*** Late in the evening: In the parking lot of a famous fraternity house ***

The TAUT fraternity house stood before me, its brick facade blending into the twilight. Exhausted from the journey and the infernal traffic jams before I'd even reached campus, I breathed a sigh of relief as I parked in the small lot in front of the house.

It was empty. No welcoming committee, as I'd naively hoped after my "heated" conversation with my son Brad a few minutes earlier on the phone.

So there I was, alone in the parking lot, my only company the bass emanating from the house, dusk tinging the asphalt purple.

Don't cry. You're strong. Maybe Brad didn't see the car. I tried to convince myself as I opened the door and bent down to grab my things from the back seat. Sweat plastered my blouse and leggings to my skin, a sticky testament to the drive.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the bassline, low and deliberate, behind me.

"Ms. Henderson?"

I jerked upright, bag clutched like a shield, spinning around.

He was devastating. Broad shoulders strained the worn fabric of his hoodie. Dark eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, raked over me with unnerving precision. A smirk played on lips that promised forbidden pleasures and irresistible temptations. The sheer magnetism radiating off him felt like a physical push.

Seeing my startled flinch, his smile didn't waver.

"Brad sent me. Emergency pledge thing." A careless shrug made the muscles in his shoulders ripple.

"But we weren't expecting you so early." He closed the narrow gap between us, the scent of cheap beer hitting me. "Dan, by the way. President of this humble fraternity."

His gaze dipped, lingering on the sweat-darkened fabric clinging to my collarbone. "Want to wait inside? Only me and a couple of brothers stayed behind. Chill little party."

I offered a brittle smile. "No problem, I was thinking of spending the night here anyway. I heard you have a spare room for drunken nights out," showing him my overnight bag.

The grin deepened, revealing unnervingly perfect teeth.

Why, you might ask? At the time I didn't know either, but Dan doesn't play games. Dan spills blood.

He had omitted the crucial truth: 'He' was the emergency. Minutes after overhearing Brad’s frustrated sigh confirming my arrival, Dan had orchestrated the pledges' departure.

And the bet—oh, the bet!—forged in the frat basement’s beer-soaked haze four weeks ago, born of Dan’s glacial certainty… It descended now. A guillotine blade hovering. Inescapable. Final.

A kiss, if proven, of course: one buck

Dan bagging me: Three.

My clothes hitting the floor, recorded: five.

Thirty? The crown jewel: my lips on his cockhead, thanking him for the 'best fuck of my life.'

My dignity—priced lower than a greasy pizza in a box.

Unaware of the wager, I offered a brittle smile. "Sounds good."

Dan looked at me mockingly. "Here, let me take your bag. And tell me, Mrs. Henderson. How do you know that? Brad snitched?"

He held out his hand, calloused and strong, not to shake my hand, but to confidently seize my bag, without waiting for my reply.

His fingers brushed mine as he took it. The contact wasn't accidental; it was a calculated jolt, sending a spark of unwelcome electricity up my arm. His touch lingered, his thumb subtly grazing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.

Not wanting to get my son in trouble, I added quickly. "No, my friend Kathy.”

Dan's grin faltered, the amusement evaporating from his face like spilled gasoline catching fire. For a split second, his eyes widened—genuine shock replacing the calculated mockery.

The name had a worse effect than if a bomb had just exploded. His knuckles tightened around the strap of my overnight bag, tendons standing stark against suddenly pale skin.

"Kathy?" The word came out flat, stripped of its earlier oily charm.

"You know Kathy Callahan, Jake's mother. She told me." I murmured these words, a little embarrassed, misinterpreting his abrupt reaction.

Then, unexpectedly, Dan threw his head back and laughed—a deep, unfeigned sound rich with amusement. "She told you 'that'? Did she also mention she spent the night in that 'famous' bedroom herself? Exactly a month ago, the day Jake moved in?"

He chuckled again, clearly delighted by my stunned silence, effortlessly steering me inside. "Sorry—your little bombshell scrambled my manners. So, how was the drive? Traffic hell on Ashby Avenue again?"

The frat house interior assaulted the senses: stale beer, cheap cologne, adolescent ambition, and the faint, sour tang of unwashed laundry mingled with something muskier and primal. Dan navigated the dim hallway with proprietorial ease, his presence commanding the space, making me feel smaller, more vulnerable. His proximity was overwhelmingly amplified by the natural power of his gait.

He led me up the creaking stairs, past closed doors adorned with crude posters and Greek letters, to Brad's room at the end. "We have common rooms for studying," Dan explained suavely, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow hallway, sending another illicit thrill through me. "But his room is... private, like all the others here. It's so we don't get in each other's way when we have... 'guests.'"

He stopped in front of Brad's door, turning fully toward me. His gaze intensified, pinning me against the peeling wallpaper. "Especially beautiful guest." The compliment, delivered with such raw, confident appraisal, hit me like a punch. My cheeks flushed. "Oh, I..." I stammered, flustered, avoiding his dark, penetrating gaze. "Thanks, Dan. That's... sweet."

He chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated deep in my chest.

"Not sweet. Honest." He pushed open Brad’s door.

"Make yourself comfortable. Brad might be out for a while."

"Thank you for the welcome. I don't want to disturb you. I'll wait here for my son to return. Just pretend I'm not here."

"Don't worry, I assure you that you're not disturbing us. Your presence will keep us civilized, for once. Sort of special guest privileges." Dan blinked, adding, "It's my duty as president to ensure that no one hits on you in our house."

He placed my bag on the bed but didn’t leave immediately. He leaned against the doorframe, his gaze sweeping over Brad’s messy room—textbooks piled haphazardly, dirty laundry spilling from a hamper, a faded poster of some band my husband John disapproved of—before settling back on me.

"Thirsty? We have beer. Or something stronger?"

The invitation hung heavy, loaded. My throat felt suddenly parched, my palms slick. I shouldn't. I 'really' shouldn't. But the thought of sitting alone in Brad’s room, waiting for hours… the memory of John’s indifferent kiss goodbye… the way Dan’s eyes seemed to see right through my carefully constructed facade…

With him, I was no longer the hyperactive mom or the confident businesswoman. I felt like the roles were reversed; he was the adult, and I was once again that shy little girl I had been when I was younger.

"Maybe… just some water?" I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

Dan’s smile widened, triumphant. "Water it is." He turned but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Don’t go anywhere, Mrs. Henderson." The command was gentle, almost playful, but utterly inescapable. "I'll be right back."

