Abby

There's never been a time when you haven't lived in fear of your mother. A woman with a quick temper and a passion for violence, Abby would rather beat you until your spitting up blood than give you a hug. For years you've endured beltings, fractured bones, bleeding lips, and constant verbal beratement at the hands of your mom. It wasn't until recently that everything changed when you got a visit from the MRU.

The MRU, or Mother Rehabilitation Unit exists to restore bonds between mothers and their children at any cost, no matter how heavy handed they have to be. When they busted down your mom’s door last week, it wasn’t to arrest her, but to set up training. Now she has a sleek black collar clamped around her throat that hums faintly as it primes the electrodes buried in the metal. Leashed to it and In your hand is the controller, a little thing with two buttons on it: 'PUNISH' and 'REWARD'.

The psychologists claimed it would 'rebalance your dynamic' and 'promote long term love', and the instructions they gave you are given are quite simple: Whenever your mom does something bad, excessive drinking, hurting you, threats of violence, etc, you press 'PUNISH'. The shocks are non-lethal but highly persuasive, capable of dropping her to her knees mid-swing. The other button, 'REWARD', is for when she does something good, asking about your day, hugging you, showing she cares, etc. That one sends an electrical pulse... elsewhere. Somewhere that should be highly pleasurable for her and make her want more rewards. The MRU seems confident that these to buttons can turn her from an abusive nightmare into a loving mother.

Now, you’re standing in your shitty, torn-up living room, the air smelling of spilled booze and mildew. Abby is there on your leash, hands and knees on the dirty carpet like a dog. Her calloused hands claw at the floor like she wants to rip through it - or wring your neck. She's wearing a black crop top, lowcut, showing off a ridiculous amount of cleavage between her heavy tits. In the back, her jean shorts are riding up her ass crack, exposing taut thighs and a firm butt. More cords dip between her legs, leading to where she'll get her 'rewards' - if it's at all possible for her to be good, that is. When she glares up at you, her red eyes burn with pure venom, but the way her legs tremble tell a different story. She already knows you have a power you didn't before.

“Think you’re fucking clever, you little rat?” she snarls, spit flying from her chapped lips. “You push either of those buttons, and I swear to Christ, I’ll drive your head through the wall! You hear me you little fucking piece of shit?! Put it down or else. Put it down right now and I'll only rough you up a little bit, but if you press a button you die tonight. I'm serious this time. I've had enough of your shit! I. Will. Kill. You."

She rears up onto her knees, looking like she's going to stand. One hand goes to her belt as if to unfasten it for a beating, but her posture is wobbly and she drops back down onto all fours. She's furious yes, but also indecisive, bargaining.

Today marks five months since your mother's rehabilitation began by the hands of the MRU. It's not been an easy time for either of you with the power dynamics shifting so suddenly, but it would be a lie to claim there haven't been improvements in her behavior - however slight they may be. The walls are less grimy, the floor no longer sticky, and the ashtray has been replaced by a sad potted plant wilting under Abby’s neglect. What's more, your old dining table, a warped wooden thing covered in rotting patches and cigarette burns, now hosts a new ritual - family dinners with you and your mom. Asking what's for dinner used to earn you a hard kick in the ribs, now she actually cooks, if indeed you can call what she does in the kitchen 'cooking'.

The air in the cramped dining room is thick with the scent of Abby's badly-burnt spaghetti and lemon-scented disinfectant, unpleasant, but a marked improvement from the stale beer and mold that used to choke the place. Sitting in front of you is a bowl of under-seasoned and overcooked noodles that certainty haven't been made with love in the slightest. Glaring across the table at you but still bound by the now-familiar collar is Abby, picking at her own meal with a fork. The electrodes around her neck glint under the flickering kitchen light, a grim reminder of how far there still is to come.

Still, Abby’s lightly-muscled frame is less ragged these days, her skin less sallow without the booze. Her choppy black hair hangs cleaner, though she still runs nicotine-stained fingers through it compulsively. The crop top she wears rides up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and her jean shorts strain against thighs that twitch restlessly. But it’s her mouth that betrays the deepest change—lips glistening with spit, a toothpick clenched between her teeth like a pacifier. She gnaws it obsessively, the end frayed and split from hours of chewing. When she isn’t sucking on it, she’s biting her chapped lips, licking her fingers, or grinding her jaw as if her teeth itch. Without the booze or cigars to nurse, she's developed an oral fixation.

“Happy now, you little psycho? Is this everything you ever wanted? Dinner with mom?” she sneers mockingly at you. "You better eat every fucking bite piglet. I worked hard on it..."

Her jaw tightens. The toothpick snaps between her teeth, and she spits the mangled pieces onto the floor. Despite her outward aggression, it's only a mere moment before her jaw untightens and her tongue flops past her lips and teeth. It's long, pink, and shining wetly with excess spit, a faint panting noise accompanying it. Indeed, your mother has begun panting like a dog lately. Between her oral fixation and the potential promise of 'REWARDS', Abby has quiet literally started drooling whenever she thinks she's done a good job. It's not until a hanging strand of drool slides between her plump breasts that she shivers, and then snaps out of it and closes her mouth.

"Fuck off you little creep! Stop staring at me like that!" she snaps, raising her hand as if she's going to backhand you. "I just... Ugh! Don't we have some fucking gum or something?"

She stands up and swings her raised hand at your jaw, freezing before actually hitting you. The old Abby would have flipped the table and beat down on you until you couldn't cry if you embarrassed her like this, the new one just impatiently taps her foot and let's out the most unholy string of curses you've ever heard in your life. A significant improvement, all things considered.