Roger traced the rim of the vial with his thumb, the slick glass feeling almost unnatural, as if constantly condensated and wet. It was warm too against his skin; as if whatever was contained within had a pulse, a heartbeat of its own.
Twice on the walk home he’d considered tossing it in the trash.
He’d spent the last hour turning it over and over in his hands after the nervousness of even touching it to begin with had worn off. The stopper was very secure, it turned out.
Even so, he couldn’t help imagining some accidental drop escaping.
He felt like an idiot. He’d just spent the entire night walking in the rain, likely catching a cold in the process, to get lured in and touched up by some… well, admittedly outrageously attractive woman. Only for him to leave a dollar shorter and with a bottle of what she claimed was - what - magic potion?
He laughed. A sharp, disbelieving sound that startled him as he heard it from his own mouth. What the hell was he doing?
He pressed his palms to his eyes, holding the delicate glass vial between his fingers. A weird woman in an even weirder shop had just molested him with her feet as she rambled about magic potions. He’d given her a dollar, and for what? A vial of in all likelihood fancy dish soap.
After all, if magic potions were real, he chuckled to himself, just imagine…
His mind raced as he remembered the potion seller’s words, and at the thought of Layla’s towering frame pinning him to the bed, her massive thighs straddling his waist as she gazed down at him in terrifying, all-consuming devotion.
That alone was enough to have his cock painfully twitching against the sodden material of his boxers, having long since discarded his soaking clothes upon arriving home.
Roger groaned, dragging his hands down his face, the cool pads of his fingers massaging his tired eyes. Deah, if that was even her real name which he sincerely doubted, had likely done all this out of some sick fascination. A creep luring in lonely guys. He could hear her mocking laughter now.
“Then the kid actually signed it! I even made him squirt on a copy!”
The small vial disappeared into his bedside drawer. He didn’t toss it recklessly, just letting it come to rest amidst the other keepsakes he’d left in there over the years before leaving for college. A birthday card, a small stone. Even a paper crown from one christmas Layla had spent in their house. He eyed it with suspicion one last time before sliding the drawer shut.
Sighing and rolling onto his stomach he buried his face in his pillow, unable to help pretending it was Layla’s body instead, yet hoping to suffocate his lingering fantasies of her along with his face.
He’d resigned himself now; this summer would be a monotonous and excruciating slog. Layla would pat his head while he fixed her computer, moved furniture, or whatever else it was she wanted of him. He’d choke down his pathetic whimpers whenever her beautiful body got close to point out a mistake or deliver heavily over-reciprocated affection. The scent of her perfume would cling to him for hours and taunt him like a phantom caress, and he’d likely set some kind of record for jerking off.
His eyelids grew heavier as he traced patterns on the thin sheets over his body with his fingers, imagining them as Layla’s moving lazily and affectionately over his skin. The humid air clung to him like her imagined embrace, pressing him into the mattress. Moonlight pooled around his bed through the open window, casting elongated shadows that stretched in towards him.
As his breathing grew steadier, softer, Layla watched and listened from the opposite window. Her fingers drummed pensively on the windowsill below smiling wickedly, a devilish idea having occurred.
***
Roger groaned in defiance of the sunlight forcing its way into his eyes, his mouth dry and his head pounding like he’d spent the night drinking instead of fantasizing. The bedding clung to his damp skin, tangled around him like restraints.
Blinking blearily at the ceiling he tried to piece together the events of the night before. He felt both wrung out and electrified all at once. As memories of the night before resurfaced, however, his pulse kicked like a spooked horse.
His shower’s spray did wonders to wash away the lingering sweat, but did little for the shame or restless energy humming beneath his skin. It almost didn’t feel real. Like a bad dream, or a particularly good one. It irked him, the way she had talked to him with such familiarity, as if she knew everything about him. Honestly, that stung his pride more than being treated so wantonly.
Whatever, he spat into the running water. What was he going to do? Tell somebody about it? ‘I answered a weird text, met a woman in the industrial district and she touched my dick?’
Somehow he doubted anyone would believe it even happened, and if they did they’d just think he was a freak.
Then again, it had been a bit… odd. She had known his name, somehow. Seemed to know a lot about him. Hell, the door and that stool appeared out of nowhere, almost like…
He scrubbed mechanically through his hair, trying in earnest to wash away his thoughts. No, what he did last night was stupid, but believing in magic? That would be insane.