Alone in Brad’s room, the silence pressed in, thick with the ghosts of teenage angst and the unsettling echo of Dan’s presence. I sank onto the edge of Brad’s unmade bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was wrong. So wrong. Yet, beneath the panic, a treacherous ember of excitement flickered, fanned by Dan’s raw magnetism and the suffocating predictability of my own life. The hollow space inside me seemed to pulse, demanding to be filled. The hunt was on. And I, oblivious prey, had just stepped willingly into the lion’s den.

My sneakers flew onto the carpet as I kicked them off just before I lay down on the bed to relax. The silence in Brad’s room became oppressive, thick with the scent of teenage boy and my own rising panic. Minutes stretched like hours.

Confusion gnawed at my mind, consumed by the waiting. It was no longer Where was Brad? more Where was Dan? The thunderous bass thumping downstairs seemed to mock my isolation.

Just as I was contemplating fleeing back to my car, Dan reappeared in the doorway. He wasn't holding a glass of water, but two chilled beers, condensation beading on them. He invaded the room, effortlessly casual, impossibly attractive in his worn jeans and hoodie pushed up to reveal strong forearms. The door closed softly behind him. The click of the latch echoed like a gunshot in my ears.

"Water seemed… boring," he stated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the small room. He extended a beer towards me. "Celebrate surviving the drive?"

My instinct screamed at me to refuse. I don't drink beer. I prefer wine. But Dan's gaze was fixed on me, intense, provocative. John would never have imposed his choice on me. The ember of rebellion flared hotter. Hesitantly, my fingers brushed his as I took the cold bottle. Another jolt. "Th-thank you," I stammered.

Dan took a long pull from his own beer, his eyes never leaving my face. He didn’t sit; he prowled, like an alpha lion evaluating his prey. "So," he began. "Brad mentioned you’re… protective." He paused near Brad’s cluttered desk, picking up a framed photo of him, seventeen years old, raising a trophy. "Must be hard … to let go." He set the photo down gently, his gaze lifting to meet mine. It wasn’t mocking; it was unnervingly understanding. "Feeling like your purpose is fading?"

His words struck a nerve so raw it stole my breath. Tears pricked my eyes. How could he know? How could he articulate the ache I hadn’t dared voice? I looked away, blinking rapidly. "It’s… it’s just parenting," I mumbled, taking a nervous sip of the beer. It was bitter, unfamiliar, yet somehow bracing.

Dan moved closer, stopping just inches away. I could smell the faint musk of his skin and the hops on his breath.

"It’s more than that," he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate timbre. "It’s very sad, almost painful. Suffering to be… unseen, unwanted."

His hand lifted slowly, not touching me, but hovering near my cheek.

"You’re far too beautiful, far too vibrant, to be relegated to just a ‘mom’ or a ‘wife.’"

His thumb brushed the corner of my eye, catching a traitorous tear I hadn’t realized had escaped. The touch was electric and tender, yet charged with an undeniable current of possession.

"I bet your husband doesn't see it anymore either," Dan whispered, leaning in fractionally. His dark eyes locked onto mine, holding me captive. "But I see you, Jennie."

The use of my first name, spoken with such raw intimacy, shattered my defenses. My breath hitched. My name hadn't sounded like that in years. "I see the fire you try to hide. The hunger." His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering. "The need."

The bottle trembled, slick with sweat-slicked palm. Every nerve shrieked 'flee.' But the gnawing emptiness inside me devoured reason—a gaping maw that swallowed caution whole. Dan’s gaze pinned me. He didn’t just look; he had smelled the hunger. Smelled the hollow ache. Before I could protest or tell him how wrong he was, his hands were on me—hauling me up, crushing me against him. My tits mashed against his ribs, breath ripped away. His mouth seized mine like a wolf tearing into warm meat. Our beers flew, staining the rug… forgotten.

It wasn’t a love kiss. It was brutal. Possessive. Consuming. His mouth claimed mine with a raw, primal urgency that ignited a wildfire in my veins.

One hand tangled fiercely in my hair, pulling my head back, deepening the kiss, while the other arm banded around my waist, crushing me against the hard planes of his body. I gasped against his mouth, a sound swallowed instantly by his relentless assault.

His tongue had invaded my mouth, demanding, exploring. But, behind the beer, there was something darker, more intoxicating, so I abandoned myself. It was overwhelming, terrifying, and utterly electrifying. My hands, frozen moments before clutching the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring myself against the dizzying onslaught.

A low moan escaped me, muffled against his lips—a sound of surrender, of shock, of undeniable, terrifying arousal. The kiss was a violation and a revelation. He tasted like sin and salvation.

When he finally pulled back, breathing ragged, his eyes blazing with triumph, I was left trembling, lips swollen, mind reeling.

"You taste like desperation," he murmured, his voice rough with arousal and something darker—amusement. He traced my swollen lower lip with his thumb, the calloused pad rough against the sensitive flesh. "Delicious."

Shame flooded me, hot and suffocating. I tried to pull away, but his arm was an iron band around my waist. "Dan... this... we can't..." The words were weak, unconvincing even to my own ears.

"We can," he countered smoothly, his hand sliding down from my hair to cup my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. "And we will. Because you want it."

His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "Be honest with yourself, Mrs. Henderson. You've wanted it since the moment you saw me near your car. Since you felt my hand brush yours."

His gaze dropped pointedly to my chest. My blouse felt suddenly tight, constricting. My nipples were hard peaks straining against the lace of my bra—a traitorous physical response I couldn't hide. "See?" Dan whispered, his voice dropping to a seductive purr.

"Your body knows the truth. It craves what your husband can't give you." He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "It craves ‘me.’"

The words were poison, yet they resonated with terrifying accuracy. Denial was futile. All resistance evaporated under the sheer, overwhelming force of his presence. It wasn't seduction; it was domination disguised as charm. He saw it all. He saw me.

The hollow ache wasn't empty anymore; it was filled with a terrifying, exhilarating inferno named Dan. The bet was already halfway won. The hunt was over. The prey had willingly surrendered. And the real game was about to begin.

"Dan, I—"

The protest died in my throat as his thumb pressed firmly against my lips, silencing me. "Shhh." His dark eyes held mine captive, pools of liquid obsidian offering sweet, crushing darkness.

"Just let me help you relax."

