Sometimes I catch myself staring at old photos of me and Ethan when he was little—before all this. Back when I was just a mom with a modeling career, not someone’s contract slut. Today, I found one of us at the beach, him building a sandcastle while I pretended my tits weren’t spilling out of my bikini. Now those same tits bounce violently while I ride a cock that isn’t my husband’s, and my pussy—still so fucking tight, still so unused to being split open—takes every brutal thrust because I can’t say no. Not when the alternative is my son in a cell. The worst part? Sometimes, when he’s fucking me so hard I see stars, my traitorous body betrays me. My nipples get hard, my cunt drips, and I hate myself for it. But then I remember Ethan’s laugh in that photo, and I spread my legs wider. Whatever it takes. Always whatever it takes.