I Prepared for the Sat with My Mom

Chapter 1

It was just me and Mom, Linda, now. Dad was already gone for the night, working late at the office like he always did. Mom was in the living room, meticulously rearranging the throw pillows on the couch. Even after a day of hosting her gossiping group, she was fussing about the presentation. She still had that perfectly coiffed blonde bob, the one that makes heads turn even in this sleepy suburb. A hotness, even at her age (39), a bit overbearing sometimes. Turns out motherhood couldn't completely crush that vivacious spirit of hers. Mom had basically been my moon, rotating its gravity around my study habits and anxieties ever since she'd decided that an Ivy League education was the only measure of my success.

"Ethan," she called out, her voice laced with that familiar mixture of concern and authority. "Are you going to study or stand there daydreaming?"

My mom, always the picture of efficiency, started moving around the kitchen with a purpose. She set out plates, silverware, napkins -- everything laid out perfectly, like a miniature still life. She hummed along to some pop song she'd caught on the radio, her blonde hair shimmering under the kitchen lights. Even the way she made a simple gesture like pouring water felt almost choreographed. It was like watching a performance, and she, the star, was captivating in her own way.

"Mom," I said, finally tearing my gaze away from the way the sunlight caught the curve of her neck, "I've been studying all day. Maybe I could use a break?"

"You'll break down from stress if you don't keep at it," she shot back without missing a beat, placing the well prepared plate in front of me. "Have it in your mind that this exam is the key to your future. You can't afford to relax."

I glanced at the food, but I lacked the appetite she seemed to have. "I know, mom, I know. But even prodigies need a break every now and then."

I hated how she'd always reduced everything to 'prodigies', pushing me to be the perfect son, the academic overachiever. I was tired. Tired of the pressure, tired of living up to her expectations.

"Just one hour," I pleaded.

Silence fell over the room for a moment, fractured only by the chirping of crickets outside. It was quiet before the storm. That's how it always felt with Mom, like I was always tiptoeing around a hurricane.

Finally, she sighed, a weary sound that somehow didn't diminish her aura of control. "Fine," she said, folding her hands on the table. "One hour. And you better use it wisely."

I nodded, my limbs suddenly too heavy to move. My mom was never one to give ground easily, so I knew this was a hard-won victory, even though I hadn't felt anything remotely close to victory today.

But that hour of reprieve wasn't for me. It was about my physical freedom, about getting my mind off my mother, and off the SATs. I had a plan, a dangerous, reckless idea brewing in the recesses of my mind.

Mom was a force of nature, controlling every corner of our lives. Designed everything to be perfect: the way the house looked, the food she cooked, even my future. But right now, my perfect future felt more like a gilded cage, a trap of her making. Those anxieties, that pressure, they were strangling me. I needed to break free, to even the score. Tonight, I was taking back my life, my agency, however twisted it might seem.

"I'm going to my room, Mom," I said, pushing away the untouched meal.

I could feel her eyes on me as I walked away, calculating, dissecting. "Don't waste it," she called after me, her voice sharp.

I slammed my bedroom door shut. That hour felt enormous, the weight of my plan heavy on my chest. It was reckless, insane even. But her constant scrutiny, her suffocating control, had pushed me to the edge. The air in my room felt thick, the heat of the late summer afternoon making the silence feel oppressive.

I paced to and fro, counting down the minutes until I could put my plan into action. The tension coiled in my stomach, a mix of fear and excitement.I needed a distraction, something to take my mind off what I was about to do. My hand hovered over a lone game disc on my desk, a forgotten escape route from reality.

Mom appeared at the door, her expression back to default -- a mix of maternal concern and disapproval. "You're staying in your room?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost questioning.

"Yeah," I mumbled, eyes fixed on the disc. It was a dinosaur game -- ridiculous, childish even.

"Don't waste your time," she said, her voice clipped, then followed up with a soft, bewildered, "I really don't understand why you aren't more excited about your future."

She stood there a moment longer, watching me, before stepping back into the hall, the door closing with a soft click.

Finally, I was alone.

This was it.