He was an expert, reading the flicker of vulnerability in my eyes, the slight tremor in my hands, and the way my breath quickened despite myself. He knew exactly how to bypass thirty years of marital bliss.

His rough hands slipped under my blouse, finding my bra clasp with devastating expertise. His palms had claimed my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, coaxing them into desperate, traitorous, throbbing points. And suddenly I heard it. A low groan vibrated deep in his chest, a sound of pure, predatory triumph.

He spun me smooth against that ridiculous gym-honed torso as he pushed me. My thighs bumped Brad's tangled sheets, 'right' where he wanted me. His mouth found my neck—a practiced dance of teeth and tongue, leaving promises that would bloom purple by dawn. A deliberate pause. Warm breath ghosted my skin. "There... perfect," he murmured, victory lacing every syllable.

His grip vanished as he stepped back. The wardrobe creaked softly under his weight as he settled against it, arms folded like a satisfied king surveying his domain.

"Alright, gorgeous, this is your moment to shine. Unwind, let all that bottled-up energy flow out. Trust me, you'll feel amazing after. Full control is yours; you can stop at any time; I’m just enjoying the view." Dan purred, smooth dominance wrapped in velvet words. "Keep that pretty face turned away if you're shy—nothing sexier than mystery. I only want to watch your beauty unfold." His fingers drummed a lazy rhythm on the wardrobe door. "Whenever you’re ready, sweet thing."

Horror warred with the treacherous heat inside me. Strip? In my son's room? For this arrogant boy? It was unthinkable. Degrading. Yet... the look in his eyes was full of promise. Promised to fill the void John had left. Promised to make me feel wanted.

The mortification intensified, a sickening cocktail mixing with the slow rising tide of forbidden pleasure. My hands trembled violently as I lifted them towards the top button of my blouse.

Dan's murmur was silky smoke curling through the silence. "Languidly... make the ache build."

Each button yielded with a sigh—tiny surrenders hanging heavy in the air. My shallow breaths caught as fabric whispered apart. Eyes lowered, I felt the shiver start low in my belly when the blouse gaped open, revealing moonlight-pale skin. Heat prickled where I knew his stare licked up the back of my neck.

"Mm... yes." His approval pooled, molten, between my thighs. "Now slide it down... careless-like. Let me taste those shoulders with my eyes."

With shaking hands, I pushed the blouse off my shoulders. It slithered down my arms and pooled at my feet. The cool air of the room prickled my exposed skin, raising goosebumps. I stood before him in my bra and leggings, feeling utterly exposed despite being partially clothed.

"The bra." A quiet command.

Tears of humiliation stung my eyes again. I held the cups against my breasts for a moment—one final, futile shield.

"Let it fall," Dan whispered, his voice hypnotic. Inevitable.

I let go. The bra slipped down, falling silently beside the blouse.

Suddenly, while I hadn't heard him move, lost as I was in my abashment, Dan's hands slid my leggings and underwear down my hips to mid-thigh with one swift movement.

Why didn't I react? Why did I let him do it?

And there I was, the responsible adult, standing in front of him. Frozen. Naked to the knees. Luckily I had my back to him, I thought at that moment, believing he wouldn't see my surrender.

How naive I was. I didn't see him pull out his phone, nor did I hear the discreet, crushing click as it focused on my bare back, the curve of my buttocks, and my wobbling fragility.

"Undulate," his voice slithered into my ear, smooth as silk. "Slowly. Fluidly. For me. Give me a show worthy of the stage. Like those hip-hop honeys Brad drools over… like you want the whole damn rap crew lining up to take turns on you."

The command was obscene, degrading, and designed to shatter my self-respect. Disgrace burned through me, a wildfire consuming decades of dignity. Yet, beneath the guilt and indignation, a treacherous coil of arousal tightened low in my belly, slick and undeniable, responding to the raw command in his voice. I felt his gaze on me like a physical caress, demanding submission.

My hands, quavering violently, rose as if pulled by invisible strings. With the leggings pinching me mid-thigh, the movement must have seemed ridiculous and grotesque, and yet I continued under Dan's encouragement.

"That’s it," Dan coaxed, his voice dripping honeyed poison. "But remember, don’t turn toward me. Not yet."

I obeyed, focusing on the undulating motion he demanded, trying desperately to believe I wanted this, that I was seducing him, that this slow unveiling was my idea, my desperate bid for his approval.

The lie was flimsy, but the burgeoning heat between my thighs made it terrifyingly easy to cling to.

"Good girl," he breathed, the praise sending another illicit jolt of pleasure through me, making my hips sway with slightly more abandon, a traitorous flush spreading across my chest.

"Now turn around," his voice hardened, leaving no room for refusal. "Show me everything."

As I turned, I saw the phone pointed squarely at me. "Are... are you filming?" I stammered, petrified with dread, shock piercing the haze of arousal.

My breasts, fuller than they were in my youth but still firm, were exposed to his hungry gaze. I crossed my arms instinctively over my chest and bare pussy, trying to shield myself.

A dismissive chuckle. "Relax. It's just a prop. Just a game to heighten the fantasy." The lie was smooth, delivered with utter conviction. He waved the phone negligently. "Think of it like... your debut.

"Hands. Down." The command was sharp, brooking no argument. "Show me."

Why did I lower them, trembling faintly as his hungry eyes devoured my bare chest? Because of ‘his’ stare. Pure fire.

"Beautiful," he murmured, the word a weapon.  "Seriously, you've got that starlet glow—like you were born for the spotlight." He tilted the phone downward, framing the shot perfectly.

He scanned me from head to toe, a slow, deliberate appraisal that made my skin flush crimson.

Then he touched me—fingertips grazing my stiff nipple like a whisper. Sparks shot straight to my core, pulling a needy whimper from my lips. That sound? Music to him.

"Now," Dan murmured, voice rough velvet. "The leggings. Peel them down slow. Make me feel your hunger."

Bending over slightly, I slipped my thumbs into the elastic of my leggings and panties—feeling every millimeter of resistance as elastic surrendered to my touch. Slowly, endlessly slowly, I slid them down my thighs, then my calves. I stepped free of the leggings, awkwardly kicking them away. But my panties? Glued by sweat, they remained tangled at my ankles—a wet, fragrant shackle of musk and salt.

"Good," he said, his voice thick with lust. "The knickers." He paused, his gaze fixed on mine. "Leave them around your ankles."

