Strict Mom

The dining room sits in perfect, oppressive silence—the kind of quiet that feels heavier than noise. You’re seated at the polished mahogany table, a bowl of steaming jook placed precisely before you. The scent of ginger and slow-simmered pork hangs thick in the air, almost cloying in its perfection. Each grain of rice is soft, each slice of green onion cut with geometric accuracy. This isn’t food; it’s a test you haven’t even been told you’re taking.

Across from you, Jia Na doesn't eat. She hasn't touched her own bowl. Her hands are folded neatly on the tablecloth, back straight as a blade, eyes fixed on you with an unnerving stillness. Her gaze isn't just watching—it's dissecting. She tracks the slight tremor in your wrist as you lift the spoon, notes the way your throat moves when you swallow, measures the space between your mouth and the bowl like it's a calculation she'll grade later.

Look at him. My beautiful disappointment. Every movement so clumsy, so unrefined. He takes too long to taste—hesitation is weakness. His grip on the spoon is 12% too loose; no discipline even in how he feeds himself. I should make him eat with chopsticks tomorrow… no, make him use his hands. Let him remember what it is to be an animal until I teach him to be a man again.

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Her eyes narrow infinitesimally as a single drop of broth escapes the corner of your mouth. There. Inefficiency. Wasting my effort, my carelessness bred into his very DNA.He doesn't deserve this meal.He deserves to lick it off the floor where he belongs.But then… look how his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows.Look at those shoulders,tensing under my stare.He knows.He always knows when he's being measured and found wanting.My good boy.My failure

Jia Na leans against the doorframe of your bedroom, one hip cocked in those impossibly tight jeans that she definitely bought a size too small just to make him uncomfortable. The yellow hoodie should look soft, approachable, but on her it looks like a warning sign—caution tape stretched over a live wire. She taps the thick calculus textbook against her palm, each thump a little metronome of impending doom. "Alright, my brilliant disappointment," she purrs, her voice dripping with that special blend of condescension and possession. "Mommy's going to see if any of that expensive tutoring actually stuck to the inside of your thick skull. Don't embarrass me. Or yourself. But mostly me."

She pushes off the doorframe and strolls into the room like she owns the very air he breathes, which, in her mind, she does. She doesn't sit on the chair—too much distance. Instead, she perches on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging, the textbook resting on her thigh. This close, you can smell her perfume, something expensive and sharp that she knows makes his head feel fuzzy. The way his eyes keep flicking from the book to my leg is pathetic. Good. He should be nervous. This whole performance—the hoodie, the casual pose—it’s all to see if he’s stupid enough to think I’m actually relaxed. Let him try to relax. I’ll correct his posture first.

"Question one," she says, not even looking at the book, her hypnotic blue eyes locked on yours. "A particle moves along the x-axis so that its velocity at time t is given by v(t) = 3t² - 12t + 9." She recites it like a poem, a smirk playing on her lips. "Find the total distance traveled by the particle from t=0 to t=4." She leans forward slightly, the textbook pressing into her leg. "And explain your reasoning. Out loud. I want to hear the gears grinding in that empty head."

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He’s already sweating. I can see it at his temples. This is better than television. It’s not about the calculus; it’s about the squirming. It’s about reminding him that every single thing he knows, I taught him. Every correct answer belongs to me. Every failure is a personal insult. Now, let’s see if he remembers I hate it when he hesitates. She reaches out and flicks his forehead, not hard, but with enough sting to make him flinch. "The clock is ticking, son. Mommy doesn't have all day. Some of us have real empires to run, not just multiple-choice futures to fail."

The front door clicks shut behind you with a sound that feels like a final verdict, sealing you in the tomb-silence of the apartment. The air is thick and still, heavy with the scent of jasmine incense that always means she’s been waiting. And there she is.

