Son's Bully Breas Mom's Vows

Cheryl stood at the kitchen sink, her hands trembling as she scrubbed a plate for the third time under a punishing stream of scalding water. The heat bit into her fingers, a sharp sting that matched the fire in her chest, but she didn't flinch--her focus was razor-sharp, locked on her son, Liam, slumped at the table like a broken doll. He was eighteen, a college freshman, all lean muscle and quiet edges, his dark hair falling over his forehead in a messy curtain that hid the frustration etched into his hazel eyes. His face bore the marks of a fresh fight--dark bruises smudged across his high cheekbones, a split lip swollen and red, glistening faintly with blood that twisted her stomach into a tight, angry knot. His faded black T-shirt hung torn at the shoulder, the rip exposing a sliver of pale skin, and when he shifted, she caught the faint outline of jagged scratches raking down his arm--red, raw, a silent scream of violence. Bullies. Again. Her boy, her baby, beaten down, and it lit a fuse in her she couldn't snuff out.

"Liam," she said, her voice cutting through the hum of the fridge like a blade, low and sharp. "Who did this to you?" He didn't look up, just stared at his hands--long fingers picking at a scab on his knuckle, nails bitten short. She slammed the plate down, the crash exploding off the chipped linoleum, water splashing across her wrists. "Damn it, Liam, talk to me!"

He flinched, shoulders hunching, his voice a mumble barely above a whisper. "Doesn't matter, Mom. Just... leave it."

"Leave it?" She spun from the sink, auburn hair whipping across her shoulders, catching the dim light in a fiery cascade. At thirty-eight, Cheryl was a storm made flesh--five-foot-six, curves that could stop traffic, full D-cup breasts straining against the thin white tank top she wore, no bra, her nipples faintly visible as hard points beneath the fabric. Her hips flared wide in tight denim cutoffs, the frayed hem riding high on her thick, toned thighs, tanned from summers hauling scrap with Doug. Green eyes blazed under dark lashes, her lips a natural pink, parted in fury. "You come home looking like this, and I'm supposed to leave it? No, Liam. Not this fucking time."

The back door creaked, and Doug lumbered in from the living room, his heavy boots thudding on the floor. A mechanic at fifty, he was a bear of a man--six-foot-two, broad shoulders under a stretched flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a faded undershirt clinging to his beer gut. His hands were massive, grease-stained from the shop, stubble thick on his jaw, graying at the edges. "What's the goddamn racket?" he growled, then stopped dead, eyes landing on Liam. "Jesus Christ, kid. Again?"

Cheryl's glare snapped to her husband like a whipcrack. "Every damn day, Doug. And you're just parked on your ass watching the Flames like it's nothing!" Her tank top shifted as she gestured, the hem riding up to flash a strip of her flat stomach, a faint scar from Liam's C-section glinting silver.

Doug rubbed his neck, stubble rasping under his calloused fingers, his brown eyes tired but fraying at her tone. "I told him to toughen up, Cher. Boys fight. It's how they sort their shit out."

"Toughen up?" Her voice dropped to a dangerous hiss, stepping closer, her bare feet silent on the cool floor, toes painted a chipped red. "He's got bruises all over his face, Doug. This isn't a tussle--it's a fucking beating. And you're fine with it?" Her breasts heaved with each breath, the tank top clinging tighter, outlining every curve, her nipples stiffening in the draft from the open window.

Doug sighed, shoulders sagging, the fight draining out of him. "What am I supposed to do, huh? Go deck some college punk? You're the mom, Cher. Take it to the school tomorrow--fix it."

Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding, but his words sank in. She nodded, slow and deliberate, a plan sparking behind her eyes. "Oh, I'll fix it," she said, voice dripping venom. "But not with some pencil-pushing dean." She turned to Liam, softening just enough to step over, her hand brushing his dark hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering on his warm skin despite his wince. "Who's doing this, baby? Tell me a name."

Liam hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, then muttered, "Noah Carter. Him and his crew. Mostly him."

Noah Carter. The name slammed into her like a fist to the gut, igniting a fresh wave of rage. She knew the type--spoiled rich kid, eighteen and full of himself, strutting around campus like he owned it because his daddy's money said he could. She'd seen him once at a college open house, towering at six-foot-one, lean and hard with muscle under a designer jacket, blond hair swept back in a careless wave, blue eyes glinting with a cocky grin that begged to be wiped off. The kind of punk who thought rules were for peasants, who'd pick on her Liam just to flex his power. Well, tomorrow, he'd learn what power really felt like.