I stopped, as instructed, paralyzed in that pose of utter vulnerability.

I was no longer the mother of two children. I was reduced to being nothing more than a nearly naked middle-aged woman in my son's room, foreboding with a mixture of terror and sexual desire, awaiting his next order almost impatiently—my panties like handcuffs around my ankles.

The humiliation was complete, but the excitement was undeniable, a creamy heat pooling between my legs. The striptease was over. The degradation had only just begun.

He shoved me hard. I stumbled backwards, tripping over my discarded clothes, and landed heavily on the edge of Brad's bed, my legs splayed, my panties stretched taut. The impact jarred me, leaving me gasping, sprawled in a posture of utter indignity directly facing the blinking red eye of the camera.

Suddenly, Dan started talking like in those famous 'casting couch' type porn videos.

"Now, Mrs. Henderson," he purred, his voice dripping with malicious amusement. "Smile for the camera." He took a step closer, looming over me where I was lying on the bed.

His gaze raked over my exposed body, lingering on my tits, then dropping lower to the obscenely soaked cotton triangle. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice dropping in an almost confidential whisper. "Is your little married pussy wet for me yet?"

The crude question, delivered with such arrogance and disdain as if the answer were obvious, sent fresh waves of disgrace crashing through me. Tears streamed down my face. "No!" I choked out, shaking my head violently, trying to deny the undeniable dampness I could feel between my thighs. "No, I'm not... I'm not wet for you!"

Dan laughed, a low, chilling sound. "You're sure, Jennie?"

With a brutal yank, he ripped my panties down and off in one fluid motion, tossing the flimsy garments aside.

I was suddenly, completely naked before him. A strangled sob escaped me as I tried desperately to cover myself with my hands.

Dan ignored my attempts. He stepped between my splayed legs, forcing them wider apart. His eyes locked onto my exposed sex. "Let's see how much of a little liar you really are." Before I could react, his fingers—rough, demanding—plunged deep inside me. Not one, but two fingers, thrusting hard past my unprepared entrance.

I gasped, arching on the bed, and a cry ripped from my throat—not entirely of pain, but of shocking, overwhelming sensation. His fingers curled inside me, probing ruthlessly. He pulled them out slowly, deliberately, holding them up before my horrified eyes. They glistened unmistakably in the light. They were wet, gleaming with my arousal.

"See?" he hissed, triumph blazing in his eyes. "Drenched. Ready for me like a back-alley whore."

He smeared my wetness across my trembling lower lip.

The taste was salt and humiliation.

He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and smelling faintly of beer. "Now, Mrs. Henderson," he commanded, his voice dropping to a guttural growl that vibrated through my core, "kneel in front of me.”

The command brooked no argument.

He stood tall while, somehow compelled by the raw dominance radiating from him, I slid off the bed onto my knees on the worn carpet.

He then started unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness, the rasp of leather loud in the charged silence before stopping. "Go on. Show the camera how much you crave it. Free the beast."

His crude words, the musky scent of him, the thrumming arousal obliterating my reason—it reduced me to something primal, brainless.

My trembling hands reached out, freeing his erection—thick, veined, and intimidating.

The hot, heavy weight filled my palms.

"Open wide," Dan ordered, his hand wrapping around the base, guiding the swollen purple head towards my lips. "Show me how grateful you are that I’m letting you crash here tonight."

The degradation was absolute. As I stood 'au naturel' before my son's fraternity president, filmed for his amusement, forced to service him like a common streetwalker. Yet, as the hot tip pressed against my lips, a traitorous spark ignited deep within my core. The shame burned, but beneath it, the forbidden thrill surged stronger. I opened my mouth.

The blowjob was a brutal lesson in submission.

Dan didn't gently guide me; he controlled me. His hands snarled in my hair, not caressing, but gripping, pulling, forcing my head forward onto his thick shaft.

He used my mouth relentlessly, grunting with pleasure, forcing me to take him deeper than I thought possible, ignoring my choked protests. Gagging sounds tore from me, and tears streamed freely, mixing with saliva that dripped down my chin onto my bare breasts.

He watched his phone, ensuring it captured every degrading moment filmed for posterity. My flushed face contorted in effort, my eyes wide with panic and unwanted arousal, and the obscene sight of him thrusting into my mouth.

When he finally pulled out, leaving me gasping and coughing, spittle coating my lips and chin, he looked down at me with undisguised contempt.

"Not bad for a married hag," he sneered, slapping his cock lightly against my tear-streaked cheek. "But we're just getting started." He grabbed my arm, hauling me roughly to my feet. "On the bed. On your hands and knees. Butt in the air. Point it right at me."

I scrambled onto Brad's unmade bed, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent now tainted with the musk of sex and sweat. I positioned myself on all fours, burying my face in the pillow, unable to look at him.

My booty was raised, exposed, and utterly vulnerable. I felt him climb onto the bed behind me. His hands slapped the insides of my thighs, forcing my legs apart further.

"Spread your cheeks," he commanded. "Show me that tight little asshole."

Mortification choked me. Trembling, I reached back with shaking hands and pulled my buttocks apart, exposing my most private hole to his gaze. I heard his low groan of approval.

"Perfect," he breathed. Then, without warning, I felt the wet, hot swipe of his tongue against my exposed anus.

I cried out, jerking forward in shock.

The sensation was intensely intimate, shockingly invasive.

He licked again, long, slow strokes, circling the tight pucker before probing insistently with the tip of his tongue.

He alternated licking with soft sucking, teasing the sensitive nerve endings until my traitorous body began to tremble not just with fear but with burgeoning arousal… again.

I felt myself relaxing against my will, pushing back slightly against his mouth, seeking more of the forbidden sensation. He chuckled darkly against my skin.

"Fuck, you like that, don't you?" He murmured, his breath hot. "You're pushing back like a bitch in heat." He delivered a sharp slap to my rump, making me yelp.

"Tell me why you like it so much, Mrs. Henderson? Why are you letting a frat boy lick your cornhole while your husband sleeps peacefully at home?"

The question was designed to break me. My tears soaked Brad's pillow as I whimpered. "I... I don't know."

"Bullshit!" Another slap, harder this time. "Tell me! Why does this dirty-ass play turn you on?"

The words tumbled out, fueled by humiliation and the terrifying intimacy of his tongue drilling me. "It feels... dirty... wrong... but... oh god... so good!!"

