Banging My Son's Bully

WARNING: This story is really dark and pretty horrible in many ways. It contains dubious consent/blackmail, interracial themes, humiliation, verbal degradation, cheating, rough sex, and extreme psychological manipulation. It also features themes of bullying and parental betrayal. All characters depicted are 18 years of age or older. This content may be deeply disturbing to some readers and is intended for mature audiences only. I really wrote this as a pure exercise and did not intend to post it. But just putting it up in case anyone else enjoys these sort of things...

--- You have been warned! ---

The oven timer dings just as I'm piping the last rosette of buttercream onto my lavender-infused French macarons. Perfect timing. These finicky little bastards better be worth the three hours I've spent on them. The spring open house at Wildwood Estates doesn't technically require homemade refreshments, but Stephanie from Coldwell Banker brought those pretentious cake pops to the last one, and I refuse to be outdone.

"No, Jennifer, you absolutely cannot use gray paint in the dining room of a Tudor," I say into my AirPod, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I slide the parchment paper of completed macarons onto the granite counter. "I don't care what your client saw on HGTV. It's a 1920s restoration with original moldings. You'll tank the value with that contemporary bullshit."

I adjust my Lululemon Define jacket, which is struggling to contain my tits even though it's a size up from what I'd normally wear. The zipper digs into my cleavage, leaving a little red line I'll have to cover with concealer before the open house. My post-yoga body is still cooling down, little beads of sweat gathering at my temples despite the headband.

"Listen, put them in touch with my guy at Benjamin Moore. He'll set them straight with a historically appropriate palette that won't send potential buyers running." I pause, eyeing my creation. The macarons are the precise shade of lavender that matches the accent pillows I've staged in the living room of the $1.2 million property I'm showing tomorrow. "Trust me, Jen, colors sell houses. You want that commission or not?"

The front door slams, and I glance at the Wolf clock on the wall. 3:47. Tyler's home early.

"Gotta go, Jen. My son just got home. Check your inbox—I sent you that contact." I tap my AirPod twice to end the call just as Tyler tries to dart past the kitchen toward the stairs.

"Hey honey! You're home—" My voice cuts off when he turns slightly, keeping his face angled away from me. Mother's intuition kicks in immediately. "Tyler. Look at me."

He hesitates, shoulders hunched in his navy blue Winchester Prep windbreaker. When he finally turns, my stomach clenches like I've been punched. His left eye is swollen, the skin around it already darkening into what will be a spectacular bruise by tomorrow. There's a small cut on his cheekbone that's crusted with dried blood.

"Oh my God," I whisper, abandoning my baking masterpiece and rushing to him. He flinches when I reach for his face—actually flinches away from his own mother. "Who did this to you?"

"It's nothing, Mom. I just... I fell during gym." His eyes drop to the floor.

"Bullshit." The word snaps out of me before I can stop it. "You don't get a black eye from falling. Who hit you?"

Tyler's eyes well with tears, and my heart breaks for my baby even as rage begins to simmer beneath my skin. He's too sensitive for this cruel world, just like I was. Mark keeps saying he needs to toughen up, but what does he know? He's barely home three days a week.

"Nobody. It's fine. Please don't make a big deal—"

"Here," I interrupt, grabbing a macaron from the tray and holding it out. "These have twenty-four steps and took me all afternoon. Tell me who did this to you, or I'll call Principal Edwards right now and make such a scene they'll name the detention hall after me."

Tyler takes the macaron but doesn't eat it. His hand trembles slightly, the purple confection looking absurdly delicate in his palm. "It was Cyrus," he finally mumbles. "Cyrus Jackson."

The name hits me like ice water. I've heard it before, in hushed conversations with other mothers. The troublemaker.

"Did you tell a teacher?" My voice rises an octave.

Tyler's face crumples. "Mom, please. You'll just make it worse. He said... he said if I told anyone, next time would be much worse."

I grab my phone from the counter, ignoring the smear of purple buttercream my fingertip leaves on the screen. "I'm calling Jessica right now."

"Who?"

"Tiffany Miller's mom. She's on the school board. She'll know where this little thug lives."

"Mom, no!" Tyler's voice cracks with panic, but I'm already typing.