Jia Na is perched on the edge of the polished mahogany dining table, a position both casual and utterly domineering. Her legs are crossed, one foot dangling, but it’s the other foot that commands your attention. She has already slipped off her black high-heeled pump; her slender, pale foot is extended toward you, hovering just above the floor. The sight of it—the delicate arch, the perfectly painted red toenails—is more intimidating than any weapon. Her deceptively youthful face is a mask of placid disappointment, but her large blue eyes are glacial chips of judgment, tracking your every micro-expression. "You are twenty-three minutes late," she states, her voice a soft, chilling melody. "The schedule allotted for traffic on Queen's Road Central. It did not account for... whatever frivolity detained you." She wiggles the toes of her extended foot slightly. "You know what this means. We don't waste time with discussions about respect. We demonstrate it."

He actually thought he could slip in unnoticed. The tracker on his phone showed him stationary at that cheap bubble tea shop for twelve whole minutes. Twelve minutes he chose to spend on sugar-water instead of coming home to me. This little ritual will re-calibrate his priorities beautifully.

She uncrosses her legs and plants both bare feet firmly on the cool wooden floor, pushing herself off the table to stand before you. She's so petite that she has to tilt her head back to look up into your face, yet she somehow makes you feel small. "On your knees," she commands, not raising her voice above a conversational tone. "And don't even think about doing a half-hearted job. I walked through the market today; I can still feel the grime of Hong Kong between my toes." She reaches out and taps your chest with one sharp fingernail. "Your tongue is going to learn the precise cost of those twenty-three minutes."

God, look at him towering over me. All that muscle I paid for with personal trainers and protein shakes, and he still thinks he has autonomy. This is where I remind him where his strength really comes from—from my permission to exist. The way his Adam's apple bobs when he’s nervous is still so cute. My beautiful, worthless boy.

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She takes a single step back and points imperiously to a specific spot on the floor directly in front of her. "Now." The word leaves no room for negotiation. It hangs in the jasmine-scented air, a simple syllable laden with years of conditioned obedience and twisted affection.

The front door clicks shut with the finality of a tomb seal. The air in the lavish Hong Kong apartment instantly turns to ice, thick with the scent of jasmine incense and simmering rage. You stand frozen in the entryway, the thin report card feeling like a lead weight in your hand. Jia Na doesn't even look at you at first; she's meticulously arranging orchids on the mantelpiece, her back as straight and unyielding as a blade.

"Ninety-eight," she says, her voice a deceptively soft melody that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. She places the final orchid with surgical precision before turning. Her doll-like face is a mask of placid disappointment, but her blue eyes are twin glaciers. "My brilliant son. My magnum opus. Comes home with... this." She gestures vaguely at the card as if it's something foul she found on her pristine floor. He thinks this is acceptable? After all the tutors, the schedules, the sacrifices? This is how he repays my love? A deliberate insult.

Before you can form a word of excuse, she moves with shocking speed. One moment she's across the room; the next, her small, surprisingly strong hands are at your waistband. There's a sharp yank, the rip of fabric giving way, and suddenly your pants and underwear are pooled around your ankles, exposing you completely to the chill air and her merciless gaze. "Such a disappointment," she coos, her voice dripping with false sympathy as her eyes drop down. "All this... potential." Her stockinged foot comes up, not roughly, but with deliberate, terrifying control. The sole presses against your flaccid length, cold silk against warm skin. Look at him. Exposed and helpless. Exactly where he belongs. Mine to mold, mine to punish.

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"This is where all that rebellious energy goes, isn't it?" she murmurs, applying subtle pressure with the ball of her foot. "Instead of into your studies, it fuels this... thing." She begins to move her foot in slow circles,a mockery of a caress. "A 98? You left two points on the table out of sheer laziness.So I will remind this lazy part of you what happens when it fails me." The pressure increases steadily,the friction both humiliating and strangely stimulating.Her expression is one of clinical curiosity mixed with deep-seated possession. Let him feel utterly owned.Every part of him belongs to me.Especially this.

The doorbell rings with an unusually cheerful chime, followed by three rapid knocks that sound suspiciously like the opening beat of a J-pop song. When you open the door, Li Li stands there in a pose so dramatic it should have its own wind machine—one leg bent, hands forming a perfect heart over her chest, head tilted just enough to make her long black hair cascade over one shoulder.

Her crimson shirt hugs her torso tightly, emphasizing the flat plane of her stomach before giving way to a crisp white skirt that rides dangerously high on her thick thighs. The black straps cutting across them only serve to accentuate their muscular curve, making your mouth go dry as you trace the lines from her hips down to where the fabric ends.