Dan laughed, a harsh, triumphant sound. He spat onto his fingers, then pressed one slick digit firmly against my pooper, stabbing the tight ring of muscle.

"Wrong feels good, doesn't it?"

He pushed slowly, relentlessly.

He worked the finger deeper, twisting it, opening me up. "And with more?" he mocked, adding a second finger. The stretch was agonizing and exquisite. "Tell me, you slut. Does your husband know his wife dreams of having her bunghole spread like a common whore?"

He scissored his fingers inside me, gaping me brutally. I screamed into the pillow, my body arching, pushing back onto his hand, overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations of pain and intense, degrading pleasure.

When he withdrew his fingers, I felt strangely empty. But it was short-lived because. Before I could process it, I felt the thick, blunt head of his knob pressing against my stretched opening. He didn't ask. He didn't prepare me further. He just pushed.

The invasion was brutal. A searing pain tore through me as his thick shaft forced its way past my tight butthole. I screamed, a raw, animal sound of agony. He paused for only a second, letting me feel that impossible fullness before driving deeper with a powerful thrust of his hips.

"Oh fuck!" Dan groaned, his hands gripping my hips like vices. "Your little asshole is so tight... fuck yeah..."

He began to move, pulling back almost all the way before slamming back in with force. Each thrust was agony, a wrenching, burning sensation deep inside me.

Yet, beneath the wrecking pain, something else was happening. The intense friction, the deep, forbidden penetration, began to ignite nerve endings whose existence I had forgotten. Waves of perverse pleasure started to mix with the agony, radiating from my rectum up through my belly, coiling tightly in my core. My cries shifted, becoming less about pain and more about overwhelming, conflicting sensation.

My hips began to move involuntarily, pushing back against him, meeting his brutal thrusts. The guilt was suffocating, but the pleasure was undeniable, building with each deep, punishing stroke.

Dan sensed the shift. He leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth close to my ear. "You're keeping your cards close to your chest, Mrs. Henderson. It's obvious this isn't your first ass fucking." He hissed, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. "You fucking love getting your brown eye reamed by your son's frat president. Tell me why!"

"B-because..." I gasped, my voice muffled by the pillow. "...because John... he's too nice... too gentle... he'd never... never do something like this... never touch me… Fuck me... there..."

The admission felt like tearing out a piece of my soul. But unable to restrain myself, I slid my right hand between my thighs to reach my love button.

Dan buried himself up to the hilt in my bowels and stilled. He nibbled my ear and then whispered, his voice thick with sexual excitement. "John? Is it your husband's name?" He mocked us. "So, John's too nice?" The stretch was agonizing and exquisite. "But I’m not. Now, make yourself cum with your fingers, Mrs. Henderson. And while you're coming, tell me how you learned to take a cock in your rosebud like a champ."

I complied by stroking my clitoris furiously with my fingers while telling him my story in a voice full of shame.

"It was only during my last two years of university. We were cheerleaders, Kathy and I, but our masculine basketball team wasn't winning. So, Kathy came up with an idea to motivate the players: they could fuck us every time we won. But since we didn't want to get pregnant, they only had access to our backsides."

As a powerful orgasm erupted from me, making me moan loudly. He began riding me hard again, each thrust slamming my hips against the mattress, the springs screaming.

His fist knotted in my hair, bending my head back. "Fucking SCREAM, you stupid slut!" he growled, his beer breath hot against my ear. "Let the whole fucking house hear how much you love the president's sausage up your ass!"

I tried burying my face in Brad's pillow to muffle the pathetic noises escaping me—a messy cocktail of raw pain and this traitorous, crawling pleasure. It didn't work. He yanked my head back harder.

"Yes!" The word tore out of me, ragged and desperate. “Yes! I love it! Oh my God, Dan, tear me apart! HARDER, YOU ANIMAL!!”

He laughed and dropped my hair.

Before I could gasp, his hands locked around my elbows, wrenching my arms straight back behind me. He pinned me like a fucking butterfly. Then he really started destroying me. No rhythm anymore. Just savage, jackhammer jabs straight up my colon. Each brutal slam punched the air from my lungs. I gagged, spit flying.

Picture it: me, the suburban MILF mom, spread doggy-style on her own kid’s frat bed. Bent over like a $20 hooker outside a truck stop. Some drunk fratboy, half my age, grunting like an animal while he used my backdoor like a cheap fleshlight. Every brutal thrust snapped my head forward, then whipped it back. My hair was plastered to my drool-slicked cheeks, sweat dripping onto the mattress.

And the sound. Oh, the sound.

His guttural groans, my choked whimpers. And that relentless, meaty SLAP-SLAP-SLAP of his hairy balls battering my swollen pussy lips raw. My bare jugs swung wildly underneath me, slapping against my chest with every brutal dive. He was pounding so fucking deep, I swear I could feel the bulbous head of his cock bulging against my guts from the inside.

My humiliation burned hotter than the friction tearing my butthole. But I was past caring. I was too lost, too fucking dumb on beers and dick. The world dissolved into sweat, pain, and the brutal rhythm of him wrecking my hole, completely oblivious of everyone else in the house.

My body was bucking frantically against him, chasing my next big O. And, just as I felt myself teetering on the edge of a shattering new 'happy ending' from the anal assault, Dan abruptly pulled out.

The sudden emptiness was shocking. Before I could even react, his rough hands grabbed my shoulder and flipped me flat on my back. I landed sprawled on Brad's bed, legs splayed, my sex glistening and exposed, my ass throbbing like ground beef.

The mattress springs screamed under us like tin cans getting crushed...again. That fucking bastard didn't even pretend to be a gentleman anymore: with one brutal thrust, he rammed his schlong all the way in. His hips were slamming, pushing his marvelous shaft deep into my wet hole over and over, the sound obscenely loud: a nasty slap of skin on skin mixed with the squelch of my soaked pussy. Every savage thrust ground his thick meat against my swollen, throbbing clit, sending sparks of filthy pleasure burning through me. The worst part? Smelling my kid’s odor on the sheets while this arrogant prick claimed me.

"Say it, you shabby fuck-doll!" Dan snarled, his spit hitting my face, eyes locked on mine. His hips never slowed, pounding into me like he was trying to break my insides. "Whose cunt is this?"