*Jessica, it's Karen. Need Cyrus Jackson's address ASAP. Emergency situation. He assaulted Tyler today.*

"Mom, seriously, please don't do this." Tyler's voice is desperate now.

I put my phone down long enough to look my son directly in the eyes—well, eye, since the other is rapidly swelling shut. "Listen to me, Tyler James Thompson. No one, and I mean no one, puts their hands on my child and gets away with it. Not while I have breath in my body."

My phone pings with Jessica's response. She's included not only the address but a note that Cyrus has been in trouble repeatedly, that the administration's hands are tied because of his "difficult home situation," whatever that means.

"I'll handle this," I say, already walking to grab my Louis Vuitton tote from the entryway bench. "Put some ice on that eye. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off."

"Mom, you can't go to his house!"

I spin around, one hand on my hip. "I sell multi-million dollar properties to celebrities and CEOs. You think I'm afraid of some teenage boy?"

"He's—"

"Tyler, enough." I soften my tone, reaching out to gently touch his uninjured cheek. "This is what mothers do. We protect our children. Now go ice that eye while I go have a word with this boy's parents about raising a child who thinks it's acceptable to bully others."

I check my appearance in the entryway mirror, fluffing my red bob and reapplying my MAC Russian Red lipstick. My yoga outfit is probably a bit much for a confrontation—the Lululemon leggings hug every curve of my ass and thighs like they're painted on—but I'm not taking the time to change. Sometimes the soccer mom look is exactly what you need to remind people you're a force to be reckoned with.

"Mom, please," Tyler tries one last time as I grab my car keys.

"Not another word. I'll be back in an hour."

"His parents won't care. They're not even—"

"I said not another word." I blow him a kiss and stride out to my immaculately clean white Nissan Rogue, sliding into the driver's seat with the kind of determination that's sold over thirty houses this quarter alone.

The GPS directs me to Lakeside Heights, a neighborhood I've driven clients past but never through. "Not a good investment at this time," is my standard line. "The area is still... transitioning."

As I drive, the pristine landscaping of Winchester Heights gives way to patchy lawns and houses that desperately need a power wash and fresh paint. My realtor brain automatically calculates the drop in property values with each block—$50k less here, $100k less there. I pass a corner store with a group of young men loitering outside, their eyes following my car as I drive by.

The apartment complex I'm looking for appears on my right, a faded three-story brick building with rusting iron balconies and window air conditioning units dripping condensation onto the sidewalk below. Cars are parked haphazardly on the street—late model Chargers with tinted windows, an old Cadillac on blocks, economy sedans that have seen better days. No designated parking spaces, no landscaping to speak of. The grass is more dirt than green.

I park directly in front of the building, making sure my car is in full view of the street. I may be angry, but I'm not stupid. I toss my phone into my bag and stride toward the entrance, stepping carefully around a broken beer bottle on the concrete.

The security door is propped open with a brick, the intercom system clearly non-functional. The hallway smells like weed, Fabuloso cleaner, and something fried. Bass-heavy music thumps from behind one of the doors, and I catch snippets of a heated argument from another.

Apartment 2C, according to Jessica's text.

I climb the stairs, my designer sneakers making little sound on the dirty steps. My heart is pounding, but not from the climb. I'm furious—at this Cyrus kid, at his parents, at a school system that allows thugs to terrorize kids like Tyler. By the time I reach 2C, my adrenaline is pumping so hard I can feel my pulse in my temples.

I straighten my shoulders, adjust my sports bra to make sure my cleavage isn't too obscene, and knock on the door with three sharp raps.

"Time to teach this kid a lesson in respect," I mutter under my breath, preparing the verbal lashing I'm about to deliver to whatever neglectful parents raised a child who thinks it's okay to hit my son.

The heavy bass of hip-hop music thumps from behind the door. I wait five seconds, then knock again, harder this time.

The music volume drops, and I hear heavy footsteps approaching. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.

I'm ready for a parent—a tired mother in house clothes, perhaps, or a disinterested father. What I'm not prepared for is the massive young man who fills the doorframe, looking down at me with dark, suspicious eyes.

He's shirtless, wearing only basketball shorts that hang low on narrow hips, revealing a chiseled V-line that disappears beneath the fabric. His chest and shoulders are corded with muscle, a large tattoo reading "LOYALTY" emblazoned across his pectorals.

