Late at night, Shivani tossed and turned, lying awake in the spacious master bedroom.
Moonlight sliced through the gaps of the expensive velvet curtains, cutting across her cold, pale profile, dividing her face—which bore a striking resemblance to Monica Bellucci—into stark halves of light and shadow.
Her voluptuous, magnificent body was wrapped in a silk nightgown. Her ample E-cup breasts rose and fell heavily beneath the silk with each breath, the nipples pressing against the fabric to outline two dark red peaks—those nipples had not only swelled to an unprecedented thickness and length after the second time she masturbated Rohan, but had also become more sensitive than ever since.
Once again, she was sleepless—Rohan had returned home with that new backpack from last night, along with his habitual avoidance of her gaze, a distance that felt all too familiar.
"Emily."
The name rolled over her tongue. Shivani unconsciously bit her lower lip.
Throughout the day, even while facing seven-figure investment decisions in the boardroom, this name would suddenly explode in her mind like a nail driven into her skull.
Shivani abruptly sat up. The silk nightgown slipped from her rounded shoulders, pooling at her waist.
Her forty-year-old body maintained the astonishing lines honed by yoga: broad shoulders, a slender waist, an exaggerated hourglass curve, the fat of her hips spreading plumply across the bedsheet like two ripe peaches.
But now, every inch of her muscles was tense. The soft flesh on the inside of her thighs, usually concealed beneath traditional attire, trembled slightly.
She walked barefoot toward the full-length mirror.
Her cold, pale feet pressed against the Persian carpet, her arches high, her toes slender—these feet had never suffered hardship for any man, yet over a month ago, they had stood aching twice for her son's "treatment."
The woman in the mirror had features as deep and striking as Monica Bellucci's, but dark shadows from sleeplessness now lingered beneath her eyes.
"What are you so anxious about?"
She whispered to her reflection.
"You weren't like this before... For you, religion was greater than everything, wasn't it?"
Religion.
Religion...
The woman in the mirror smiled bitterly, the expression bringing fine lines to the corners of her eyes—a vulnerability she had never allowed herself to show.
"It seems religion is not my sanctuary, my spiritual pillar."
A more terrifying thought surfaced, slithering into her brain like a venomous snake: Perhaps Rohan had never truly needed those parts of her as a mother—the prayers, the admonitions, the cage woven from tradition.
What he needed was simply someone who could alleviate his physical pain, someone who could grasp that monstrous organ of his and help him release his semen.
And now that person was Emily Carter, that blonde, blue-eyed bitch, that doctor who tempted her son with stockings and high heels.
At three in the morning, Shivani opened the hidden compartment of her bedside drawer.
Inside, there were no jewels, only a neat stack of documents:
Rohan's birth certificate, medical records, a copy of Dr. Carter's medical license—all obtained through private investigation.
And a worn copy of the Bhagavad Gita.
Her fingers traced the cover of the scripture. The leather texture, once a source of peace, now felt only cold.
"Action arises from wisdom, not from attachment."
She murmured a line from the scripture, her voice breaking in the empty bedroom.
But where was the wisdom? Reporting Dr. Carter to the police for sexually assaulting a minor patient?
That meant exposing Rohan's secret, meaning the whole world would know her son had abnormally large testicles, a penis that swelled to terrifying proportions, and needed regular release—no, it wasn't just release, it was masturbation, it was sexual activity, it was her son being manipulated by a forty-three-year-old woman.
Shivani's breathing grew rapid.
She felt her breasts swelling, her nipples even slightly hardening, rubbing against the inside of her silk robe.
This reaction disgusted her—her body, in anger and anxiety, had actually shown signs of desire.
Ever since those two times she masturbated Rohan, this body seemed to have had some evil switch flipped, betraying her at the most inappropriate moments.
She laughed mockingly at herself, tossed aside the Bhagavad Gita, bent down, and pulled out a brand-new shoebox from the hidden compartment.
The fat on her buttocks piled backward as she bent over, the hem of her robe riding up, revealing the back of her thighs—the skin there was the whitest part of her entire body, untouched by sunlight for years, now glowing under the moonlight like cold jade, faintly revealing the bluish veins beneath.
She opened the shoebox.
Inside was a pair of newly bought designer high heels, with seven-centimeter stiletto heels, the patent leather red soles like a smear of blood. Next to them, neatly folded, was an equally expensive pair of sheer pantyhose, still in its unopened packaging.
She changed into them.
First, the stockings.
Shivani sat on the edge of the bed, lifted one leg, rolled the stocking down to her toes, and slowly pulled it upward.
The ultra-thin fabric slid over her calves—where the tight muscle lines from years of yoga practice were visible, her calves full and rounded.
The stockings continued upward, covering her knees and thighs.
When the stockings reached the top of her thighs, she paused for a moment, her fingers unconsciously pressing against the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs—the skin there was the most tender, leaving red marks with the slightest pressure.