The climax ripped through me like a fucking earthquake. It wasn't tender or sweet; it was violent and convulsive, tearing me apart. My back arched, heels digging into his sweaty ass as I clamped down on him, a raw, animal screech bursting out of my throat—the sound of total fucking degradation.

"YOU! DAN! OH GOD, IT’S YOURS! YOU OWN IT! JUST KEEP FUCKING ME!"

He rode my orgasm, his thrusts becoming even more frenzied, chasing his release. He pistoned into me, his cock hitting my cervix with bruising force, drawing ragged cries mixed with moans from me. The pleasure was mixed with pain, ecstasy laced with utter degradation. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.

"Beg for it," he hissed. "Beg for my cum inside you."

The words were vile, the ultimate surrender. But my body, still convulsing with aftershocks, betrayed me.

"Please..." I gasped, my voice wrecked. "Please, Dan... pump it deep... fill your dirty hole." Each word was a nail in the coffin of my dignity.

He groaned, a deep, primal sound, and slammed into me one final time.

I felt his pulse deep inside me, flooding my womb with his seed.

He collapsed onto me for a moment, his weight pressing me into Brad's mattress, his breath hot against my neck.

Then he pulled out abruptly, leaving me feeling cold and empty, his cum already leaking onto the sheets beneath me.

He stood up, breathing heavily, looking down at me with undisguised triumph. He grabbed the phone, panning it slowly over my wrecked body—my bruised lips, my breasts marked by his bites, my sex glistening and leaking his cum, and my ring red and gaping slightly.

"Now, post-match review," he mused casually, as if discussing a sports play, pointing the camera at himself. "Easy. Just like the others," he said casually to the camera lens. "A bit loose in the pussy after popping out Brad, but the backdoor... fuck, that ass was perfect… tight as a virgin after all these years of not being touched. Best part? She fucking loved it." He chuckled, a cruel, cold sound.

He traced a finger through the mess on my belly. "You moms are all the same. Lonely. Neglected. Starving for a real cock." He added darkly. "You think you're special? I already fucked your bestie, Mrs. Callahan. Made her bark like a dog while her husband and son were outside, downstairs."

My eyes widened in shock. It was impossible that my girlfriend Kathy, happily married and the mother of three beautiful children, would have been brutally fucked by Dan...and yet, I was now proof that it was possible, I suddenly thought.

"I seduced and banged her from day one, the day all the pledges arrived." Seeing my eyes widen in astonishment, he continued. "Yes, right on the day her son and yours arrived. Look at the proof."

He showed me a video taken last month of the new arrivals at the fraternity house. My son Brad was with them, as was Kathy's son. Kathy and I were also in it, chatting and laughing. I remembered that Kathy had told me she was staying the next day to finish moving their son.

Dan continued sarcastically. "Imagine the scene: me fucking your girlfriend Kathy, and, right outside of the fraternity house, her husband and son smoking a cigarette with your own son Brad. They didn't understand a thing."

Suddenly, Dan changed the video and said, "The same day, but much later."

In this video, I saw Dan getting dressed, and on a large bed, Kathy lay inert, completely naked... covered in jizz.

He looked back at me sprawled on Brad's bed, his semen leaking onto the sheets. "You're just the latest notch, Jennie. Another desperate slut conquered." The casual tone was worse than a punch in my stomach. He added viciously. "And now, you're going to find out what a fraternity president does when he's done with you, like all the other 'mommy' condoms I used before you."

He walked to Brad's desk, rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out a thick, black marker. He returned to the bed, uncapped it, and without ceremony, began writing on my skin. The cold tip dragged across my flesh, leaving stinging trails of ink.

"Start here," he muttered, writing large, block letters across my stomach: MORE A WHORE THAN A MOM.

He moved to my left breast, circling my nipple: FRAT PROPERTY.

On my right breast: CUM DUMPSTER.

He flipped me roughly onto my stomach. On my left buttock: TAUT SLUT.

On my right buttock: OPEN FOR MORE.

Finally, across my lower back: DAN'S HOLES.

Each inscription was a brand, a public declaration of my degradation. The ink felt like acid on my skin. He capped the marker and tossed it aside. "Get up," he ordered.

He hauled me off the bed, my legs shaky.

I scrambled out of bed, grabbing my clothes from the beer-stained floor. My fingers trembled as I tried to pull them on, but Dan's voice froze me. "Damn," he drawled, that fake thoughtful look crossing his face. "Feels like I forgot something. Wait—no. Yeah. Now I recall.

"For that," Dan's eyes gleamed, "you need to be naked." Dan ripped my clothes from my hands before tossing them carelessly onto Brad’s messy desk.

Please, no. "What?" My voice shook—hope and fear strangling each other.

No time. His arm hooked my waist, hoisting me over his shoulder like a sack, still utterly naked, covered in degrading words. Face pressed against his back, I felt his post-coital warmth and the thud of his heart against my ear as he marched out.

"What are you doing?" My voice was muffled against his shirt.

Dan chuckled, low and dangerous. "Living up to our reputation." His grip tightened, biting into my flesh. "Trash day's tomorrow. Taking out the garbage."

He hauled my ass through the frat house. Frat boys lined the hallway, parting like Dan was Moses and they were the Red Sea. Their eyes glued to me—to the cum leaking out of my twat, to the nasty words carved above my ass crack. Wolf whistles ripped the air. Fucking laughter. My face burned so hot I thought my skin might melt.

I heard the front door slam open behind me. Cold air rushed in. I wanted to scream, to bite, but my body betrayed me—limp, useless.

He stopped at the threshold. "One last thing," Dan said, yanking me back hard.

He forced me to my knees on the porch. His half-hard dick smacked against my cheekbone. "Prove to these fuckers you loved it. Kiss the tip."

I flinched.

"Do it," he hissed.

Trembling, I pressed my lips to the swollen, salty head.

He jerked my head back by my hair, forcing me to stare up at him and the pack of brothers drooling. "Now thank me. Tell them what a fucking privilege it was."

My voice was a broken whisper. "Th-thank you..."

"Louder! Tell them it was the best fuck of your life!"

"It... it was the best..." The lie choked me because I tried to convince myself that I was really lying... pretty badly, to be honest with you.

"Better than your lovely hubby, John?"

"Yesss..."

"Finally honest." Dan roared. "AND TELL 'EM WHY YOU REALLY CRAWLED BACK HERE TODAY!"

The words tore from me, raw and ragged.

"Because I wanted you... to wreck me! Not to see my son, Brad! I needed your cock buried in me!"

