The 'Direct-Her' App

Note: All characters within this story are above 18 years of age. This is a fictional story and is meant to be read as a fantasy by adults (18+). Any apparent lack of consent is purely a narrative element within this fictional setting and is not meant to reflect acceptable behavior in real life. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Ron could do nothing but stand there and prepare himself to take the verbal abuse he already knew was coming. He had heard her heels. That sharp, clean click on the hallway wood that always meant she was dressed for work and out of patience. Then the door handle. The door opened in one smooth motion.

Judith Shaw walked into the room like she owned the air in it, which, as far as Ron was concerned, she did. She stopped in front of him with his grades from the previous term in one hand, the paper folded once and held tight enough that it had a crease down the middle.

She was forty and there was no decent reason she still looked like that. Brunette hair, dark chestnut pulled into a sleek bun so tight it made her cheekbones look carved. Not a strand out of place. Sharp brown eyes that did not wander when they were angry. She had the kind of face people still turned for in parking lots, clean makeup, nude mouth, the expression of a woman who had already decided the meeting was a waste of her time. The powersuit did the rest. Charcoal blazer cut close to a waist she had no business still having. White blouse tucked in, top button done, fabric still stretched across a pair of tits that made the whole professional act look filthy if you looked too long. And Ron looked as long as he could. He always did, then hated himself for it. Pencil skirt painted over her hips and that ass she carried like it was part of the job description. Black heels. Thin gold watch. Fit hourglass body, she was the complete package. A total MILF standing in his room with a report card, and the worst part was she did not even have to try to look attractive.

Ron knew the morning was going to be tough. He had felt it in his stomach before she even opened her mouth. He just had not anticipated how much failing two subjects would set her off. Two. Not the whole term. Not a collapse. Two boxes on a page and she was already looking at him like he had burned the house down.

“What is the meaning of this, Ronald?”

His full name. That was the first cut. She only used it when she wanted him to feel small.

“I cannot believe that despite everything I do for you as a single mother you still do not respect me enough to do the bare minimum.”

Ron clenched his jaw. Yeah. His mother was a hardworking, successful businesswoman. She worked like the world would end if she was late to her duties. She kept food on the table and the lights on and a roof that did not leak. He knew it. She made sure he knew it. What he did not like was how she served that fact up every chance she got, like gratitude was a debt she could call in whenever his grades slipped.

He could smell her perfume from here. The same one she wore to the office every day. The blouse pulled when she breathed. He tried not to watch it happen.

“I’m sorry, Mom…” he began.

Her hand came up. Sharp. Right in his face. Palm out, fingers tight, the gold watch flashing.

“I do not care what you have to say for yourself, mister. I am absolutely done with your nonsense. I think it is time that you leave my house and fend for yourself.”

Ron could not believe his ears. He was eighteen. Eighteen. And she was talking about kicking him out over two subjects like he was some deadbeat she had been housing out of charity. The paper in her hand trembled. Not from weakness. From how hard she was holding it.

“When I was your age–” she started.

Ron’s mind snagged. He knew that speech. He had heard versions of it for years. Walked uphill. Worked nights. Did not have a mother who bought her anything. Did not have the luxury of being average. He should have been listening. He knew he should have been listening. Instead the phone in his pocket started losing its mind.

The phone buzzed. Not a normal notification. Incessant. One long angry pulse after another, buzzing against his thigh. He knew she would lose it if he pulled it out. He could already hear the next sentence forming in her mouth. He still could not focus with that thing going off against his leg.

He fished it out as subtly as a tall idiot in sweatpants could manage, eyes down, thumb already moving.

The screen was wrong.

Not his wallpaper. Not his messages. A prompt box sat in the middle of the display like it had been waiting for him.

‘Direct-Her’ app has been installed successfully. Open app?