Ethan hauled Marcus through the quiet suburban streets like a broken trophy. One arm slung over his shoulder, Marcus's weight sagging against him, blood still dripping from the ruined face onto Ethan's hoodie. The linebacker whimpered with every step, ribs grinding, arm dangling useless. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on empty sidewalks. No one around to see. Perfect.
On the way, Ethan leaned in close, voice low and steady.
"You open your mouth without my say-so, and I'll reach down and snap your dick like a twig. Understand?"
Marcus shivered hard, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. He looked sideways at Ethan's eyes—cold, flat, promising worse than what he'd already delivered. Something new lived there now. Not just anger. Ownership. Marcus nodded quick, blood bubbling at his split lip.
"Y-yes... I get it..."
"Good boy."
They reached the Tate house twenty minutes later—a modest two-story with peeling paint and a chain-link fence. Porch light on. Front door cracked open like someone was waiting up.
The door swung wide before Ethan could knock.
Marcus's mother stood there, and Ethan felt the system ping hard in his vision.
Target Acquired: Latoya Tate. MILF Level: Extreme.
Latoya was forty-two, built as a fantasy poured into reality. Voluptuous didn't cover it—curves that demanded attention. Wide hips straining her yoga pants, thick thighs that rubbed together when she moved, an ass so round and juicy it looked sculpted. Up top, heavy breasts pushed against a thin tank top, no bra, nipples dark shadows under the fabric. Full lips, high cheekbones, skin like rich mahogany glowing under the porch light. Her hair was in long braids pulled back, a few loose strands framing her worried face. She smelled like cocoa butter and vanilla even from the steps.
Her eyes went wide at the sight of her son—face swollen beyond recognition, blood crusted everywhere, barely standing.
"Oh my God—Marcus!" She rushed forward, hands fluttering. "What happened? Baby, who did this?"
Ethan kept his arm around Marcus, supporting him like a good Samaritan.
"Found him behind the school, Mrs. Tate. Lying in the alley. Looked like he got jumped bad. I helped him home."
Latoya's hands hovered over Marcus's face, tears welling instantly. "My baby... oh Lord, look at you. Come inside, come inside right now."
She helped Ethan drag Marcus through the door into the living room—worn couch, family photos on the walls, TV flickering some late-night show on mute. They eased him onto the couch. Marcus groaned, head lolling.
"Thank you," Latoya said, voice shaking as she turned to Ethan. Her eyes really looked at him now—taking in the broad shoulders, the blood on his hoodie that wasn't his, the calm way he stood. "Thank you so much. I don't know what I would've done if... if he was out there alone."
Ethan met her gaze, held it. "No problem. Couldn't leave him like that."
Marcus mumbled from the couch, voice thick and scared. "Thanks... man. For... bringing me home."
Latoya blinked, surprised at the gratitude from her usually cocky son. She didn't see the terror in his eyes when he glanced at Ethan.
"It's late," Marcus rasped. "You... you should eat something. Before you go. Mom makes good food..."
Latoya nodded quickly, wiping tears. "Yes, yes—sit down, honey. Let me fix you a plate. You must be starving, carrying him all this way."
Ethan didn't argue. He sat on the armchair across from the couch, legs spread, watching as Latoya fussed over Marcus—ice pack, wet cloth, soft words. Marcus kept his eyes down, not daring to look at Ethan too long.
Latoya disappeared into the kitchen. Pots clanged. Microwave hummed. She came back with a heaping plate: fried chicken leftovers, mac and cheese, collards, and cornbread. Comfort food that smelled like heaven.
"Here," she said, setting it on the coffee table in front of Ethan. Her tank top gaped slightly as she bent, giving him a clear view down to her heavy breasts swaying free.
"Eat. Please."
Ethan picked up the fork slowly, took a bite of mac and cheese. "This is good, Mrs. Tate. Real good."
She sat on the couch arm next to Marcus, still dabbing at his face. "Call me Latoya. And thank you again. I don't even know your name."
"Ethan Harper," he said, mouth half-full, eyes on her. "From school. Senior."
Her brow furrowed. "Wait, you're Principal Harper's boy?"
Ethan nodded once.
Took another bite.
Latoya shook her head.
"Small world. Vanessa and I talk at PTA sometimes. She's gonna hear about this tomorrow, I swear."
Marcus flinched at the mention but stayed quiet.
Ethan finished half the plate slowly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch. Latoya kept glancing at him, grateful, curious. He could see it building. The way her eyes lingered on his arms, the bloodstains that told a story she hadn't asked about yet.
"You're strong," she said finally, voice softer.
"Carrying my big boy all that way. He ain't light."
Ethan set the fork down, leaned back. "I manage."
She smiled small, tired but real. "More than manage, looks like. You play football too?"
"Used to run track. Lift now."
Latoya's eyes traced his shoulders, down to his chest. "Shows."
Marcus shifted uncomfortably but kept his mouth shut.
Ethan stood slowly, plate clean. "I should go. Let you take care of him."
Latoya stood too, quickly. "Wait—let me wrap up some more food for you. Least I can do."
She bustled back to the kitchen. Ethan followed without asking, leaning in the doorway, watching her move. That ass swayed hypnotically in the yoga pants—thick, juicy, each cheek bouncing softly. She bent to grab Tupperware from a low cabinet, pants stretching tight, outlining everything.
Ethan's voice was low. "You always up this late?"
She straightened, container in hand, caught his tone. "When Marcus is out, yeah. Worry too much. Single mom thing."
"His dad?"
"Gone since he was ten. Prison." She shrugged like it didn't hurt anymore, but her eyes said different.
Ethan stepped closer, casual. "Must be hard. Raising a big boy like that alone."
Latoya scooped leftovers, but her hands slowed. "It is. He acts tough, but... tonight scared me bad."
"He'll be alright," Ethan said. Close enough now to smell her—cocoa butter, warm skin, faint sweat from worry. "He's got a good mom looking out."
She looked up at him then, really looked. Eyes soft, grateful, something else flickering. "You're sweet to say that."
Ethan reached past her for a napkin on the counter, arm brushing her hip. Didn't pull away quick. "Not sweet. Just true."
Her breath caught a little. She finished packing the food, handed it over. Their fingers brushed—hers lingered half a second.
"You come by anytime, Ethan Harper," she said quiet. "Door's open for you. After what you did tonight..."
He took the container, held her gaze. "Might take you up on that, Latoya."
Marcus called weakly from the living room. "Mom... water?"
She tore her eyes away, flushed a little. "Coming, baby."
But as Ethan moved to leave, she touched his arm—soft, hesitant. "You sure you're okay walking home this late? I could drive you..."
"I'm good," he said, smiling slowly. "But I'll be back. Soon."
Her lips parted like she wanted to say more, but she just nodded.
At the door, Marcus mumbled again. "Thanks... for real."
Ethan looked back at him, eyes cold. Marcus shivered hard.
Latoya walked him out to the porch. The night air was cool between them.
"You're a good boy, Ethan," she said softly, arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up. "Bringing him home like that."
Ethan stepped close, voice for her alone. "I'm a lot of things, Latoya. You'll see."
He left her standing there, porch light haloing her curves, watching him disappear into the dark.
The system pinged as he walked.
Seduction Progress: Latoya Tate – 15%.
Slow burn initiated.
Marcus's house was just the beginning.