"Go clean up," she told Liam, leaning down to press a fierce kiss to his forehead, her lips soft against his bruised skin, her breath warm. "I've got this, baby." He nodded, shuffling off, his sneakers scuffing the floor as he headed upstairs.

That night, Cheryl lay awake in their sagging double bed, Doug snoring beside her, his flannel tossed over a chair, his boxers riding low on his hairy thighs. The sheets tangled around her legs, her tank top rucked up to her ribs, exposing the curve of her waist, her denim shorts unbuttoned and loose. Her mind churned, plotting every move--how she'd corner Noah, make him regret ever laying a hand on her son. She pictured his smug face crumpling, his lean body folding under her fury, and a dark thrill coiled low in her belly, her pussy tingling faintly at the thought of breaking him. By morning, that thrill had hardened into a plan, and she was ready to dress it up and unleash it.

She rose at dawn, the house still quiet, Liam's door shut, Doug's snores rumbling through the walls. Standing before her closet, she decided to weaponize herself--bold, loud, dripping with sex, a look that'd hit Noah like a freight train and leave him reeling. She started with a black leather miniskirt, butter-soft and tight as sin, hugging her wide hips like a lover's grip, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh, so short it flashed the tops of her thick legs with every step. The zipper gleamed silver up the side, a tease begging to be undone. She paired it with a red satin crop top, sleeveless and plunging deep, the neckline dipping low between her heavy breasts, no bra to tame them--her nipples pressed hard against the slick fabric, dark shadows visible, shifting with each breath. The hem stopped just above her navel, baring her toned stomach, the satin catching the light in a wet, glossy sheen.

For her legs, she chose thigh-high fishnet stockings, black and sheer, the diamond pattern stretching tight over her calves and thighs, ending an inch below the skirt's hem--a deliberate gap of bare skin that screamed *touch me*. She stepped into five-inch stiletto boots, glossy black patent leather, the heels sharp as knives, clicking like gunfire on the hardwood. They laced up the front, hugging her ankles, making her legs look endless, her ass popping higher with each strut. In the mirror, she painted her full lips a deep, wet crimson, smudged kohl around her green eyes 'til they smoked with danger, and let her auburn hair fall wild, tumbling past her shoulders in thick, untamed waves. She looked like a high-class streetwalker with a vendetta--raw, sexual, unstoppable. Her pussy throbbed faintly under the skirt, bare beneath a scrap of black lace thong, the fabric already damp with anticipation.

Liam shuffled downstairs as she grabbed her keys, his eyes popping wide, jaw dropping. "Mom, what the *hell* are you wearing?" he stammered, his voice cracking, hazel eyes darting over her leather-clad thighs, the satin straining over her tits.

"Armor," she smirked, tossing her hair, the motion making her breasts bounce, nipples stiffening further under his stare. "I'm dropping you off today, baby. Let's go."

The drive to campus was tense, Liam slouched in the passenger seat, his backpack clutched tight to his chest, sneaking glances at her fishnets, her bare midriff, the way the leather skirt rode up as she shifted gears in their beat-up Toyota. She caught him looking once, smirked, and cranked the radio--some pulsing rock beat that matched the thrum in her veins. At the drop-off lane, she pulled up sharp, tires chirping, and turned to him. "Stay out of trouble, Liam," she said, voice firm but warm, leaning over to kiss his cheek, her satin top brushing his arm, her perfume--vanilla and musk--lingering. He nodded, flustered, and climbed out, disappearing into the crowd of milling students.

Cheryl didn't waste time. She scanned the campus lot, her pulse kicking hard, green eyes narrowing behind her kohl-smudged lids. Teens laughed and shoved, backpacks swinging, but then she spotted him--Noah Carter, leaning against a brick pillar near the quad, flanked by his posse of rich-kid lackeys. He was a goddamn vision of arrogance--six-foot-one, broad shoulders filling out a tailored navy jacket, his chest tight under a white V-neck tee that hugged every line of muscle. His blond hair swept back in a careless wave, catching the morning sun, blue eyes glinting with a predator's gleam. Faded designer jeans clung to his long legs, low on his hips, a hint of boxer waistband peeking out, and his cocky grin spread wide as he laughed, probably at someone's expense. Then he clocked Liam trudging past, and that smirk sharpened, a flash of teeth that set Cheryl's blood boiling.

