Sons Bully Fucked His Doctor Mom

Tyler "Brick" Mason owned Westfield College like a goddamn dictator. At 19, the freshman linebacker—six-foot-two, a jacked-up beast with shoulders that'd choke a doorway—strutted the campus quad in a navy hoodie stretched tight over pecs that could crush your face. His fists, scarred from high school fights, swung in fingerless gloves, ready to wreck. March 22, 2025, was a cold, shitty day—gray sky pissing drizzle, air knifing your throat.

Behind the gym, asphalt slick from rain, Tyler had Nate cornered. The scrawny 18-year-old freshman, all slouch and dark curls, drowned in a gray sweatshirt, clutching a beat-up notebook like it was his balls. "Empty your damn pockets, runt," Tyler growled, breath steaming, jeans hugging thighs thick as tree trunks.

Nate's sneakers scuffed, eyes darting like a trapped rat. Then—*bam*—he shoved Tyler, palms slamming his chest. Tyler stumbled, boots slipping, crashing ass-first to the wet ground. His wrists smashed down—*crunch*—bones snapping like cheap sticks.

"SHIT!" Tyler roared, rolling onto his back, hands flopping useless. Pain blazed up his arms like a blowtorch, face twisting, sweat burning his eyes. Nate bolted, sneakers slapping pavement, leaving Tyler sprawled like roadkill.

A coach sprinted over, whistle screaming. "Stay down, Mason!" he barked, waving for help. Paramedics hauled Tyler's big frame onto a stretcher, hoodie sleeves dangling, every jolt spiking fire through his busted wrists. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" he bellowed as they wheeled him to the ambulance, his reign bleeding out on the cold metal floor.

---

St. Jude's ER was a blur of harsh lights and bleach stink that fucked your nose raw. Tyler slumped in a wheelchair, wrists swollen purple, locked in chunky white casts that turned his hands into useless stumps. They'd shredded his hoodie and jeans, stuffed him in a flimsy blue gown—ties loose, flapping open, flashing hairy thighs and heavy balls swinging low under a thick cock. He felt like a caged dumbass, humiliated, hating it.

Dr. Lauren Baxter walked in—Nate's mom, a doctor who looked like she could star in porn but acted like she'd rather gut him. Navy scrub pants hugged her hips, white coat tight on curves, chestnut hair in a high ponytail, green eyes cold as ice, hating him for bullying her kid. A stethoscope dangled between big tits, nipples faintly poking her scrub top.

She clicked a pen with coral-painted nails, flipping his chart. "Tyler Mason, you fucked yourself good," she said, voice sharp, no warmth. "Bilateral wrist fractures—six weeks of me cleaning your sorry, bullying ass."

"I ain't no kid," he snapped, gown crinkling, casts heavy in his lap. "Don't need you touching my dick." His cheeks burned, cock twitching at the thought, shaming him. He hated needing her, hated her seeing him broken.

"Cry me a river, you little prick," she shot back, stepping closer, ponytail swinging. "Your hands are fucked, and I'm stuck scrubbing your filthy hide. Deal with it, bully." Her roasting cut deep, and he wanted to flip her off—if his wrists weren't toast.

---

Two days later, Tyler was a mess—bed a sweaty shithole, gown sticking to his broad chest, hair plastered to his forehead, stinking like a jockstrap after a triple practice. The casts pinned his arms, heavy as fuck, and he couldn't do jack—couldn't scratch his balls, couldn't jerk off, couldn't piss without help. Baths were hell, Lauren's hands scrubbing him like a dirty dog, his cock half-hard every time she got close, shame choking him.

"Get the fuck out," he'd mutter when she rolled in with her cart, scrub top tight, bending over the basin, tits shifting. "I don't need your damn hands."

"Shut your trap, Mason," she'd fire back, peeling his gown off, nails grazing his chest hair, sharp enough to sting. "You're a walking landfill. My job's keeping you from rotting like the garbage you are." She sponged his pecs, abs, quick and clinical, ignoring his curses. "What's the matter, big bad bully? Scared I'll laugh at your pathetic cock?"