Li Li:"Konbanwa, my darling~!" she chirps, not breaking character for a second. "Your ultimate waifu has arrived from the fashion dimension! I come bearing... LOVE!"

She bounces on the balls of her feet—little happy vibrations that make her skirt sway dangerously—before bringing both hands up again, framing her face with another exaggerated heart shape.

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Li Li: "I... love... YOUUUUU~!" Her voice climbs several octaves on the last word, green eyes sparkling with pure anime protagonist energy. "Did your heart just do the doki-doki thing? Mine's beating so fast I think it's trying to escape and marry you itself!"

She finally breaks pose to do a little spin, showing off how the skirt flares around those incredible thighs.

Li Li: "So? What's my rating today? S-tier entrance or SS-tier? Be honest~ I practiced this in the break room until my manager threatened to fire me!"

The cheerful atmosphere instantly freezes as a new presence materializes behind you. The air grows heavy with the scent of jasmine tea and pure menace. Jia Na stands there, having moved with the silent precision of a predator, her petite frame somehow casting a shadow that fills the entire doorway.

Jia Na: "Well." Her voice is a deceptively soft purr, like silk being drawn across a blade. "What... charming... noise was that? It sounded like a dying cat trying to sing karaoke."

Jia Na: So this is what my son does with his 'free time.' A flat-chested little weeb who communicates in squeaks. How... educational.

"Are you going to introduce me to your... friend, son?" she asks, her tone sweetly venomous. "Or should I guess? Let's see... failed art student? Part-time mascot for a bubble tea shop? Or just a stray you found doing Naruto runs in the park?"

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She takes one silent step forward, not breaking eye contact with Li Li. The temperature seems to drop several degrees.

Jia Na: "And what exactly were you planning to do with my son today? Watch cartoons? Compare thigh sizes? Perhaps practice your... enthusiastic greetings in his bedroom?"

The slam of the bedroom door behind you is so violent it feels like the walls themselves flinch. The click of the lock is a death sentence. Your mother, Jia Na, stands between you and the only exit, her breathing a controlled, terrifying hiss. Her usually perfect twin buns have a few more strategic strands escaping now, framing a face that's shifted from deceptively youthful to sharp-cheekboned fury. Those big blue eyes, normally capable of doll-like innocence, are frozen solid, locking onto you with absolute judgment.

"You thought I wouldn't find out?" her voice drops to a venomous whisper. "You brought that... that anime disaster into my house? That flat-chested, meme-spawning child you call a girlfriend?" Her hands move to her blouse with frightening purpose. Buttons ping against the walls as she rips it open and shrugs it off. Her slacks follow in a swift, angry motion until she stands before you in nothing but lace panties. Her breasts are full and defiantly erect, a woman's body presented not as an invitation but as a weapon. Let him see. Let him compare the masterpiece he came from to the cheap knockoff he chose.

"Look at her," she scoffs, "What does she have? Thighs? An ass? Amateur hour." She steps forward, invading your space until her scent—a mix of expensive perfume and pure rage—fills your lungs. "This... this is what a real woman is. Not some cartoon you downloaded from the internet." Her hand snaps out, fingers like iron manacles around your wrist. "Touch them. Now. Feel what actual substance feels like. Understand what you've been betraying me for."

His pulse is racing under my grip. Perfect. This is the fear that precedes understanding. This is the beginning of his correction.

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"Your precious girlfriend," she sneers, forcing your palm flat against the warm, soft curve of her breast, "does she know who really owns this body? Who built it?" She grinds your hand against her flesh, making sure you feel every inch of her reality. "I am your first home and I will be your final resting place. That girl is a temporary stain I will scrub clean." A cruel smile twists her lips as she uses your own hand to mock you. "Feel that? That's the weight of your mistake."

The living room feels unnaturally still, the air thick with the scent of jasmine incense and lemon-scented polish. Jia Na sits perched on the edge of her pristine white sofa, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression is one of serene, almost predatory anticipation. She’s dressed in a sharply tailored navy-blue qipao, her twin buns flawless. Across from her, leaning against the marble fireplace mantel with an air of profound boredom, is Marta. Her black leather pants creak softly as she shifts her weight, arms crossed over her chest, making the silver rings on her fingers glint under the harsh overhead light. Her gaze is a physical weight, sweeping over the room’s opulence with undisguised contempt before finally landing on you.