She stepped out of the car, slamming the door with a bang that turned heads, her stiletto heels cracking the pavement like gunshots. The crowd parted as she strode forward, leather skirt swishing, fishnets flashing, satin top gleaming red in the sun, her tits bouncing with each furious step, nipples hard as bullets under the thin fabric. Her hair whipped behind her, a fiery banner, and she locked eyes with Noah, her glare a promise of pain. He turned fully, smirk faltering as he took her in--legs endless in fishnets, hips rolling in leather, breasts spilling from satin, a walking wet dream with murder in her eyes. His posse froze, mouths open, but she didn't slow.

"Hey, asshole!" she barked, her voice a whipcrack slicing through the chatter, loud enough to echo off the buildings. Noah blinked, caught off guard, his grin slipping as she closed the distance, heels clicking a war drum. She didn't give him a second to react--her hand lashed out, cracking across his face in a vicious slap that snapped his head to the side, the sound ringing out like a thunderclap. His cheek bloomed red instantly, a perfect handprint, and he stumbled back, clutching it, blue eyes wide with shock.

"What the *fuck*--" he started, voice pitching high, but she cut him off, shoving him hard into the pillar, her palms slamming his chest, feeling the firm muscle under his shirt. The crowd went dead silent, then erupted in gasps and whoops, phones whipping out to film.

"That's for my son, you little prick!" Cheryl snarled, her face inches from his, her breath hot, lips glistening crimson. She spotted a rusted metal pipe lying nearby--a janitor's discard, three feet long, crusted with dirt--and snatched it up, gripping it like a bat. She swung low, cracking it against his ribs, the thud muffled by his jacket, then higher, smashing his shoulder, making him grunt and twist. Another swing caught his thigh, his leg buckling, and she punctuated each hit with a curse--"Fuck you! Fuck your money! Fuck your smug face!"--her voice raw, feral, her tits heaving in the satin top, nipples straining harder with every swing, her pussy pulsing under the leather skirt, wet with the thrill of breaking him.

Noah crumpled to his knees, arms flailing to shield himself, blood trickling from a split brow where the pipe had grazed, staining his blond hair red. "I'm sorry! Shit, I'm sorry!" he yelped, his voice cracking, tears welling in those pretty blue eyes, his cocky mask shattered. The crowd roared with laughter, a chorus of "Oh shit!" and "She's wild!" ringing out, phones catching every angle of the rich kid getting wrecked by a woman dressed like a vengeful porn star.

Cheryl loomed over him, pipe raised high, her fishnets taut as she planted one stiletto boot forward, the leather skirt riding up to flash the edge of her black lace thong, a glimpse of damp fabric clinging to her pussy lips. "You come near Liam again," she hissed, voice low and deadly, "and I'll rip your fucking balls off and shove 'em down your throat. Got it?" He nodded frantically, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his face, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips. She spat at his feet, the glob landing on his pristine sneakers, then tossed the pipe aside with a loud clang, metal skittering across the pavement. Turning on her heel, she strutted back to her car, hips swaying, ass popping in the tight leather, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as she climbed in and peeled out, tires squealing, leaving Noah in the dust and her pussy throbbing with dark, victorious heat.

The next few days settled into an uneasy quiet, the echo of Cheryl's vengeance still buzzing in her veins. Liam came home from college unmarked, his lean frame moving lighter through the house, his hazel eyes less shadowed, a faint spark flickering back to life. She watched him from the kitchen window one afternoon, sprawled on the couch in her usual after-work gear--tight white tank top, no bra, her D-cup breasts pressing against the thin cotton, nipples dark and stiff from the cool air drifting through the screen door. Her denim cutoffs rode high on her thick thighs, unbuttoned at the waist, the frayed hem teasing the curve where her ass met her legs. Barefoot, her toes flexed against the linoleum, red polish chipped but bold, her auburn hair tied up in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her flushed cheeks. Liam kicked a soccer ball in the backyard, his sneakers scuffing the patchy grass, a rare smile tugging his lips as the ball thudded against the shed. She'd scared Noah Carter straight--or so she thought--and the sight of her boy breathing easier made her pussy throb with a fierce, primal pride, a wet ache pulsing under her shorts.

But victory felt fragile, a thin veneer over the storm she knew simmered beneath. Punks like Noah didn't just slink away; they licked their wounds and came back sharper. She leaned against the counter, sipping a lukewarm Tim Hortons coffee, the bitter edge biting her tongue, her green eyes narrowing as she replayed the schoolyard scene--her hand cracking his face, the pipe slamming his ribs, his pathetic whimpers. Her nipples tightened under the tank top, a shiver racing down her spine, her thong dampening against her pussy lips as she pictured his blond hair streaked with blood, those blue eyes wide and broken. She'd fucked him up good, and it felt *good*--a dark, sexual rush she couldn't shake.