"Fuck you," he'd growl, face red, cock twitching under the sheet, begging her to leave. He hated her hands, hated her roasting, hated his dick's betrayal.

---

Four days in, Tyler hit bottom. The room reeked of sweat and musk, gown crusty, casts trapping him like a prisoner. His cock was a traitor, throbbing every time he thought of jerking off, balls screaming, heavy and tight. He needed to nut—bad—but his hands were fucked, casts scraping uselessly when he tried to grip himself.

That night, he cracked. Alone, lights dim, he humped the bed like a desperate fuck, cock rubbing the sheets, casts grinding his wrists until pain stabbed like knives. "Fuck—fuck—come on," he grunted, tears burning his eyes as he failed, cock hard but no release, just agony. He didn't hear the door—didn't see Lauren slip in, cart squeaking, until her shadow hit the bed.

"Christ, Tyler," she said, voice low, catching him mid-hump, tears streaking his face, gown rucked up, balls exposed. He froze, cock throbbing, shame drowning him. "Get out!" he choked, voice cracking, turning his head, praying she'd vanish.

She didn't. Her eyes narrowed, professional, seeing the pain, the kid who'd tormented her son now a wreck. "You're suffering," she said, stepping closer, scrub pants rustling. "I'm a doctor, Mason. I fix pain, even for a bully like you."

"Fuck your fix," he muttered, but his cock bobbed, precum leaking, humiliating him. She wheeled the cart over, face hard. "Gotta clean you up, you stinking shit," she said, peeling his gown off, nails scraping his chest, making him hiss.

She sponged his pecs, abs, quick and firm, water dripping cold. Then she reached his groin, and her hand froze, eyes widening at his cock—thick, veiny, bigger than she'd expected, head purple and slick, throbbing hard. "Jesus," she muttered, shocked, sponge hovering, then swiping his balls, heavy and fuzzy, water trickling, making them tighten.

"Leave my dick alone," he growled, face burning, cock jumping as the sponge grazed it, making him groan. "Fuck—doc—don't."

"Quit whining," she snapped, sponge circling his shaft, clinical but thorough, water dripping down his cock, making it twitch. "Your dick's a fucking petri dish, Mason. I'm not letting you fester because you're too proud." Her roasting was sharp, hating him, but her hands were steady, ignoring his precum pooling on his stomach.

She paused, seeing his cock throb, his hips twitch, pain in his eyes. "Shit," she muttered, dropping the sponge—*plop*—and grabbing medical lotion, squirting it into her palm, the wet squelch loud. "You're in agony, and it's my job, even if you're a piece of shit," she said, voice cold. "Just this once—don't think I like it."

"What the—doc, no—" he started, but she grabbed his cock—gloved hand, slick with lotion, fingers wrapping tight around his shaft, thick and pulsing, bigger than her husband's sad prick, she noted, clinical, not horny. "Fuck!" he gasped, hips bucking, balls slapping her wrist as she stroked slow, thumb grazing the head, precum mixing with lotion, slick and sloppy.

"Shut up, bully," she said, roasting him, hand sliding down, squeezing the base, then up, twisting at the tip, lotion squelching. "Goddamn, Mason, this cock's bigger than your ego," she sneered, pumping steady, fingers digging into his shaft, her other hand steadying his thigh, no warmth, just duty.

"Shit—doc—fuckin' stop—" he groaned, lying, hips humping her fist, bed creaking, casts thudding. Her hand was relentless—slick, firm, stroking long and slow, then fast, wrist snapping, *schlick-schlick-schlick*, precum oozing down his cock, dripping onto his balls, pooling on the sheet.

"Look at you, big tough guy, humping my hand like a pathetic mutt," she laughed, cold and mean, leaning closer, scrub top tight, breath sharp. "Bet you thought you'd never need Nate's mom to jerk your sorry dick, huh?"

"Fuck you," he panted, face red, cock swelling, balls pulling tight as she sped up, hand flying, lotion squelching, fingers squeezing the head until he hissed, "Shit—doc—gonna—"

"Blow your load, you whining prick," she snapped, thumb digging into his slit, stroking hard, fast, clinical, her other hand gripping his thigh. "Get it over with—I'm not your fucking whore."