As he washed he was deliberately avoiding eye contact with his traitorous half-hard cock twitching between his thighs. It was already reacting to memories of what that woman Deah had done to him, to thoughts of Layla doing the same, her hands replacing his own, soapy and soft as they glided across his body.
Roger had to force himself out of the shower before he succumbed to the urges of youth, towelling off and catching his own reflection in the fogged mirror. Slight shadows beneath his eyes, lips cracked from biting, he looked a wreck. Layla would no doubt notice, no doubt comment once again on how important sleep was when she was the reason he couldn’t rest.
His phone buzzed violently against the sink, ringing deep into the hollow porcelain as he fumbled with still-wet fingers trying to unlock it, smearing droplets across the image of Layla on his lock screen. Her name flashed up in bold as he opened it and his stomach twisted into knots.
“Good morning sweetie!” Her message read, followed by a row of emojis - a sun, lawnmower and sweating face. “Today I was hoping your project could be my yard. The grass looks desperate and the roses could really use a man’s touch!”
His pulse spiked at the casual implication, fingers tightening around his smartphone.
“Wear something you don’t mind sweating in!” She added, her smirk practically dripping through the screen.
Roger exhaled long and deeply through his nose, fingers twitching over the reply button.
For a moment his gaze lingered on his bedside drawer.
But what if?
He knew the vial still rested inside - he had checked nervously three times to be sure since - its pink liquid sloshing against the glass thickly, clinging to its inner surface.
Sliding the drawer open it appeared, ominously glinting in the late morning light.
He hesitated, fingers hovering midway between himself and the delicate trinket. The rational part of his brain scoffed. Deah was just some kinky con artist with a foot fetish.
But… What if?
The thought of Layla’s heavy-lidded gaze, her finally seeing him as more than a bumbling kid, sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock. He swallowed hard, torn between the shame of wanting her to want him, and the gnawing hunger that same thought inspired.
Well? What was he going to do, slip her whatever was in this bottle? He had no way to know if it was safe. Hell, what if that Deah woman really was as crazy as she seemed? This could be poison for all he knew.
His phone buzzed again insistently. When he unlocked it the photo he saw made his throat constrict as if someone had a hand around it. Layla was lazing by the edge of the pool, with only tiny triangles of fabric connected by tiny straps covering her otherwise monumental breasts. With one knee raised, the strings of her bikini were digging into the soft swell of her otherworldly hips and the supple plateaus of the sheer mass of her tits.
As bikinis went it was more of a formality really than any kind of actual attempt at modesty. It was entirely superfluous, completely inadequate at trying to contain what no outfit ever could even if it were trying to. Her pubic mound, thick and swollen as ever, was practically swallowing her bikini bottom alive in its puffy, fleshy expanse, the fabric vanishing into the creases where her thighs met the swollen, pillowy mound of her belly.
What was worse was the translucent, practically sheer material did utterly nothing to hide the darker swell of her areolas beneath, and her thumb-sized nipples were tenting the already thinly stretched material.
As he stared down at his phone - eyes drinking in the feast of flesh before them - his heart skipped one beat, then another, before he finally breathed in. Heart hammering in his chest he pulled the vial out of the drawer and stared at it before moving to his bedroom window.
How could she send a photo like that to her neighbour!? Unless…
Sure enough, over the garden fence, he could see her almost entirely nude body - in all its soft and undulating glory. In moments he was practically hyperventilating.
Staring at the vial he knew what he had to do.
“Well, if it’s poison I’d rather it kill me.” He thought to himself.
Roger winced at the faint *pop* as he opened the vial, the stopper coming free with some effort. The liquid shimmered with an unnatural viscosity - like syrup laced with thick cream. He hesitated one last time before smearing the smallest drop on the tip of his pinky finger, leaving behind a glistening film.
His hand shook a little as he brought it to his lips… and before he realised it, he’d licked it.
It tasted sweet, like strawberry.
For a while he lay on his bed, certain he would die, that he had just ingested some awful substance. Yet there was no way he could have taken the chance it could hurt Layla - no matter how condescending or infantilising, frustrating… no matter how she treated him.
After a while, he stared at the vial, restoppered once more, as it shimmered almost mockingly.
Nothing. He was no different at all. What had Deah said? A single drop and he would become the man she always wanted.
Well, he certainly didn’t feel any different. His feet still took just as long to get from the bed to the floor. He hadn’t changed at all, and he hadn’t fallen over dead.
Not that he had expected it to work.