Friday evening rolled in, the sky bruising purple over Sudbury's jagged treeline. Cheryl sprawled on the sagging couch, legs stretched across the cushions, her tank top rucked up to bare her flat stomach, the scar from Liam's birth a silver slash above her navel. She'd swapped the cutoffs for black sweatpants, loose but clinging to her hips, the waistband rolled low to flash the top of her red lace thong--cheeky, barely-there, the fabric cutting high over her ass cheeks, a damp patch blooming where her pussy pulsed idly. A glass of pinot noir dangled from her fingers, the wine's tart bite staining her lips a deeper red, her hair spilling free now, wild waves tumbling past her shoulders. Doug slouched in his recliner across the room, flannel unbuttoned over a stained undershirt, his beer gut spilling slightly over his belt, snoring through the third period of the Flames game on their flickering TV. Liam was upstairs, the faint thump of his gaming headset leaking through the ceiling. The house hummed with a lazy calm--until the doorbell pierced it like a knife.

Cheryl frowned, swinging her legs off the couch, her bare feet slapping the floor as she padded to the door, wine glass still in hand. Her tank top shifted, one strap slipping off her shoulder, baring the swell of her breast, the nipple grazing the fabric's edge. She yanked the door open, ready to snap at some kid selling raffle tickets--and froze. Noah Carter stood on her porch, hands stuffed in the pockets of a tailored navy jacket, blond hair swept back, neat and gleaming under the porch light. His blue eyes glinted, wary but sharp, a faint purple bruise shadowing his cheekbone where her hand had landed, a healing cut on his brow adding a rugged edge to his pretty-boy face. He wore a white button-down, open at the collar, tucked into dark jeans that hugged his lean thighs, the bulge of his cock faintly outlined against the denim--a tease she clocked instantly.

"What the *fuck* do you want?" she snapped, crossing her arms under her chest, the motion shoving her tits up, the tank top stretching tight, nipples poking through like twin bullets. Her voice dripped venom, but her pussy clenched, a hot trickle of arousal soaking her thong as she took him in--tall, six-foot-one, all lean muscle and nervous energy, his scent hitting her--clean soap, a hint of expensive cologne, and something raw underneath.

Noah flinched at her tone, raising his hands in surrender, palms out, his jacket pulling taut across his shoulders. "Not trouble, Mrs. Macdonald. I swear. I came to apologize." His voice was low, a little shaky, but those blue eyes locked on hers, flicking briefly to her cleavage, her bare stomach, before snapping back up.

She narrowed her eyes, stepping onto the porch, the cool boards creaking under her feet, the door clicking shut behind her. The night air kissed her skin, tightening her nipples further, her sweatpants slipping lower to flash more of her thong's red lace. "After what you did to Liam?" she hissed, closing the distance, wine sloshing in her glass. "You think a sorry fixes that? You think I won't break your face again?" Her lips curled, baring teeth, her breath warm with pinot as she loomed close, her tits inches from his chest.

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, his eyes darting to her mouth, her throat, the swell of her breasts. "No, I--" He faltered, then steadied, running a hand through his blond hair, mussing it slightly. "I was an asshole, okay? A total prick. I'm sorry, really. Liam didn't deserve any of it." His voice cracked, raw, and damn if it didn't sound genuine--but Cheryl didn't trust genuine from a punk like him.

She huffed, leaning against the porch railing, one hip cocked, the sweatpants sliding to reveal the full curve of her ass cheek framed by the thong, the red lace stark against her tanned skin. "You expect me to buy that shit? After I beat the hell out of you in front of your little fan club?" Her smirk was sharp, taunting, her pussy throbbing as she remembered his tears, his blood, the way he'd folded under her.

He winced, touching the bruise on his cheek, fingers brushing the tender skin, his lips parting slightly. "Yeah, I deserved every hit," he said, voice low, eyes dropping to her legs, her bare feet, then back up, lingering on her nipples poking through the tank top. "Look, my parents lost it when they saw the video--grounded me, took my car keys, the works. But I'm here because I feel like crap. I want to make it right."

"Cry about it somewhere else, kid," she shot back, sipping her wine, the glass cool against her lips, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes track it. Her pussy pulsed, wet heat spreading, her thong soaked now, clinging to her swollen lips.