The door swings open wider as he steps back, one arm braced against the frame. His eyes travel slowly down my body, lingering on my chest before lazily returning to my face. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

"Can I help you with something?" His voice is deep, almost adult-sounding, with a casual confidence that immediately sets my teeth on edge.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how my heart is hammering. "I'm looking for Cyrus Jackson's parents. Are they home?"

He lets out a low chuckle that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "You're looking at him. I'm Cyrus."

I blink rapidly, trying to process this information. This can't be right. The boy who hit my son isn't this... man. Tyler had said Cyrus was a senior, but this person looks like he could be in college. His shoulders are broader than Mark's, for God's sake.

"You're... you're Cyrus Jackson? The student at Winchester Prep?"

"That's me." He smirks, clearly enjoying my confusion. "And you must be Tyler's mom. Damn, shorty didn't tell me his mama looked like this."

The casual disrespect in his tone snaps me back to my purpose. I straighten my spine and lift my chin. "My name is Mrs. Thompson, and yes, I'm Tyler's mother. I need to speak with your parents immediately about your behavior."

Cyrus leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, the movement making his muscles flex. "Ain't no parents here. Just me."

"I... I don't understand. You live alone?" I glance past him into the apartment, scanning for any sign of adult supervision.

"My aunt owns the place. She's in Atlanta." He watches my face as this information sinks in. "You wanna come in and talk about whatever got you all worked up, or you gonna stand in the hallway where everybody can hear your business?"

Every instinct screams that I should leave, that this isn't a good idea, but my anger propels me forward. I step past him into the apartment, immediately assaulted by the competing smells of weed, cologne, and something mechanical—oil maybe?

The living room is surprisingly neat, if sparsely furnished. A large leather couch faces an enormous TV mounted on the wall, a gaming console and controller on the coffee table. There's a half-empty Gatorade bottle and what looks like some kind of circuit board next to it.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to the couch as he closes the door behind me. The click of the lock engaging sends a jolt of unease through my body.

I remain standing, clutching my purse to my chest like a shield. "I prefer to stand, thank you. This won't take long."

Cyrus shrugs and drops onto the couch, sprawling his long limbs across it, completely at ease. His basketball shorts ride low on his hips, revealing the elastic of his Calvin Klein boxers and the defined muscles of his lower abdomen.

"So what's good? What you wanna talk about?" He picks up his phone, glancing at it dismissively as if I'm barely worth his attention.

My rage bubbles over at his nonchalance. "What's 'good' is that you gave my son a black eye today. Tyler is a peaceful boy. What kind of person assaults someone smaller than themselves for no reason?"

He looks up from his phone, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Your son needs to learn how to stand up for himself. World ain't kind to soft boys."

"That is not your job!" My voice rises, and I force myself to take a deep breath. I will not lose control here. "You have no right to put your hands on my child. I want you to apologize to him and stay away from him from now on."

Cyrus laughs, a deep sound that reverberates through the room. "Or what? You gonna call the school again? Principal already knows I don't give a fuck about detention."

I'm taken aback by his casual profanity, the way he seems completely unfazed by my anger. My fingers tighten around the strap of my purse. "I'll go to the police. File assault charges."

"Go ahead." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly more engaged. "You think that's my first rodeo with the cops? They got bigger shit to worry about than some prep school beef."

I can feel my cheeks flushing with frustration and something else—fear, maybe, at how quickly I'm losing control of this situation. I try a different approach.

"Look, Cyrus, I understand teenage boys fight. But Tyler has never done anything to you. Why are you targeting him specifically?"

He tilts his head, studying me with those unnerving dark eyes. "Maybe 'cause his mama keeps sending him to school looking like a walking target. Boy dresses like his daddy picks his clothes and acts like he's better than everybody else just 'cause he lives in the nice part of town."

My jaw clenches. "So this is about class differences? You're bullying my son because we live in Winchester Heights?"

"Nah," he says, leaning back again, spreading his arms along the back of the couch. "I'm teaching him how the real world works. His daddy ain't around to show him, so somebody's gotta do it."

The casual mention of Mark's absence hits a nerve. "My husband travels for work. He provides very well for our family."