"FUCK!" he roared, hips jerking, cock erupting—thick ropes of cum blasting out, splattering her glove, her wrist, arcing onto her scrub sleeve, white and sticky, dripping down his shaft, pooling on his stomach. His balls pulsed, emptying, cum streaking the bed as he panted, chest heaving, cock twitching in her grip, leaking the last drops.

"Christ, Mason, you're a goddamn cum geyser," she said, no humor, wiping her glove on a tissue, tossing it with a scowl. "Feel better, you little shit? Don't expect me to do your laundry next."

"Fuck... off," he gasped, humiliated, cock softening, shame drowning him. She rolled out, ponytail swinging, leaving him wrecked, mind spinning, balls empty but burning.

---

That was the only handjob—Lauren stayed ice-cold after, bathing him nightly with brisk efficiency, sponge swiping his cock quick for hygiene, ignoring his hard-ons. "Keep your dick down, Mason," she'd snap when he groaned, "I'm not your personal cum-rag." Her roasting was relentless, hating him for Nate, her hands a cruel tease.

Days dragged—casts pinning him, gown a sweat-soaked rag, room stinking of musk. He tried humping the bed again, casts scraping raw, cock rubbing uselessly, pain killing his buzz. "Fuckin' bitch," he muttered, hating her grip on him, even if she was just doing her job.

Nate showed up a week later, shuffling in—gray hoodie zipped to his chin, cargo pants sagging, curls bouncing. "What the fuck you doing here?" Tyler snapped, gown riding up, casts twitching.

"Heard you fucked your hands," Nate said, smirking, kicking the tile. "Still a prick when you can't hit?" Tyler's gut twisted—if Nate knew anything, he was screwed. "Get out, asshole," he muttered, cheeks burning.

Nate grinned, mean. "Mom says you're a pain in the ass. Guess she's stuck with your bullshit, huh?" Tyler's cock twitched, shame burning. "Fuck off," he growled, and Nate sauntered out, leaving Tyler stewing, praying the kid was clueless.

---

Two weeks in, Lauren's life imploded—Greg signed the divorce papers, leaving her a mess. She'd been off two days, and Tyler was losing it, cock throbbing, no relief, frustration boiling. When she showed, it was late—a rainy afternoon, hair damp, mascara smudged under red-rimmed eyes, gray hoodie soaked, outlining her bra, tight jeans hugging her ass.

"Greg's gone," she muttered, voice sharp, wheeling in the bath cart, sponge sloshing. She peeled off the hoodie, revealing a thin white tank top, wet and clinging, tits swaying, no bra, nipples hard. Tyler's cock jumped, precum beading, gown tenting, but she didn't care—her eyes were cold, hating him.

She scrubbed his chest hard, nails raking red lines, then down his abs, sponge brushing his cock as it stiffened, precum dripping. "You men are all the same—fucking bullies, cheating pricks," she spat, voice cracking, rage boiling over.

"Doc, chill," he muttered, cock throbbing, hating her tone but loving her hands, even if they were brutal. She yanked the sheet off, his cock springing free, thick and veiny, head slick. "Fuckin' hell, Mason," she snarled, eyes blazing with fury, not lust. "You're just like him—thinking with your goddamn dick."

"Fuck you, doc," he snapped, grinning, cock bobbing, pushing her buttons. "You gonna stare at my cock or what, you uptight bitch?"

"Shut your fucking mouth," she growled, grabbing his cock—both hands, one at the base, the other slick with soap, stroking fast, not thinking, just pissed. "You think you're hot shit, you bullying fuck?" she spat, leaning close, breath hot on his cockhead, and then—fuck—she dove, lips locking around his cockhead, sucking hard, tongue lashing the slit, not wanting to, just lost in rage.

"Shit—doc—what the fuck!" Tyler groaned, hips bucking, her mouth a wet, angry vice, sucking deep, throat tightening, nose snorting his pubes, spit dripping fast, coating his shaft sloppy. "Goddamn, you're sucking my dick!" he laughed, shocked, balls tightening, casts thudding the bed.