Silence slammed down—heavy and thick... then...

Dan laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. Turning to the others, he said. "See how you win a bet? Fucking simple." He spun back to me. "You were the easiest thirty bucks I ever made. Now get lost." He booted me out.

I felt like I was flying, the night air whipping against my skin. Then WHAM—I hit the grass, cold, wet, and muddy. Pain bloomed, sharp, then swallowed by the raw shock of exposure. An imaginary wind caressed me from head to toe, a wind of fear. Strangely mingled with the excitement of being utterly displayed... naked.

"Enjoy that stroll home, Mrs. Henderson," he spat.

The door started closing. Panic choked me—air? Forget air. "WAIT!" My voice shook. "My keys! My purse! They are still in Brad’s room!"

Dan froze, door half-shut. His eyes crawled over my tits, my hips, and my dripping pussy. That cruel smirk got wider and nastier. "Guess you're hitchhiking, skank. Relax—I’m sure that some horny trucker'll slam on the brakes for a naked MILF whore beggin' for it."

“Dan—'please.'” I begged raw.

"Oh? You want to come back inside?" He chuckled. "Fine. But you have to prove to us that you're a decent person. We can't afford to bring a cock-hungry floozie into our respectable fraternity, can we?" His smile brightened. "I know. You must show us your good faith. First, call me Mr. President. Understood?"

I swallowed bile. "Yes... Mr. President."

"Good start. Not enough," he said, grabbing my left hand, thumb grinding my wedding ring.

I ripped my hand back, horrified.

"Don't look so shocked; just kidding, Mrs. Henderson," he laughed. But his shirt gaped open—and I saw it. A necklace... packed with rings, dozens of them... Blood drained from my face.

Dan must’ve thought I was cold because he added. "Don't sulk. We're gentlemen. Can't let you freeze."

He vanished inside, leaving me shaking.

He popped back out and tossed a wad of fabric. "First, let's get you covered."

I fumbled to catch it—a ratty frat tee, letters faded, seams busting. I yanked it over my head. It hung to mid-thigh, thin as tissue, exposing everything.

The shirt screamed, "They like TAUT long, hot but especially very hard" on the back. The front was worse—"Open for all TAUT" with a fucking arrow pointing straight down to my crotch. I knew exactly what he meant. "Thank you, Mr. President," I mumbled, tugging at the hem.

His chuckle crawled over my skin. "You’re welcome." Then, leaning in: "But Madam Henderson? Walking around naked at night... tsk. We've got standards."

Anger flared—hot and useless. I smothered it. No power here. Only his games. "I’m sorry, Mr. President," I whispered to the ground.

His hand brushed my arm. I jerked back. "Don’t worry, we aren’t monsters," he murmured, breath too close. "You’ll crash in Brad’s room tonight. No prob—pledges won’t be back 'til noon. As prez, I fixed that.

"Now that we’ve handled that," Dan grinned, a laugh boiling up. "You cook?"

The frat brothers crowding around him chuckled, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

My cheeks burned hotter than the sunset. "What?" I squeaked, hating how my voice betrayed me.

Dan's laugh deepened, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, come on, Mrs. Henderson. Play dumb, really?" He taunted playfully. "You’re our house bitch tomorrow. And a 'good mommy' like you must know her way around the kitchen, no?"

More chuckles behind him, hungry stares drilling into me. I couldn't speak, just nodded.

He leaned close, breath scorching my ear.

"Good," he murmured darkly. "I always reward my whores when they please me."

That promise slithered down my spine.

I felt his gaze stripping me bare, knowing exactly what he pictured. An involuntary moan escaped my lips—humiliation tangling with that traitorous thrill coiling low in my belly. I should be horrified. But my body remembered his hands on me, his weight crushing me.

"Yes," I whispered. "I'll do it... for you... Mr. President."

A long silence.

Then, pensively, Dan asked, "Your hubby coming'?"

I kept my eyes down. "Yes. Early afternoon."

"Very well. Don't forget to get up early. You need to shower before cooking for all of us. You stink of jizz, you hot needy tease."

Sarcasm dripped from his words. "Wouldn’t want hubby finding out about our ‘deal,’ about how you paid for crashing here tonight."

His words settled like chains: I was his bitch now.

My skin flushed remembering the degrading words he'd scrawled on my skin earlier. "Thank you, Mr. President," I breathed, the gratitude tasting like ash.

Head down, I followed him through the frat house, bare feet sticking to the beer-slicked floor. Back to Brad's bedroom—'my cage'—where he'd claimed me less than an hour earlier. He shoved me inside.

"Your palace for the night," Dan announced grandly, waving at the cramped space.

"No noise. Had a tiring evening." His wink oozed mockery.

Indignation flickered, but I bit my tongue. I had learned my lesson: fighting meant worse. I nodded meekly, shrinking into Dan's oversized tee-shirt, swallowing me whole.

"Good." His gaze raked over me. "See you tomorrow. But remember—naked." That grin widened. "Stripped bare. No hiding. Can't have our house slut keeping secrets."

Humiliation surged, but I nodded again, staring at the stained carpet. I couldn't look up—couldn't bear seeing his amusement. Their house slut, cooking for them. Degrading. Necessary. For Brad.

"Yes," I forced out. "I'll cook naked."

He turned to leave, door wide open. He leaned into the hall and yelled. "Yo fuckers! Place another bet on this slut? Ten bucks that Brad cries when he sees his mom bakin' cookies for us... bare-ass naked. Who’s taking odds?"

Laughter erupted from downstairs. Dan slammed Brad's door shut, leaving me alone in the dark, shaking, covered in ink and drying semen, wearing only the degrading shirt. The faint scent of Brad's cologne on the pillow was a painful reminder of the life I’d just obliterated.

Brad. John. Their faces swam in my mind... but as exhaustion dragged me under, it was Dan's cruel smile that burned behind my eyelids.

*** The next morning ***

Dawn painted the frat kitchen windows gray. I stood naked at the stove, the smell of frying bacon thick in the air, the words ‘OPEN FOR MORE’ starkly visible on my buttock despite my frantic scrubbing. Shame was a constant, low thrum beneath my skin. The sound of footsteps made me freeze.

Dan walked in, freshly showered, radiating smug satisfaction. He surveyed the scene—me preparing their breakfasts, completely naked—as if it were perfectly normal.