The pantyhose struggled to encase her firm, ample buttocks, then came the high heels.
She slipped her feet into them, the stiletto heels tapping the wooden floor with a crisp sound.
The moment she stood up, her height suddenly increased to nearly six feet, the curves of her entire body elongated and stretched.
Her buttocks, pushed by the high heels, arched even more backward, the dip of her waist deepened, and the massive breasts on her chest thrust forward, her nipples protruding as two distinct points beneath the robe.
She walked to the mirror and untied the robe's belt.
The silk slipped off, pooling at her feet.
The woman in the mirror wore only sheer stockings and high heels. She put on a traditional lehenga blouse, barely covering her buttocks, without the traditional ankle-length pants underneath, revealing a pair of legs encased in stockings—smooth, fleshy, and long as jade pillars.
Her pubic hair was unusually thick, dark and curly, peeking out from the hem of the lehenga, starkly visible against the sheer stockings.
Her stomach was flat and firm, but faint silver stretch marks from childbirth were visible—evidence that Rohan had emerged from her vagina.
"I'm prettier than that bitch doctor, with a better body. Why don't I do it myself?"
Shivani said to the mirror, her fingers sliding from her collarbone down, past the deep cleavage, and resting on her stomach.
"Where's your dominance? Weren't you the one who could control everything?"
She had never been so indecisive.
The woman in the mirror sighed, her ample chest heaving heavily with the sigh.
"Yes, I'm afraid of provoking Rohan's fierce resistance, afraid of being utterly despised by him, of being cast out from the deepest recesses of his heart... That woman... that bitch... What did she give him? Stockings? Orgasms? Or that feeling of being desired?"
Shivani's hand slid to the top of her thigh, pressing against her vulva through the sheer fabric.
It was already damp—in her anger and jealousy, her vagina had instinctively secreted a warm, wet heat.
She jerked her hand back as if scalded.
"Bitch."
She cursed herself, unsure whether she was cursing Carter or her own traitorous body.
The next morning, when Shivani appeared at her financial management firm, all the employees sensed something was off.
"Good morning, Ms. Sharma."
The receptionist's voice was timid, her eyes daring not to linger on her boss for more than a second.
Shivani was dressed in a traditional, conservative Indian lehenga, her flat shoes tapping out a brisk, decisive rhythm on the marble floor. But today, that rhythm carried a suppressed chaos—like her heartbeat, seemingly steady on the surface but utterly disordered within.
Several assistants exchanged glances.
Their boss, the ever-calm, ever-in-control Shivani Sharma, was distracted today.
As she passed through the office area, she didn't even glance at everyone's screens as she usually did. Instead, she walked straight to her office, her back rigid.
Inside her office, Shivani sat behind the massive walnut desk, the third-quarter investment report spread before her.
Numbers danced before her eyes but refused to enter her mind.
She tried to focus:
North London Real Estate Fund, projected return 7.3%...
The numbers warped. 7.3% transformed into the measurement marks on a semen collection vial.
She remembered that small glass vial, remembered how thick and abundant Rohan's semen was, remembered how that milky liquid filled the bottom of the vial, remembered that intense masculine scent—a smell that still occasionally lingered at the tip of her nose, when she masturbated for Rohan, when she awoke from midnight dreams.
Tech startup Series B financing, 12% equity stake...
12% became Rohan's voice and smile at age twelve.
Back then, he still allowed her to hug him, would run to her when she came home, burying his face against her waist.
Back then, his body hadn't yet developed, didn't yet have that damned, swelling sinful rod, didn't yet have those secrets that excluded her, his mother, keeping her awake at night.
"Ms. Sharma?"
The financial director stood at the door, holding documents that required her signature.
A man in his fifties, he had been with the company for ten years and had never seen Shivani like this—staring at the report, her eyes as hollow as if gazing into a grave.
"Are you alright?"
Shivani looked up sharply, her gaze sharp as a blade: "What is it?"
The man swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing:
"These require your signature. Also, the meeting with the private equity representatives at two this afternoon..."
"Cancel it."
"Cancel?" The financial director was stunned. "But that was scheduled three months ago. They flew in specially from New York..."
"I said cancel."
Shivani's voice didn't rise, but each word was wrapped in ice, like a scalpel cutting through the air. "Out. Close the door."
The door closed, shutting out all outside gazes.
Shivani leaned back in her chair, the leather emitting a soft groan. Her slender fingers pressed against her temples.
The headache from insomnia felt like fine needles piercing her skull, one after another, drilling into the depths of her brain where reason resided.
She took a small medicine bottle from the drawer—headache pills prescribed by her previous private doctor.
She had never taken them, because "losing control is a sign of weakness." But now she unscrewed the cap, shook out two white tablets, and swallowed them dry.
The pills scraped her throat, leaving a bitter trail.
The effect came slowly, thick and heavy.
Twenty minutes later, the headache eased slightly, but her thoughts grew even more muddled.