I stepped off the edge of the bed, the silence amplifying the beating of my heart. The weight of what I was about to do pressed down on me, a heavy cloak of uncertainty mixed with adrenaline. I knew what I had to do, I'd thought this through, but that didn't make it any easier.

I broke out in a sweat, palms slick as I reached for my phone. My finger hovered over Mom's number. I was about to call her, to lure her into my plan, to finally turn the tables.

My trembling hand swung around and slammed shut the offending compartment.

Instead of calling her, I hid the phone, coldly. Slapped it onto the bed. It was a stupid move, sure.

I needed to think clearly. I moved, almost robotically, towards the mirror in my room. I needed to see myself, assess. My reflection stared back, a pale shadow of the person I pretended to be. An awkward, boyish face stared back at me. My eyes were wide with a frenzied energy. I shook my head as if trying to clear the fog. My higher brain told me I was crazy, off the rails. I gave myself a few seconds of reprieve, a necessary battleground in my mind.

I needed to do this.

I needed to be someone else tonight, someone in control, someone who could finally make my mom see. And if that meant blurring the lines of right and wrong, then that's what I would do.

The weight of my plan pressed down on me, an oppressive cloak. Her voice, her name for me, it all came back in a rush. Mom. Linda. She didn't say it often, Ethan son. It was more of a scientific term, like a specimen under observation.

The urge to get up, flee, vanished. It was the lure of the impossible, the only option that felt something like free, something like revenge. I knew I shouldn't. I knew it was twisted, insane. But in my head, that rational part was just a tiny voice drowned out by the storm.

I felt a prickle of fear, then a surge of raw anger. I focused on that, on the years I'd spent living under her thumb, on the pressure she'd placed on me, on her unwavering obsession with my success. My success. It was my life, my future she'd decided for me.

Taking a deep breath, I walked towards the bed. This was going to be my rebellion, my twisted ballet of power. I wasn't a prodigy, I was a man, a man broken and angry and desperate.

A knot tightened in my stomach, but I shoved it down. I would need all my courage to pull this off. I needed to be ready. I didn't know what the hell was going to happen next, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be pretty. I had a feeling it would be more than just a simple exchange of words, more than just some twisted power play.

I turned off the lights of my room earlier than usual, and got into the bed, and started waiting. I knew that my control freak mom would recognize that, and come check in on me, and "realize" that I was crying little she knew they were my crocodile tears.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken tension. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside my window felt magnified, a symphony of anticipation. Finally, the click of the doorknob broke the stillness.

Mom stood there, bathed in the faint hallway light. Her face, always smooth and composed, now held a worried crease between her brows. The empathetic look she always wore, the one that could make even my most outrageous demands seem reasonable, seemed strained.

"Ethan," she said, her voice softened. "Are you alright, sweetheart? Why are you not studying?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I mumbled, turning away from her towards the wall. Voice barely a whisper.

"Come now," she coaxed, moving towards the bed and gently sitting beside me. She seemed so concerned, so close to actually reading me. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat tightening. It was now or never.

"Mom," I started, choosing my words carefully. "There's something... something you should know."

She touched my arm, her touch light but lingering. "What is it, honey?"

This was it. The moment I'd been building up to, and fearing.

"I... I ca... can't... I can't get hard anymore," I blurted it out, forcing the words like a confession. "I think it's because of all the pressure you put on me."

The silence that followed was longer than any I'd ever experienced. I could practically feel her going through all the scenarios in her head, trying to figure out how to best counsel me, how to fix me. Finally, she spoke, her voice unsteady, "Ethan..."

"It's true, Mom," I interrupted, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm becoming... broken. It's like everything you do, everything you say, it's just crushing me."

I could see her concern mounting, the order she usually exuded cracking. This wasn't the conversation she had in mind for her emotionally stable, high-achieving son.

"My father..." I leaned in, my tone a mix of fear and accusation. "He would be devastated. He'd hate it if you knew about this, about what you're doing to me."

I met her gaze, laying bare the truth of my statement. That's all it took. The facade she held so carefully crumbled.

I watched as the carefully constructed mask of control Mom always wore slid a fraction, revealing the fear that lurked beneath. It was a flicker, a fleeting expression -- worry mixed with panic. That's what I needed.