The stupidity of what he was doing suddenly hit him all at once. Of course it hadn’t worked. Did he really think women were handing out magic potions for a dollar in the middle of the night? While he’d felt foolish up ‘till now, he had never felt so utterly the fool.
Another text.
“Are you on your way sweetie? The early bird catches the worm!”
A worm emoji followed by kissing lips made him double take, and he ruefully glared at the vial in his hand.
“What a waste of a night… and a dollar.” He sighed, groaning into the back of his fist as he stood.
He shoved the vial into his pocket almost without thinking as he left to start what promised to be a day of highly provocative erotic suffering.
***
The lawnmower was quite old, and as a result steering the lumbering dinosaur required a full body lean for Roger. Every stride was a struggle as the industrial relic churned the grass beneath. As he carted it across Layla’s sprawling estate he tried not to gawk too openly at Layla by the pool, lying as she was still practically naked.
At first he had been determined not to look at her, too embarrassed from their last encounter to even keep his eyes fixed straight ahead and focus on keeping neat, straight lines. That lasted all of one lap across her lawn, and with each subsequent pass as he was forced to walk towards her he simply couldn’t help letting his gaze drift naturally to her incomprehensible body.
The pale expanse of her body was spread atop a massive chaise lounge, stretched out like a goddess awaiting tribute. Unable not to peek as he passed he could swear the strings of her bikini were so strained that one deep breath would snap them.
His pace slowed each time unconsciously as his eyes drank her in; the way her vast bosom spilled sideways across her chaise, how her thighs spread so indulgently beneath the flimsy excuse of a bikini bottom she scantily wore. The fabric of both was soaked through, and he wondered if she had been in the pool or if it was simply from the pearling, beading bullets of sweat that coated her skin and ran in rivulets as her immense form soaked up the sun.
He supposed it must be near impossible to find swimwear in her size, but even on a normal sized woman that bikini would have been scandalous! She must have had it custom made, but if she’d done that then… well, then she had had it intentionally made to be this revealing.
She held a reflective screen in one hand to direct more of the sun’s rays at herself. She hadn’t moved since Roger had arrived, not even looking up at him as she had asked him to mow the grass and attend to her roses.
Indeed as he maneuvered the mower closer to her with each pass she simply lay in total relaxation. He wasn’t sure she was watching him until he saw her twirl her fingers greeting, a little smile behind her broad sunglasses.
With a clunk, the mower died for the umpteenth time. Roger fumbled clumsily with the lawnmower’s handle, struggling to get it started again. He cursed himself. Now he was here all he wanted was to be out of her sight, feeling much more comfortable at the far ends of her vast garden. He tugged the start line again and again, chewing his lip in frustration.
She had to know what dressing like this was doing to him, especially after… his last visit. Angrily he was just about to kick the mower, until he remembered he was only a scant few meters away from her. The machine roared to life once more, almost jumping from his hands as he tugged a bit too roughly on the catch and he set off at a little too swift a pace.
He grunted with effort and pushed his burden away from her, sighing in some relief when he was a distance away. Yet inevitably he had to turn back, and now he was so close to the pool side there was no way he could do anything but look at her.
Her bikini clung to every soft fold and dip of her pillowy thighs, her tented nipples, and her plush mound. He was practically crawling while facing her direction, lawnmower stuttering as it lingered too long in one spot, the poor boy simply too transfixed.
Roger couldn’t help it. Even if he had wanted to look away, he had little choice. It was too much to ask of him not to stare. As he passed her, he leaned back further and further until the mower was practically vertical, keeping her in his sight as long as he could. She seemed none the wiser, behind her massive aviator glasses he assumed her eyes were closed, as she gave no sign of his adolescent ogling.
Even so, as he begrudgingly pushed the mower away from her, some instinctual part of his mind swore she was staring after him hungrily. It was like a holdover in the mind from caveman days warning him of a predator nearby.
***
As the tannic scent of freshly cut grass mingled with her coconut sunscreen Layla was just as eagerly feasting her eyes on the boy before her, albeit trying to show no sign of her obvious arousal as he nearly fell backwards in his obeisance to her body. It was even harder not to chuckle each time he was forced to move onwards, the sullen look on his face as he was forced to turn away and maintain his charade of dutiful housework.
She bit her lower lip expectantly, delighted at the loose shirt and tight shorts he had chosen which left so little to the imagination - although a fair bit more than her own scandalous outfit of course.
Content to let the boy’s hunger grow, she bided her time until she would give him the opportunity to slake his thirst.
