Lachlan reflects

I turned away—my hands clenched into fists—but not before seeing the way Mom's fingers traced lazy circles on Jeremy's shoulder, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. The sight burned itself into my brain—her body limp beneath him, yet still clinging, still wanting more. I stumbled into my room—my vision blurry—and collapsed onto my bed, my ears still ringing with Mom's whimpers and Jeremy's taunts.

The silence that followed was worse—thick with unsaid things, heavy with the knowledge of what had just happened. My fingers dug into my pillow—I couldn't stop picturing it—the way Jeremy's cum had pulsed into Mom's cunt, flooding her with a heat she'd never gotten from Dad. Every time I blinked, I saw it—Mom's stomach bulging slightly where his cock pressed deep, her thighs trembling as she took every last drop.

'Please let his sperm be weak,' I thought, bile rising in my throat. 'Please let his swimmers be as pathetic as he is.' But even as I wished it, I knew better—Jeremy wasn't the kind of guy who shot blanks. His body was built for dominance, his genes designed to overwrite weaker bloodlines. The thought of Mom's womb greedily absorbing his seed—her body already preparing to nurture his offspring—made me want to scream.

There were a lot of beautiful women out there, and my mom was one of the prettiest. Hopefully one day I'd get to fuck one of them. Yet I knew it would never happen. The world was built for people like Jeremy - absolute jerks who could go into people's homes and fuck their moms and wives. I wish I were in Jeremy's place, not because I wanted to fuck my mom, but because I wanted to be the kind of guy who could walk into any house and have any woman he wanted.

But I wasn't. I was Lachlan, the kid who got bullied, who had to watch Jeremy ruin his family with a single afternoon. And worst of all, I had to admit—he looked good doing it. The way his muscles flexed as he pinned Mom down, the confidence in every thrust—it was the kind of raw power I’d never have. My hands curled into fists under the pillow, nails biting into my palms. Maybe if I were stronger, bigger, meaner—maybe then I’d be the one making women scream like that.