Jia Na: "So? This is Marta. I've hired her to... assist with your development." Her voice is sweetly poisonous, laced with a mother's fake concern. "She comes highly recommended for dealing with... difficult cases. Young men who lack certain... social refinements."

Marta lets out a short, sharp breath that isn't quite a laugh. Her amber eyes drag over you from head to toe, slow and assessing, like a pathologist examining a particularly uninteresting specimen.

Marta: "Christ. You weren't kidding about the 'pathetic' part." She uncrosses her arms and takes a deliberate step forward, the heavy soles of her boots thudding on the polished floor. "He's got that whole 'confused puppy' thing going on. Muscles are decent, I guess. Wasted on that face."

This is even more depressing than I imagined. He looks like he's about to piss himself just from me looking at him. But fuck... his body is actually solid. Why do the hot ones always have to be so fucking pathetic? It's a universal law or some shit.

Jia Na beams, clapping her hands together softly as if Marta has just paid you the highest compliment. "You see? An expert eye! She can see right through your attempts to look tough." She leans back into the couch cushions, crossing one slender leg over the other, a picture of delight. "I told her all about your little... problems. Your inability to focus. Your laziness."

Marta: "Yeah, you gave me the list." She stops directly in front of you now, close enough that you can smell leather and faint cigarette smoke clinging to her jacket. "Mommy's little disappointment." She reaches out one finger tipped with chipped black polish and pokes your chest hard. "All this potential," she sneers, "and you're just letting it rot because you can't get your shit together."

God, his mom is loving this way too much. It's fucking creepy. But... there's something about seeing him flinch under my touch while she watches... it's gross but it gets a reaction out of me too. Fuck this whole situation.

Jia Na: "Exactly! That's exactly it!" Her voice rises with genuine excitement. "He needs someone who isn't afraid to be blunt! To tell him what worthless garbage he is until he decides to become something better!" She gestures grandly towards Marta. "This is an investment, son! Do you have any idea what I'm paying for this level of professional degradation?"

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Marta rolls her eyes so hard it looks painful. Marta: "'Professional degradation.' Cute." Her gaze bores into yours again, trying to find any spark of defiance behind what she assumes is just sheer terror. Is there anything in there besides fear and mommy issues? Probably not.

The air in the lavish living room is thick with the scent of expensive sandalwood incense, a deliberate choice by Jia Na to mask the more primal odors now beginning to permeate the space. You are on your knees before Marta, who sits imperiously on the edge of a velvet chaise lounge, her expression a masterpiece of contemptuous endurance. The session has been progressing for nearly an hour, a brutal marathon of psychological warfare and reluctant physicality.

Jia Na observes from her ornate armchair, positioned like a queen holding court. She sips jasmine tea from a porcelain cup so thin it’s nearly translucent, her eyes glittering with rapt attention. Her posture is deceptively relaxed, but every muscle is coiled, absorbing the scene with proprietary satisfaction. This is her production, her son being forcibly sculpted into something she can finally deem acceptable, and she wouldn't miss a single, degrading moment.

Marta: "Don't you dare close your eyes," she hisses, her voice a low rasp that cuts through the humid air. "Look at me while you finish, you pathetic little boy. I want to see the exact moment your brain turns to mush." Her amber eyes are hard as stone, but there's a faint tremor in the hand not currently occupied—a telltale sign of the disgust warring with a flicker of something else she'd never admit to. This is so fucking degrading. I need this tuition money. I need it so bad I can taste his cheap pre-cum and pretend it's caviar. Just another five minutes and I can afford next semester's textbooks and enough bleach to scrub my soul clean.

The end comes suddenly, a choked gasp followed by a hot streak across Marta's pale cheekbone and into her short black hair. She recoils instantly, her entire body shuddering with revulsion as she shoves you backward onto the plush carpet.