***
Roger’s erection was well beyond hiding by now, tenting his shorts obscenely as he gripped the mower’s handle white-knuckled, sweat dripping from his brow onto the hot metal and freshly chopped grass. He could only pray she hadn’t noticed, and as she languidly stretched - her breasts lifting and straining the already struggling fabric - he hoped against hope she wasn't looking as he once again nervously hitched his shorts up around his waist, trying to somehow disguise his raging hardness.
After his little accident he wasn’t sure he could handle her seeing him like this. The burning heat in his cheeks had little to do with the midday sun.
His heart hammered in his chest with realisation as, turning back on himself, he had but one last strip of untouched grass dwindling before him. He had mowed her entire garden now, save for that which was closest to her. Realisation struck like a hammer blow as he slowed his steps, trying to ignore how the rhythmic vibration of the mower travelled through his body and somehow seemed concentrated purely on the head of his now overly sensitive cock. Every lead-heavy step he took seemed to resonate, shuddering his hips just enough to grind the tip of his cock into the seam of his shorts.
Roger grit his teeth, trying to force his mind blank, focusing on anything he could that might dim his now raging libido.
He tried not to think of Layla’s massive breasts swaying, heaving, her turgid nipples poking so prominently into those tiny scraps of fabric. He tried not to imagine how the plush lips of her sex practically devoured the skimpy bikini that barely covered them. He tried not to imagine sweat pooling in her cleavage, droplets sliding down the soft valley. He tried not to picture her tree-trunk thick thighs pillowing widely under their own weight, spreading effortlessly beneath her, or how the sun glinted off the sheen of moisture clinging to her every curve.
Those efforts weren’t very successful.
Only then did he notice as the mower spluttered and churned, as it had no more grass to consume. His hands trembled as sweat pooled between them and the handle, and with every second his excuses to stand there dwindled, knowing he had to face her now.
His cock throbbed violently in his shorts, betraying him as his pulse hammered in his ears. The panic only made things worse as his cock bobbed within its elastic prison to the beat of his heart, dampness soaking the fabric and clinging to the head with every twitch.
“Oh Roger sweetie!” She cooed, her voice cutting through the drone of the ticking mower, and her words honeyed and far too smooth. “Would you come here for a second?”
His stomach lurched as the reality which he had known would soon encroach upon his panicked fantasies suddenly arrived. His throat clicked dryly as he swallowed, knees rigidly locked as his body simply physically refused to move. The primal fear of being devoured warred with his desperate and almost overwhelming urge to obey her beautiful voice.
Layla rolled to her side at length, breasts bulging within their micro-constraints and utterly inadequate cups, smiling as she watched the boy freeze like a deer in headlights. Her lazy smirk only widened as she let her sunglasses dip, her predatory eyes dark and knowing as they tracked the bob of his Adam's apple.
Turning his head to look back with slow and meandering dread, Roger was mortified to see her curling her beckoning him over, finger moving in slow, hypnotic curls.
With a wince and a whimper he forced one foot forward after another, swaying as he moved closer. His shorts clung so tightly to him now that they were practically skintight, a layer painted over his cock. He crossed his hands over his crotch like an embarrassed child called to the front of the class.
“My my, your cheeks are awfully red.” She commented as he grew closer. “Are you too warm? We wouldn’t want you to burn sweet boy…”
Layla waited just long enough to give the boy hope, eyes fixating on his hands as they covered his raging cock.
“Oh sweetie, your hands… Are you alright?” Her voice dripped with false concern, head tilted to one side. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Roger couldn’t bring himself to speak, his throat as tight as if he was being choked. Uncaring, she reached out to gleefully encircle his wrist with her manicured nails all while maintaining an affection of concern, before gently yet firmly pulling his hands aside.
“Oh my!” She gasped in faux shock, eyes flicking downwards to drink in the sight of his cock before flicking back up to his now deep red face, bordering on purple. “Roger, sweetie…” She trailed off with theatrical hesitation, fingers lingering on his wrist teasingly, just a little too long.
She sighed exaggeratedly. “Oh what a fool I’ve been... You poor little boy! After what happened yesterday, here I am half naked… how could I be expecting any different. I’m so sorry sweetie…”
With a gentle tug she pulled him closer and forced him to sit at the edge of her plush lounger, hovering on the edge of what little room remained as her colossal form practically occupied the entire surface.
“I suppose you must feel so awfully confused.” She cooed, hand tracing the back of his neck oh-so reassuringly, and yet playing merry havoc with his already turbulent emotions. “It’s only natural for you to feel this way.”