"He can't bear to see me fail at anything," I continued, letting the words hang in the air. "He'd feel like a failure too. And it wouldn't just be me. You'd be the reason, Mom. The reason your perfect son is...broken."

My voice caught in my throat, the lie feeling like a bitter pill to swallow. I knew the truth -- this wasn't all her fault. I was the one who felt this pressure, who let it consume me. But in this moment, she needed to understand. Needed to feel a sliver of the pain she'd inflicted.

"Mom, please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "It's getting so bad... I can't even... I can't even think straight or focus on studying. You have to help me."

She flinched at my words, her eyes wide with a fear I couldn't quite place. It was a different fear than the controlled anxiety she usually displayed. This was raw, genuine, unfiltered. Maybe, just maybe, I'd finally gotten through to her.

"Ethan, sweetheart, there must be something else going on," she said, her voice a strained whisper. "We need to find a doctor, talk to someone."

"No," I cut her off, feeling a surge of anger challenging the fear that had gripped me. "I don't want to go to a doctor. You're the only one who can fix this. You're the reason for what's happening to me."

Her eyes widened, fear clouding her usually controlled expression. She opened her mouth to speak, to try and explain, to rationalize, but I wasn't listening. I was too close to the edge, too consumed by this twisted plan.

"Dad... he loves me," I said, my voice barely a whisper, letting the words hang heavy in the air between us. "He'd be devastated if he knew what you were doing to me. To his son."

I watched her closely, reading the subtle shift in her features. Her gaze darted to the back of the room, her hand unconsciously smoothing down her blouse. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, forming a strangled gasp.

"It's happening because of you, Mom," I pressed, knowing this was the part that would break her, the part she couldn't ignore. "I'm... I'm not able to... you know... to get hard anymore. It just doesn't happen."

The revelation hung in the air, a venomous dart aimed straight at her heart. I saw the color drain from her face, her eyes clouding over with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

"Ethan," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "Don't say that."

But it was too late. The spell was broken. Her composure completely shattered. This time, it wasn't the worry or concern I was used to seeing. It was fear. Raw, exposed fear.

"I can't live like this, Mom," I said, hoping my voice sounded desperate enough to break through her shock. "I need you to help me. You have to fix this."

Her eyes held mine, wide with a fear I'd rarely seen. It was a look that transcended my usual motherly feigned concern. This was something different, something raw and vulnerable.

"Ethan," she whispered, her voice cracking, "Please. We'll find someone, I promise. There must be a solution."

But her words felt hollow, empty promises from someone trying desperately to maintain control. It wasn't enough.

"But," I continued, my voice tight with barely restrained rage, "what if I told you..." I leaned closer, my breath mirroring her quickened breaths, "What if I told you that the only solution is you."

Her head tilted back, a perplexed gasp escaping her lips. My heart pounded against my ribs, a drumbeat of anticipation. This was the moment I'd been strategizing for days, the culmination of a twisted plan fuelled by years of simmering resentment.

"Ethan... what do you mean?" in disbelief.

"You've always known how to get me to do things," I whispered, my gaze locking onto hers. "You made me study until my eyes bleed, pushed me to succeed, manipulated me into thinking my value was measured by grades and achievements."

My voice dropped to a dangerous murmur, "You need to do the same thing now. Show me you're there for me, show me you care."

The silence stretched, taut and suffocating. Her eyes darted around the room, then settled back on me, a flicker of understanding slowly dawning.

I couldn't tell if it was fear or something else entirely -- something darker -- that I saw in her eyes. But it wasn't the maternal love and worry I'd grown accustomed to. It wasn't her usual, "concerned-mother" facade. It was something else. It was raw, vulnerable, and terrifyingly close to comprehension.

"Ethan, please," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "We can talk about this, there's..."

Her words died in her throat as she met my gaze. She knew. I knew she knew. All those years of veiled threats, canned anxieties about my future, carefully planted seeds of doubt about my competence -- it all came down to this.

"Talk?," I laughed, a hollow, humorless sound that echoed in the suffocating silence. "Mom, your words used to mean something. They held weight. But they don't anymore. Not when I can barely function, when I feel like I'm collapsing in on myself." I let my gaze sweep over her nervous tics, the way her fingers clenched and unclenched in her lap. I saw her fight to maintain control, the ultimate mask slipping just a fraction. It was a delicious, terrifying sight.