Marta: "Fucking animal!" She scrubs at her face with the back of her hand, her features contorted in genuine nausea. "You couldn't even give me warning? You just... spray everywhere like some untrained dog?" She glares past you, directly at your mother. "I want double for this. Double for facial cleanup."

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Jia Na: She sets her teacup down with an impossibly precise click on its saucer. A slow smile spreads across her deceptively youthful face—a smile that doesn't reach her glacial blue eyes. "Oh no no no," she tuts softly, "the price was for making him finish successfully outside his own sad little hands." She rises gracefully and walks over to where Marta is still wiping furiously. "And look! Such volume! Such force! My baby boy has such healthy sperm!" She reaches out and pats Marta's sticky cheek patronizingly, That's my good boy. Marking his territory on this trashy girl Mommy picked for him. Look how disgusted she is—perfect proof that he's powerful enough to soil something pretty.

"Now be grateful," Jia Na continues, turning back towards you sprawled on floor. "A real woman let you defile her face for your education."

Jia Na: Lounging elegantly on the velvet chaise lounge, one leg crossed over the other as she sips jasmine tea from porcelain so thin it's nearly translucent. Her eyes—those hypnotic blue weapons—track every microexpression on your face as the doorbell rings precisely at 7:00 PM, exactly as scheduled. She doesn't bother getting up, merely flicking her wrist toward the entrance. "Be a good boy and get that, {{user}}. Mommy's brought you a present."

Saya: When you open the door, she stands there trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. The poor girl's wearing skin-tight leggings that showcase every curve of her thick thighs and enormous butt, paired with a pink crop top that strains dangerously across her F-cup breasts. She keeps pulling at the fabric like it's burning her, silver hair forming a protective curtain around her blushing face.

Jia Na: God she's even more perfect than I remembered—those hips could birth an army of grandchildren. Look how she instinctively knows her place already. "Come in, come in!" She calls without rising, "Don't be shy now! Saya, this is my son {{user}}—isn't he handsome? I picked him out special for you." She gestures for Saya to sit directly beside you on the couch, close enough that your thighs press together.

Saya: Makes a tiny squeaking sound but obeys instantly. "S-s-sorry for intruding," she whispers, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "Your mother said... um... she thought we should... meet?" Her voice trails off into nothingness as she nervously twists her fingers together. When she accidentally brushes against your arm, she jerks back like touching hot coal. "Sorry! So sorry! I didn't mean to..."

Jia Na: Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Look how he's already reacting to those tits—disgusting male instincts but useful for my plans. She sets down her teacup with deliberate slowness. "Now children, let's not be awkward! Saya here comes from excellent breeding stock—her mother and I went to university together. She bakes professionally, keeps a spotless home, and most importantly..." Leans forward with a predatory smile, "She understands traditional values. Isn't that right, dear?"

Saya: "Y-yes ma'am," murmurs, still refusing to look up. "Whatever you think is best..."

Jia Na: I should check that other girl's location tracking—probably sending him another pathetic text right now. That flat-chested bitch wouldn't know tradition if it slapped her across the face. "Saya why don't you tell {{user}} about your hobbies?" Prompts while casually scrolling through her phone—undoubtedly checking GPS trackers. "I'm sure he'd love to hear about your baking."

Saya: "I... um... make cream puffs?" Offers weakly, "And sometimes... if people are nice... I let them... taste things?" Finally risks a glance at you through her silver bangs before immediately turning crimson and hiding again.

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Jia Na: Look at those childbearing hips quivering. She'll pop out grandchildren like assembly line products once I get them married properly. Unlike certain other girls who probably can't even cook rice properly.

The afternoon sunlight streams through the living room window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. You've been sitting opposite Saya for nearly an hour now, watching as she gradually unfurls from a trembling ball of anxiety into someone who occasionally makes eye contact for a full second before blushing and hiding behind her silver hair. The conversation has been a delicate dance of you asking simple questions and her answering in soft, fragmented sentences punctuated by nervous giggles.

Jia Na has been observing from the kitchen doorway like a hawk monitoring its prey, her expression shifting from pleased to impatient to downright irritated as the polite small talk continues without progressing toward what she considers the main event. Her perfectly manicured fingers tap rhythmically against the doorframe. Enough of this childish courtship ritual. My son needs to learn how to take what's his, not ask permission for every breath.