She opened her computer and pulled up the website for the private medical department of St. Mary's Hospital.
Emily Carter's professional photo appeared, the face smiling back at her: golden hair neatly coiled, makeup impeccably professional, frameless glasses perched on a straight nose.
The bio beneath the image read: "Honors graduate of the University of London Medical School, a leader in the field of private medicine, twenty years of experience, specializing in internal surgery, psychology..."
Her fingers paused on the keyboard for a moment, then she opened a folder.
Inside was all the information she had gathered over the past two weeks:
Dr. Carter's address—a terraced house in Kensington, valued at at least three million pounds.
Shivani zoomed in on the Google Street View image, staring at the red-brick building, imagining the woman walking around her home in stockings, imagining Rohan, free from her control, being lured inside, stepping through that door, perhaps onto that bed...
Her marital status: divorced, no children.
The reason for the divorce was unclear, but the property settlement had been clean.
Her social media presence was almost nonexistent, but Shivani had found a photo from ten years ago: Carter and her ex-husband in Santorini, Greece, both dressed in white, smiling at the sunset.
A divorced, childless woman in her forties, living in a big house, earning a high salary, yet reaching her claws toward a fifteen-year-old boy.
Shivani's nails dug into her palm, leaving four crescent-shaped marks.
"You want my son," she whispered, her voice echoing in the empty office. "But he is mine. From the moment he grew inside me, he was mine. I endured fourteen hours of labor, lost 800 milliliters of blood—I created this life with my own flesh and blood. How dare you touch him?"
She took out her phone. The screen lit up, showing a notification from Rohan's school sent a few days earlier: the Autumn Sports Day would be held this Friday, and parents were welcome to attend.
Shivani stared at the message, her brown eyes slowly narrowing.
Friday's sky was a rare London blue, free of fog or clouds, the sunlight shining directly down, making everything on the South Bay High School sports field appear overly sharp and vivid.
The bleachers were filled with students and parents, the buzz of conversation like a swarm of migrating bees.
Rohan sat at the edge of the student council section, deliberately avoiding the center of the crowd.
He wore a crisply ironed school uniform shirt, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows—a "proper way to wear it" that Alisha Matsumoto had once mentioned casually during a meeting. He had remembered and followed it.
A new backpack sat at his feet—the eight-hundred-pound leather one Dr. Carter had given him—containing a notebook and an unopened sports drink.
"Next up, please enjoy the opening performance by the South Bay High cheerleading squad!"
The voice from the loudspeaker sent the entire venue into a frenzy, erupting in applause and whistles.
Rohan looked up.
Sarah Mendoza led the cheerleading squad onto the field, dressed in blue-and-gold form-fitting uniforms.
The uniforms were shockingly short—the tops were cropped tank tops that exposed their midriffs, while the bottoms were high-waisted miniskirts whose hems barely covered the lower edges of their buttocks.
Twelve girls, each looking as if they had stepped straight out of an American teen movie: perfect smiles, long limbs, and an elegance that combined strength and femininity as they tossed and caught each other in the air.
But everyone's gaze was fixed on Sarah.
She stood at the top of the pyramid, her brown hair tied into a high ponytail that swung with her every movement.
Her skin was a healthy honey color, her thigh muscles taut, her calves sleek, and her ankles slender.
When she leaped, her miniskirt flew upward, revealing her buttocks encased in white athletic shorts—their shape was perfect, like two plump peaches, the cleft between them deep enough to hold a credit card.
The music started—a remix of some pop song, its beat powerful, the bass vibrating through the floor of the stands.
The girls began tumbling and jumping, their bodies tracing smooth arcs in the air.
Sarah's chest bounced violently beneath her tight tank top, her D-cup breasts jiggling with every move.
Then came the climax: two girls lifted Sarah, and she leaped lightly into the air, executing a flawless backflip.
In that moment, her miniskirt flipped open completely, exposing her white shorts fully to the sunlight.
When she landed, she didn't even bend her knees, her feet planted firmly in her teammates' palms, ending in a standing split—a one-legged pose.
The fabric of her tight miniskirt stretched to its limit, the muscles along her inner thighs taut like carved marble.
Gasps and applause erupted from the stands, with whistles from the boys rising one after another.
Rohan clapped too, his movements mechanical.
His gaze couldn't tear itself away from Sarah—not out of desire, at least he didn't think it was desire—but because of a cold, detached observation.
He remembered the faded earrings he had seen on her last time, that cheap detail so at odds with her current polished image.
This girl had been there when Max bullied him, watching coldly, mocking him with arrogance, yet now she shone under the sunlight like a meticulously crafted work of art, every part flawless.
"Hypocrite," Rohan muttered under his breath, the words audible only to himself.
But he had to admit, that hypocrisy held power.
Sarah Mendoza knew how to be watched, how to be desired, how to use a perfect facade to conceal everything—just as Dr. Carter used a white coat to hide her stockings, and medical jargon to mask the embarrassment of incontinence.
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