She gagged, eyes watering, mascara running black, hands twisting his base, nails biting skin, not horny, just furious, mouth working him like a punishment. "Fucking asshole," she mumbled, lips stretched, spit pooling on his balls, dripping to the bed, throat gagging deep, no pleasure, just rage.

"Fuck, doc—swallow that cock, you pissed-off bitch," he panted, grabbing her ponytail with his casted hand, scraping her scalp as he fucked her face, balls slapping her chin, *schluck-schluck-schluck*. She sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, tongue scraping his veins, not wanting it, just lost.

"Shut up, you prick," she pulled off, lips popping wet, spit stringing from her mouth to his cock, glaring, then diving back, sucking the head hard, teeth grazing, making him buck. "You're nothing—just a big-dicked bully," she snarled, muffled, hands wild—one twisting his base, the other kneading his balls, rough, no care.

"Fuck—doc—gonna—" he choked, balls pulling tight, her angry hum sending him over. He exploded—cum blasting out, flooding her mouth, thick and hot, spilling past her lips as she gagged, choking on it. She pulled back, spitting it out, stunned, cum dripping down her chin, streaking her neck, a rope hitting her tank top.

"Fuck—Tyler—what the hell!" she gasped, wiping her mouth, spit and cum smearing her fingers, face a wreck—mascara tears, cheeks red, lips swollen. "That was a fucking mistake, you piece of shit!" she snapped, standing, tank top clinging to her cum-streaked tits, hands shaking.

"Goddamn, doc, you sucked me like a champ," he panted, cock twitching, cum streaking his stomach, grinning despite the shame. "Didn't mean to, huh?"

"Fuck you, Mason," she snarled, grabbing a tissue, wiping her face, furious at herself. "I'm a doctor, not your slut—I lost it. Don't breathe a word, or I'll cut your dick off." She bolted—door slamming, sneakers squeaking down the hall, leaving him wrecked, cock softening, high on the chaos.

---

Next morning, Lauren was ice—navy scrubs crisp, ponytail tight, bathing him quick, no eye contact, sponge swiping his cock for hygiene, ignoring his hard-on. "Don't start, you little shit," she muttered when he grinned, "That was a fuck-up, not a free pass." Her roasting was sharper, hating him more, keeping him in line.

Days crawled—casts pinning him, gown a cum-crusted rag, room reeking of spunk. Lauren's baths stayed clinical, her hands cold, his cock begging, but she wouldn't budge. "Keep dreaming, bully," she'd snap, leaving him hard, wet, and pissed, her roasting cutting deep.

A week later, mid-April 14, 2025, his casts came off—replaced by lightweight braces, fingers free but weak. He flexed them slow, skin pale, sitting in a faded black tee and gray sweatpants. Lauren nodded, navy scrubs pristine, "You're healing, bully. Don't go tormenting my kid again."

She handed him a card—her office number scrawled in sharp loops. "Call if those wrists act up," she said, voice flat, no warmth. He stuffed it in his pocket, muttering, "Yeah, sure," and shuffled out, sneakers scuffing tile, her hate still burning him.

---

A week later, his phone buzzed—sprawled shirtless on his bed, sweatpants low, braces off, hands shaky but free. *Dr. Baxter here. Wrists okay?* Professional, cold. He typed slow, *Stiff but fine.* Her reply: *Good. Stretch them. Don't call unless it's bad.*

He texted a week later, bored, *Wrists good. You still mad I'm hotter than your ex?* Testing her. She fired back, *Dream on, Mason. You're not even hotter than my coffee.* Laughing emoji. He grinned, *Bet I could warm you up, doc.* She roasted him, *Keep your tiny dick in your pants, bully. I'd rather freeze.*

Texts flowed, him flirting, her roasting. *You think about me, doc?* he sent. *Only when I'm cleaning bedpans,* she replied, *Your face reminds me of one.* He laughed, *Harsh, but I'd still hit that.* She sent, *Hit a gym, you cocky prick,* with a smirk emoji, keeping him at bay but loosening up.