Roger faced away from her in abject mortification, just wishing she would put him out of his misery.
She leaned close, all at once comforting and yet in the same stroke pressing her massive breasts against his body. Her breath tickled his ear with every word.
“Roger, sweetie, has your mother ever sat you down and taught you about your body? Your penis? Erections?”
“W-what?” He breathed out, his already hyper-embarrassment being sent into total overload.
“Honey, you’re confused about your body, I understand…” She smirked broadly as he stared dead at the ground, unable to meet her gaze.
“I-I’m… I’m twenty-two Miss Honey!” He squeaked, failing miserably to project the confidence and maturity he sought to.
“Oh of course sweetie. You’re such a big boy.” She sighed again, disappointedly. “Your mother really ought to have explained this to you by now!”
He choked out a sob. This was beyond any humiliation a boy like him could have hoped to endure. Somehow this felt even worse than being forced to cream himself in front of her. Tears streaked down his cheeks, unintentionally confirming to Layla everything she had just said, which of course only made the situation worse.
“Awww, poor boy, don’t cry… It’s alright…”
“I’m n-not a b-boy!” He whimpered, shrinking both physically and metaphorically beneath her. “I’m a m-man!”
“Oh, well of course you are!” She drooled delightedly, drinking in his misery like a fine wine. “Such a big grown boy…”
She kissed the side of his head.
“You sit right here. I’m going to get us some fresh lemonade, then I’m going to explain everything your mother should have told you long ago. Don’t you worry, your Auntie Layla will be more than happy to help her special little boy....”
With that she stood, the sheer movement of so much mass from the chaise almost sending him sprawling, but he managed to scurry back a little onto the pool bed as more of it became available just in time.
“Just you wait here, I’ll be right back.” She soothed, kissing his forehead before she sashayed away.
For the first time he could ever remember, he felt no urge to look at her. He was simply too ashamed. He just wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear entirely. Roger stared into the grass and wondered how he had somehow wound up in precisely the same predicament as before, Layla thinking of him as an immature horny boy, albeit this time with the promise of the most excruciating and condescending lecture of his entire life to look forward to.
Layla reappeared and placed a tray next to him on a small wrought iron table. He didn’t look up, even as she lifted the pitcher of lemonade with its ice cubes rattling inside.
“Let me pour you a nice tall glass... Now, where was I… oh! I almost forgot!”
Begrudgingly he let his gaze drift up over her still-half-nude form, yet she wasn’t looking at him, but rather the lemonade.
“The sugar!” She tutted, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. “I’ll be right back. Such a sweet boy deserves a sweet lemonade to cheer him up after all!”
He stared as she put the glass down. Long, cylindrical, dripping with condensation. Beads ran down its sides and pooled onto the tray beneath.
The lemonade…
Roger didn’t really think about what he did next. He simply did it. With slow, mechanical movements he withdrew the tiny glass vial from his pocket and cradled it in his fingertips.
He stared at the vial as it appeared in his hands, the lemonade pitcher behind it blurring out of focus. A million and one doubts fought for room in his skull, the hammering in his ears now deafening. He’d already tried it himself and nothing had happened. Magic wasn’t real. Potions weren’t real. Logically, he knew that.
Yet the rational part of his mind had taken leave. He wanted to believe - needed to believe - that there was hope, that she might ever see him as more than a helpless boy. He couldn't live like this, trapped in the agonizing posture of a boy playing at being a man, couldn’t keep breathing this suffocating air. The sheer, endless, blistering humiliation of it all made his throat ache and his chest hurt so intensely he could barely draw breath.
If the potion was fake, if it was just coloured water, then what did he have left to lose?
His heart raced, a frantic, trapped animal raging inside his chest. Layla would be back any second.
Drops fell from the vial almost silently as the world seemed to close in around him, disappearing into the lemonade she had so kindly brought.
His heart beat once, twice, before he suddenly threw the empty glass container with a violent, desperate jerk of his arm; it twinkled in the sun for a split second before vanishing into the brush. His hand hung limply at his side, suddenly bereft of its package. The roaring in his ears had vanished to be replaced by ominous silence.
“Everything okay, sweetie?” Layla asked from just behind him, and he practically jumped out of his skin.
She was inches from him. How long had she been there? How long had he been watching? Had she seen him? No, she couldn’t have…
“Fine!” He forced through gritted teeth, not meeting her gaze.
Layla stared at him, eyes lidded, smile broad, yet both tinted with something he couldn’t place. She was inscrutable, and he merely stared up into her eyes.