"I need more than words, Mom," I continued, my voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "I need action. I need you to show me you care. Show me you understand."

She flinched, her eyes flickering to the door, to the window behind me. She was searching for an escape, a way out of this conversation, this exchange. But there wasn't one. This was her reality now, her responsibility.

I watched as she weighed her options. Every twitch, every stutter in her breath, told me she was acutely aware of the power she no longer possessed.

Then, slowly, she walked to the door and reached for the knob. My heart pounded as she turned, her back to me for the briefest of moments, the dread building in me as she started to lock the door. My plan was working. I'd pushed her, cornered her, made her see that everything, all of her meticulously curated life, rested on the thin line between her control and my descent.

I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. The weight of the situation pressed down on me, but there was a perverse sense of satisfaction in the feeling. I was no longer the malleable, obedient son. I was the one in control, the one dictating the terms.

I waited, listening to the click of the lock echoing through the room. My eyes squeezed shut, my breaths coming harder, faster. The silence stretched, each tick of the clock an agonizing reminder of what was to come.

Then, the duvet fluttered as she sat back onto the bed, but kept her distance, huddled in the far corner, almost shrinking into herself.

The mattress creaked under her weight, each groan a testament to the unspoken truth: she'd accepted.

She was a tightly wound spring, every muscle in her body tense. My mom, who usually radiated an aura of controlled grace, now looked fragile, hunted. Her eyes darted around the room, her gaze finally settling on me.

I saw shame flush her cheeks, mixing with fear and a hint of something I couldn't quite place -- resignation? Maybe even a flicker of something akin to desire.

Fear, shame, resignation, desire -- the emotions warred across her face, painting a portrait of a woman desperately trying to reconcile her carefully constructed facade with the raw reality of the situation.

She opened her mouth, but no words came. I watched her struggle, her pride wilting under my gaze. I held her there, captive in my scrutiny. She was my weapon now, just as she'd been my adversary for years.

I forced myself to smile, a twisted mockery of her usual warm, sunny grin. "It's okay, Mom," I said, my voice soft but laced with an underlying steel. "I know this is a lot to take in. You just need to relax."

The words hung in the air, a mixture of reassurance and threat. Her lips parted, hesitantly, as if trying to find the right words.

I watched her closely, that flicker of resignation hardening into something akin to acceptance. Shame simmered on her face, battling with the burgeoning fear, creating a raw, exposed vulnerability I hadn't seen before.

I unbuckled the strap on my sweatpants, sliding them until fall to the floor with a soft thud. My hand lingered on my thigh, tracing the line of tension in my skin. She watched me as I lowered my shorts, my exposed skin feeling hot and foreign, a source of both terror and a perverse kind of power.

A whimper, barely audible, escaped her lips as I pulled my briefs down. My chest tightened, the tension in my body making every breath a shallow gasp. This was happening. This was real.

"Mom, it's okay," I said, my voice as soft as velvet, the words meant to soothe but laced with a predatory edge. "Just...help me."

Her eyes flicked down, meeting the sight of my nakedness. A shudder ran over her frame, but her gaze held mine. She reached out, her hand hovering hesitantly over my thigh. Her touch was featherlight, her fingers tracing the contour of my leg, exploring, testing. A jolt shot through me, a mixture of yearning and revulsion. This was so wrong, so twisted, yet there was a primal pull, an undeniable need that warred with the shame burning in my gut.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice raspy. She hesitated, her hand trembling slightly as she moved from my leg to my groin, her fingers tracing my veins. Her touch was a strange comfort, a familiar warmth that I craved and hated simultaneously.

I guided her, more for my own benefit than hers. My body screamed with a conflicting medley of emotions, fear, anger, lust, all churning within me. As her hands moved lower, I felt my breath hitch.

She reached my waistband, her touch gentle but probing. My muscles clenched involuntarily, and a wave of heat flooded me, but it wasn't the release I craved. It was a pressure building inside me, a tightness that had nothing to do with arousal. It was stress, fear, a primal knot of panic and shame that had me on the edge.