One night, they bet on a basketball game—Tyler's team won. "Pay up, doc," he texted, *Send a pic.* She groaned, *Fine, you lucky bastard.* A pic came—her in a black bra and panties, standing in her bathroom, face annoyed. *Happy now, perv?* He stroked himself, *Fuck yeah. More skin next time.* She roasted, *Next time you'll get a pic of my middle finger, dumbass.*

Sexting crept in slow. He sent a shirtless pic, abs flexing, *Your turn, hot stuff.* She laughed, *Hot stuff? I've seen better abs on a scarecrow.* But she sent one—bra off, arm covering her tits, *Don't get used to it, bully.* He replied, *Fuck, doc, you're killing me,* cock bulging in his boxers, snapping a pic, *Check this out.* She roasted, *That's it? I've seen bigger worms,* but sent a pic—panties gone, hand over her pussy, *You're still losing, Mason.*

It escalated—her fully nude, legs spread, fingers teasing her pussy, *Your fault, prick.* He sent a video—jerking his cock, cum splattering his abs, *Your turn, slut.* She replied, *Slut? I'm a queen, you peasant,* with a video—fingering herself, moaning, *Don't think you're special.* They were hooked, roasting and sexting, dancing on the edge.

---

By late July 2025, Lauren's divorce left her raw. One night, she showed up at Tyler's apartment—hair wild, tight red tank top, denim shorts, no bra, tits bouncing. "Greg's gone, and I'm a fucking mess," she said, voice shaky, shoving past him, not thinking, just lost.

"Doc, you okay?" he asked, shirtless in sweatpants, cock stirring, hating himself for wanting her. She glared, hating him, but grabbed his face, kissing him hard, tongue deep, a mistake born of pain, not lust. "Shut up, bully," she muttered, pulling his sweatpants down, his cock springing free, thick and hard.

"Fuck—doc—" he groaned, but she pushed him onto the couch, tank top off, tits bare, nipples hard, shorts hitting the floor, panties soaked. It was wrong—she knew he was Nate's bully—but her head was fucked, and she climbed him, pussy grinding his cock, wet and hot.

"Goddamn, you're a mistake," she growled, sinking onto his cock, pussy clenching tight, slick walls sucking him in. He thrust up—deep, rough, thirty minutes of fucking, sweat dripping, her tits bouncing, nails raking his chest until it bled, his balls slapping her ass loud and wet.

**Position 1: Cowgirl**—She rode him hard, thighs flexing, pussy slamming down, *schlick-schlick*, cum dripping down his shaft, her tits swaying, nipples hard, moaning, "Fuck—Tyler—wrong, so wrong!" He gripped her hips, thrusting up, cockhead hitting her deep, balls tightening, grunting, "Take it, doc, you fucking need it."

**Position 2: Missionary**—He flipped her, legs spread wide, cock plunging in, bed creaking, her pussy gushing, clit throbbing as he pounded, *slap-slap-slap*, cum soaking her thighs. "Goddamn, your pussy's tight," he growled, her nails digging his back, screaming, "Shut up—fuck—just finish!"

**Position 3: Doggy**—She turned, ass up, pussy dripping, his cock slamming in, hands gripping her hips, pulling her back, *thwack-thwack*, balls smacking her clit, her moans muffled in the couch, "Fuck—Tyler—stop, don't stop!" He roared, "Cum for me, you bitch," her pussy clenching, cumming hard, soaking his cock.

**Position 4: Standing**—He pulled her up, pinned her against the wall, legs wrapped around him, cock thrusting deep, her tits bouncing, sweat dripping, *schlick-schlick*, cum leaking down her thighs. "Fuck, doc, you're a mess," he panted, her pussy pulsing, cumming again, "Goddamn it, Mason!"

He flooded her—hot, thick cum filling her pussy, dripping out as she shoved him off, panting, horrified. "Fuck—what did I do?" she gasped, grabbing her clothes, pussy leaking, realizing she'd fucked her son's bully. "You're a bastard," she snarled, bolting, shame choking her.