Had anybody asked him, Roger wouldn’t have been able to tell them how long the moment lasted, merely that his heart didn’t beat once until it ended.
“Good.” She grinned, before she began to sprinkle sugar into the mix, the same cup of sugar he had brought over just the day before.
She poured herself a glass, handed him his, and then sat down next to him.
The tidal wave of plush flesh that was her thigh collided with him, threatening to spill over his meagre form and nearly knocking his own glass from his hand.
“Now, where was I… oh yes.” She said softly, and Roger could only watch with a mix of fascination and horror, as she lifted her glass to her mouth and swallowed almost the entire dose in one.
Layla gasped in satisfaction as she licked her lips, only to look down at him and notice the way he was staring at her expectantly, eyes alight.
“Everything okay, sweetie?”
“Y-yuh.”
“That’s good. Very good.” She quipped, placing her now empty glass back down. “My good boy…”
He stared, looking for something, anything. What was he supposed to be looking for? What sign would there be?
“I know this will be a little awkward to talk about, but you are a growing boy.”
Roger wilted.
“I’m so glad you’re feeling alright. It must have been so awful for you. My big, soft body… your hormonal little brain is probably just so overwhelmed.”
She spoke down to him, both metaphorically and literally, just as she always had done. Only now it was for the most humiliating of reasons. She looked at Roger the way she always had, with those abundantly affectionate and yet utterly condescending eyes.
Nothing.
Nothing had happened.
He felt his heart crack under the ache. Of course nothing had happened. What was he expecting, that magic was real? Lighting cracking and dark clouds?
He truly must be a child to have been sold such an obvious lie and be naive enough to think it had the slightest chance of being true.
Roger felt his eyes burn in humiliation as he sobbed. It hadn’t worked. His last hope was gone. He hated himself for ever believing things could change, for letting himself ever believe that she would see him for more than the boy next door, for setting himself up for such disappointment.
It felt as if a ton-weight of ice was tugging down at his very soul.
“You know… I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” She whispered into his ear, suddenly much closer than before.
He froze, looking up at her as she sat by his side through eyes just starting to blur with fresh tears.
“You really are growing up quite fast.”
His heart skipped a beat.
“The reason I wanted you to help me, the real reason… Well, it’s because you’re not just the little boy I used to know anymore.”
In spite of everything, he couldn’t help but smile. Could this really be happening?
Her hand snaked its way around his side, pulling him just a little tighter to her body as a finger cleared his tears. He felt a swell within him. She’d never spoken to him quite like this before.
“You’re starting your life, and I would hate to see you leave again because… I would miss you a lot. I’d say you’ve grown into quite the handsome young man.”
Every moment of his life felt like it had been leading up to this. He could almost feel himself tipping over the edge of a better future. That this was where things would change for him.
“Mrs Honey… L-layla. That’s… You have no idea how good it feels to hear you say that.” He whispered, almost afraid to break something too fragile to touch. Somehow the words he’d practiced in his head a thousand times just wouldn’t come, and that was all he could manage.
Layla just smiled. Her eyes glassy, placid.
She felt him quiver, could almost feel the cracks already forming in his mind. The poor lad’s psyche was now so fragile, so weak, that she knew he would melt from even the slightest nudge. Yet that simply wouldn’t do. She needed him to surrender willingly, needed him to understand that he was hers. She would crush any dreams of agency or independence he had once harbored. Mercilessly. She would erase any remnants of the man he was, and mold him into her perfect little boy.
Her grip on him tightened ever so slightly.
After all, no one else could satisfy what she had prepared him for. He was hers, body and soul. A contract had been signed and the price had been paid. She would be the woman he needed, and he would be what she wanted.
She smiled as she pulled him into her bosom, gently rocking him back and forth. He would be her precious boy… she just needed him to understand that.
But all in good time. She didn’t have much longer to wait.
“Run along home, Roger. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She said at last.
This was incredible. She wasn’t just being her normal flirty self, this was… much more. He stared up in delight at her gleaming smile, her rose red lips glinted, her tongue dragging across them hungrily.
Begrudgingly he parted from her hug and, trying not to run with excitement, headed home.
Layla merely smiled.
After he was gone, she wandered over to the corner of her yard and picked up a small, glinting object from the freshly cut grass. She gently ran it through her fingers, admiring it.
She sighed.
“Not a little boy anymore.” She repeated to herself as her lips curled, eyes narrowing. “That is something I intend to fix.”