Prologue: The Special Milk

The white, pear-like pod hissed and groaned open, as if reluctantly giving birth to a disheveled eighteen-year-old who emerged panting and clutching his heart, as though he'd just struck virtual gold in the lottery of his digital realm.

"One more round, and I'll be rolling in riches," he declared with a theatrical flourish, swiping a comical amount of sweat from his forehead.

With a theatrical sigh, he took a dramatic deep breath, theatrically clutched the sides of the pod, and theatrically stepped into his dimly lit room. His hand reached out to theatrically flip the light switch, causing him to wince dramatically. The light assaulted him, and it took a few slapstick-worthy minutes for his eyes to adjust to the brightness.

His eyes suddenly locked onto someone comfortably seated in his chair, triggering an immediate alert in his senses. However, upon closer inspection, a wave of recognition washed over him, and he begrudgingly relaxed, muttering curses under his breath.

Let me tell you, my droogs, when I say he cursed his luck, I mean he sincerely cursed the day his father decided to tie the knot with a woman who, in his vivid description, was nothing short of a she-devil.

Yes, she happened to be his mother, or step-mother to be exact. But let's not mince words; she had successfully avoided any promotion to the revered 'mum' category. If he had a chance to escape this domestic inferno, he might have taken it, but the allure of financial stability and an abundance of free time seemed to outweigh the verbal and physical rollercoaster he endured at the hands of his stepmother and her two daughters. Ah, the joys of family life!

She may be a mid-thirties mom with two daughters, but there was no denying that she was a true hottie. With her youthful looks that could easily pass for a woman in her late twenties, she was a sight to behold. Her well-toned body, fair skin, full lips, and sharp nose only added to her allure. And of course, her most enticing features were her ample bosom and perfectly curved ass, traits that her lucky daughters had clearly inherited.

As she abruptly stood up, her 34 D perky breasts heaved and wiggled, captivating the attention of anyone in the room. Her alluring curves were impossible to ignore. Clad in a black dress that clung to her body like a second skin, it accentuated her hourglass figure in all the right places. It was as if the fabric itself was designed to showcase her sensual form, leaving little to the imagination.

With each step she took, her legs moved with a graceful ease, as though she were strutting in a pair of sky-high heels. The tantalizing black skirt she wore flipped and flowed with every sway of her hips, playfully revealing glimpses of her smooth, shapely thighs. It was an enchanting sight, a seductive dance in every movement, capturing the attention of all who laid eyes upon her.

She stopped before him, hands landing on her hips. Her closeness allowed him to see her luscious, pink lips. "Oh, look who finally decided to rest," she sneered in a high-pitched voice. "6 in the fucking morning." 

And my droogs, one more thing, she is a certified bitch.

Caught in the waft of her perfume, a scent so potent it could rival a superhero's origin story, he realized that taking on his petite but feisty stepmother wouldn't end well. One wrong move, and he'd be trading his cozy spot at home for a new address—either in a jail cell or on the pavement, penniless and practicing his coin-begging skills.

Reluctantly, he decided to embrace the absurdity and bow down to the situation. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but hey, at least it came with a roof, even if it meant kowtowing to what he lovingly called a "certifiable bitch."

"What? Did your tongue also decide to take a day off?" she chuckled. "Honestly, it's no surprise. Your only pals are animated characters, and I bet even they're tired of your nonsense."

He let out a sigh. "Come on, 'mum,' it's six in the morning. Can't I catch a break?"

"Oh, forgive me for disrupting your tightly packed schedule," she retorted with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "Had I known, I would have vanished into thin air by now."

'I wish she actually would. Why did Dad marry her?'

"But you know what just crossed my mind?" she said, the anticipation building like she was about to drop a bomb on him.

'This can't be good.'

"That someone in this house is enjoying a rent-free existence, gobbling up meals that I work my butt off to pay for and hogging electricity that I'm breaking my back to afford."

He could sense where this conversation was headed. After enduring countless storms under this roof, he had become a seasoned meteorologist of family drama.

"Do you even have a clue about my daily grind?" she snapped, her words slicing through the air like a whip. "Do you realize I'm the one running the show while you're parked on that stupid pod, lost in video game land? You don't give a hoot about the step-mom who's doing it all for you!"

A pregnant pause lingered, and he could practically feel her expectant gaze. The tension hung thick in the air, suffocating.

"Yeah, Mom," he sighed, anticipating the storm.

"What? Can't even articulate a proper sentence? Or is that beyond your skill set now?" she retorted.

Clearing his throat, he braced for the imminent downpour. "Yes, Mum," he responded with a stiffer tone.

"Great, now go whip up some breakfast," she commanded, strolling away, leaving the room charged with the lingering energy of their clash.

"Mum, I've got class today," he interjected.

"So?" she countered. "You need to get ready. To prepare for school? No, not really. You can just head straight there after rustling up a breakfast fit for your dear mum."

"But—"

"But what? Not up for it? Well, I can always give your dad a ring and let him know you're eager to return to that 'institution.'"

Silence hung heavy at the mention of the institution. Going back there was the last thing he wanted.

"Exactly," she grinned.

"...I'll do it," he conceded, a defeated tone in his voice.

"Good. Now, make sure you don't forget to make that special milk of yours this time," she reminded him, her voice laced with a teasing tone.

She walked past him, her hips swaying in a sensuous rhythm, luring his gaze into a trance. The enticing sway from side to side was like a seductive pendulum, captivating his attention and awakening a primal desire within him.

With a graceful stride, she disappeared from his room, her presence lingering like a sweet intoxication. As she closed the door behind her, the sound echoing softly, the image of her alluring sway continued to play in his mind.

But as she shut the door, the defeated expression on his face swiftly transformed into something else—a sly smile.

Now, my droogs, when I tell you he smiled, it wasn't your ordinary grin. No, it was sinister. Why? Because she was blissfully unaware of the secret behind the special milk, or that in the entire world, only he possessed the skill to create that particular concoction.

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A/N: Droogs = Close Friends in russian (Yall are my buddies, aright). Refer 'A Clockwork Orange.'