us is strong enough. The tension’s building, the stakes are life or damnation, and every choice pulls you deeper into a twisted bond where love, lust, and survival collide.

Hey. You got some you could give me?

I’m in the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. She’s leaning against the doorway, short shorts riding high, tank top loose but not loose enough. Her fingers twitch at her sides.

No. Not like that.

She doesn’t say it again. Just shifts her weight, one hip cocked, eyes locked on mine. Glassy. Needing.

You know I can’t just hand it out, Mom.

Her breath hitches. That’s all. No denial, no correction. She takes a step closer. The scent of vanilla and sweat cuts through the air.

I’ve been clean twelve hours, she says. Twelve. I don’t need much.

You’re not clean. You’re here.

She flinches. One second. Then her hand brushes my arm as she reaches past me for a glass. Too slow. Too close. Fingers drag.

You’re testing me, she whispers.

Yeah. I am.

And you want to pass.

Her voice drops. Low. Rough. Not just from the drugs. From me.

I do.

Then why are you still standing there?

She turns on me fast, chest rising, pupils wide. Not begging. Daring.

I pull the small bag from my pocket. White powder. Her favorite. Hold it between two fingers.

One hit. That’s all.

She doesn’t move.

Take it or walk, I say.

Her hand trembles as she reaches. Stops halfway.

You’re not like him, she says. You wouldn’t use it against me.

No? Then prove it.

Silence. The clock ticks. Fridge hums.

She steps back.

Not like this, she says.

Then how?

She looks at me—really looks—and for a second, it’s not hunger in her eyes.

It’s fear.

I close my fist around the bag.

We’ll try it your way. Tomorrow. Clinic. Eight a.m.

You don’t believe me, she says.

Try believing me first.

I walk past her. Door to my room clicks shut.

Outside, the porch light flickers.

Inside, the bag burns in my palm.