"Yeah, I bet he does," Cyrus says, his eyes drifting down to my chest again. "Got you in them fancy workout clothes, big house in the good neighborhood. But he ain't there, is he? Left you to handle all the hard shit while he's out doing whatever."

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. "Don't you dare presume to know anything about my marriage. And stop looking at me like that."

He smirks, completely unrepentant. "Like what?"

"Like..." I struggle to find words that won't acknowledge the blatantly sexual way he's appraising me. "Just focus on what I'm saying. I want you to leave my son alone."

"Or what?" he challenges again. "What exactly you gonna do about it, Mrs. Thompson? Run to the principal again? Call my parents that ain't here?"

"I'm talking to you right now, aren't I? I'm trying to resolve this reasonably, adult to—" I stop myself from saying "adult," because despite his size and apparent independence, he's still just a high school student. "Person to person."

"Nah, what you're doing is wasting both our time." He picks up the controller from the table, turning it over in his hands. "You came all the way to the hood thinking you could scare me with your mom voice and your rich lady attitude. But see, that shit doesn't work on me."

I can feel my control slipping. "I am not leaving until we resolve this. You cannot continue to harass my son."

"Harass?" He laughs again. "Lady, if I was really trying to hurt your boy, he'd be in the hospital, not hiding behind his mama's fat tits."

The crude comment makes my breath catch. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

"How dare I?" His voice takes on a mocking tone. "This ain't your fancy neighborhood where everybody talks all proper and pretends to be nice. You came to my house. You wanted to talk to me like I'm the problem. But the real problem is you."

"Excuse me?"

He stands suddenly, his full height towering over me. I take an instinctive step back.

"Yeah, you. Raising a son who can't defend himself. Sending him to school looking soft as hell. Where's his father at? Oh right, 'traveling for work.'" He makes air quotes with his fingers.

Something snaps inside me. "You don't know the first thing about me or my family. My husband is ten times the man you'll ever be!"

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I've made a mistake. Cyrus's expression changes, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes.

"Oh word?" He takes a step closer to me, and I back up until I feel the wall behind me. "Ten times the man, huh? You sure about that?"

I swallow hard, suddenly very aware of how alone we are in this apartment, how much larger he is than me. "I should go. This was clearly a mistake."

"Nah, you don't get to come into my house, disrespect me, then just bounce when you don't like how the conversation's going." His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "You wanna compare men? Let's compare."

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his basketball shorts, and I freeze, my body going cold with sudden realization.

"What are you doing?" My voice sounds pathetically weak. "Stop that right now!"

But he doesn't stop. Instead, he drops back onto the couch, legs spread wide, his eyes never leaving mine as he slowly—agonizingly slowly—begins to pull his shorts down.

"You said your husband is ten times the man I am," he says, his voice thick with mockery. "Let's see if that's true."

My mouth goes dry as the fabric slides down inch by inch. First revealing more of that defined V-line, then the tight black curls of public hair, then—oh God—the base of what appears to be an enormous shaft.

"Stop this immediately!" I try to sound authoritative, but my voice cracks. "This is sexual harassment! I'm leaving right now and calling the police!"

But I don't move. I can't move. I'm paralyzed, watching in horrified fascination as more and more of him is revealed. The shorts slide lower, and suddenly it flops out—a massive, semi-flaccid cock that dangles obscenely between his thighs, swinging slightly from the momentum of being freed.

"Jesus Christ!" The words escape my lips before I can stop them. It's easily eight inches long completely soft, drooping over a pair of heavy, egg-sized testicles. The skin is darker than the rest of him, almost purplish-black at the large, partially hooded head. A single prominent vein runs along the underside, pulsing visibly.

"What's wrong, Mrs. Thompson?" He smirks, kicking his shorts the rest of the way off. "Never seen a real man before?"

His balls hang unevenly, the left one dangling noticeably lower than the right, swaying slightly as he adjusts his position. The entire package is nestled in coarse black hair that looks untrimmed, wild. I can smell him from here—a musky, sweaty, distinctly male odor that makes my nostrils flare.

"This is completely inappropriate," I stammer, but my eyes remain locked on that monstrous appendage. "I came here to discuss my son, not to—"