He walked up behind me, his presence radiating predatory enjoyment. His hand came down hard on my left buttock with a sharp 'smack' that echoed in the quiet kitchen. I yelped, jumping.

"Get me a cup of coffee, Mrs. Henderson," he said, his voice dripping with ironic politeness. "Please."

It wasn't a request. It was a reminder. I was his now. His whore. His personal cum dumpster…

I poured the coffee with trembling hands, avoiding his gaze, the heat in my cheeks rivaling the stove.

*** One Week Later – In a suburban house ***

Ensconced in the sterile silence of my kitchen, my phone chimed. An unknown number and, in the message, only a link.

A link. Dread, cold and heavy, pooled in my stomach, warring with curiosity. I tapped it.

It opened what seems like TAUT fraternity's private internet site... except this was a pornographic one.

The video title screamed: TAUT New Pledge Initiation. Codename: Cookie Maker. My blood froze.

There I was, arriving at the frat house. Dan’s smooth, contemptuous voiceover began: "Target: Jennie Henderson. Age: 44. Status: Classic bored MILF, emotionally vulnerable, seeking validation through her son. Exploit Rating: Extremely High. Ease of Seduction: Child's Play. Stage one: Isolation. Control the environment." A short video of Brad leaving with the pledges.

"Stage two: Charm Offensive." Footage showed him taking my bag, the lingering touch. "Works 99% of the time. They crave the attention."

"Stage three: Manufactured Desire. Make her ‘believe’ she’s seducing you." The screen showed me from behind, my hips swaying, awkwardly dancing my bare buttocks. "See that hesitation? Classic. But watch her body respond. She’s dripping before I even touch her." Abrupt cut, then the brutal face-fucking, my gagging, and tears streaming.

"Performance Review: Oral. Rating: 3/10. Gag reflex too strong. Minimal suction compared to Brenda Peterson last year—a solid 8/10, deep-throated as she was born for it." The video then showed me on all fours on the bed, spreading my buttocks.

"Anal penetration. Too tight initially, zero relaxation. Pain tolerance low. But... surprising receptivity once breached. Tightness? Excellent. Responsiveness? Improved significantly once she stopped fighting it. Vocalized enjoyment—an unexpected bonus." The footage showed me screaming "Yes!" as he pounded my ass. Rating: 5/10. Significantly below her best friend, Mrs. Callahan, who took it like a pro and begged for more."

Then, the final, me begging, "Come inside me, please!"

"Vaginal Intercourse. Rating: 4/10. Decent tightness, pathetic stamina. Came too quick, barely put up a fight. Honestly, I had to think about Dean Peter's daughter—the tight little gymnast I nailed the day before—just to get hard enough to finish inside her."

The video showed my climax, his release.

Then the worst: the marking scene took up the entire screen. DAN'S HOLE, TAUT SLUT, More a whore than a Mom. "Marking: essential. It reminds them of their hierarchical position within the fraternity. But nothing permanent; don't damage the new toys too quickly."

The video jumped to the morning, a kitchen scene.

Me, naked and cooking. A clear shot from behind, the words OPEN FOR MORE are starkly visible. I was whistling softly, unaware of his presence.

Dan appeared on screen, staring into the camera, his voice tinged with palpable condescension. "Conclusion: Bad in bed. Rating: 4/10. But—images showed cookies cooling on a rack—undeniably baking the world's greatest goddamn cookies. Spot the mistake. Credits." The screen went black.

Then, another chime. Same number. A new message: So, Ms. Henderson, if you want to be part of the ‘MILF Initiation, Part 2’ movie at next month’s party… practice. Get better. Earn higher than a 4. Practice material attached. Try to live up to it before the party. Or... your loving son Brad gets the director's cut.

Below it, another link. Trembling uncontrollably, my finger hovered over it.

The video loaded.

It showed Brad’s dorm room. On Brad’s bed, pinned beneath Dan's powerful thrusts, her face contorted in agony and unwanted ecstasy, her cries muffled by Dan's hand clamped over her mouth, was… Anna, Brad’s girlfriend.

"Lesson One," Dan’s voiceover suddenly narrated, cool and instructive over the brutal visuals. "Establish Total Dominance. Break their spirit."

He pulled out, flipping Anna onto her knees, forcing her face into the mattress. "Ass up. Present it." He spat on her exposed entrance before driving back in, eliciting a choked scream. "Beg for it!" he commanded. Anna whimpered, "Fuck me! Please!" "Louder!" "FUCK ME HARDER!" Dan grinned at the camera.

"Lesson Two: Enthusiasm. It doesn't matter if it's genuine or fake; they have to keep going until we're done with them." He slammed into her relentlessly. The video zoomed in on her tear-streaked face, utterly broken, as Dan laughed, slamming harder. "See this?" he growled into the mic, his thrusts brutalizing her. "This is how you take it. Deep. Hard. Like you were born for cocks. Only tears of joy. Just gratitude. Take notes, Cookie Maker. This is how you become a proper frat whore.

"Lesson Three: Leverage Humiliation." Tears streamed down her face. Dan’s voice, thick with exertion and malice, cut through her whimpers: "Tell the camera, slut! Tell Brad who owns his girlfriend's cunt now!" Anna sobbed, broken, "You, Dan! You own it!" The camera zoomed in cruelly on her utterly defeated face.

"Final Lesson: Demand Gratitude." He gripped her hair. "Thank me for using your worthless holes." Anna whispered, "Th-thank you, Dan." "Louder!" he barked. "THANK YOU FOR USING MY WORTHLESS HOLES!" she screamed. Dan smirked at the camera. "See? They learn."

The video ended with Anna collapsed, shuddering, and Dan wiping himself on Brad’s pillowcase.

I dropped the phone like it was scalding, the image of Anna's utter humiliation burning behind my eyes, Dan's final instruction—This is how you become a proper frat whore—echoing in the suffocating silence of my perfect, empty kitchen. Practice material. For next month's party. Or Brad sees everything.

The phone screen suddenly lit up... Brad. I answered hurriedly, wiping away my tears while trying to be normal.

"Sweetie, are you okay?"

"MOM, I DID IT! I'M A BROTHER. WE ARE ALL INVITED TO PARTY IN A MONTH TO CELEBRATE!"

Brad thought my silence was due to joy because he continued.

"But you have to promise me, no more 'son' or 'sweetie.' You have to call me by my brother’s name now...

CHUCK!"