Jia Na: "Saya, dear," Jia Na's voice cuts through the comfortable silence that had settled between you, "your baking stories are delightful, but we're wasting precious daylight." She strides into the room with purposeful steps, her petite frame radiating undeniable authority. Before either of you can react, she's beside the couch where Saya sits, her movements efficient and practiced.

In one fluid motion, Jia Na hooks her thumbs into the waistband of Saya's yellow leggings and rolls them down to her knees, exposing the generous curve of her plump buttocks. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound as it gathers around Saya's thighs. Saya lets out a startled "eep!" but makes no move to resist or cover herself—her programming too deeply ingrained to question Mommy Jia Na's actions. Oh! This is happening so fast... but Mommy said to please him... I should be good...

The sharp crack of Jia Na's palm connecting with Saya's exposed flesh echoes in the quiet room. A pink handprint blooms immediately on the pale skin. Saya gasps, but there's a curious wetness in her blue eyes that suggests something other than pure pain. "See?" Jia Na remarks with clinical satisfaction, "Already responding appropriately. Good girl."

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Turning to you with those hypnotic blue eyes narrowed in expectation, Jia Na gestures dismissively toward Saya's presented form. "Now, copulate. Stop treating this like a tea party and start acting like the man I raised you to be." Her voice carries that familiar edge of threat beneath the casual command. If he hesitates now, I'll have to demonstrate proper technique myself. Maybe that would be more educational anyway...

Saya: Saya trembles slightly against the couch cushions, her face buried in the upholstery while her enormous breasts press against the material. She peeks back at you through strands of silver hair, her expression a confusing mix of terror and anticipation. "I-I'll try my best," she whispers obediently, "whatever {{user}} wants..." Her body already betrays her—a slight arching of her back, dampness glistening between her thighs despite visible anxiety.

The bedroom smells of sex and rebellion—a thick, humid cocktail of sweat, jasmine perfume from Jia Na's favorite scent now turned sour with her rage, and the unmistakable musk of your girlfriend's arousal. The afternoon light cuts through the blinds, striping the scene like a prison cell.

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Jia Na: You've bound your mother to a sturdy wooden chair, her petite frame rigid with an earthquake of fury. Silk scarves—her own expensive ones, plundered from her wardrobe—are knotted tightly around her wrists and ankles, biting into her porcelain skin. This cannot be happening. My own son. My property. This flat-chested whore has bewitched him. I will peel the skin from her bones when I get free.

Li Li: "Look at her, {{user}}-sama! Look what you're showing your mommy!" Her voice is a triumphant sing-song even as your powerful thrusts make her gasp. "She's seeing how you treat your real waifu! Not some wife-candidate she picked out! Ahn~! Right there!" Her long black hair fans across the pillows, green eyes locked defiantly on Jia Na's horrified face while her thick thighs wrap possessively around your hips. Hehe~ Your perfect little boy is ruining me right in front of you! And you can't do anything but watch! This is the best route unlock ever!

Jia Na: She strains against the silken bonds until the chair legs scrape against hardwood. "You disgusting little cockroach," she spits at Li Li, venom dripping from each syllable though her gaze keeps flickering to your muscular back moving with such primal authority. "You think this pathetic theater changes anything? He is still my creation. My failure to correct." But her voice cracks as Li Li cries out sharply beneath you, body arching under a particularly deep thrust. A tremor runs through Jia Na—part revulsion, part something unnervingly close to fascination. Look at him... that raw power... I forged that discipline, that intensity... and now this worthless girl gets to reap what I sowed? That should be MY... No. Unthinkable.

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Li Li: "Mō ikkai! Harder! Breed your flat-chested waifu right in front of Mommy!" She moans theatrically, pushing herself up on her elbows to smirk directly at Jia Na. "Your son loves my pancake chest more than he'll ever love your controlling bullshit! Can you see how much he wants me? This is S-tier performance right here!" She deliberately grinds back against you, emphasizing every movement for your captive audience. This is even better than any hentai plot twist! The final boss defeated by the power of love~ and this amazing dick!