Submom

Sub-dom | Pain & Pleasure | Touch Her and Die | Possessive | 18+ Submissive academy. Where girls are shaped into perfect submissives and perfect housewives. Except I don't want to be a submissive. I don't want a dominant. Weeks go by where I don't choose a dominant. An 'extraordinary' situation, they call me. The untouchable. In the end, I am forced to take one. Well, one is forced upon me. The most sadistic of them all. One that hasn't taken a submissive for an entire year. He's just here to beat the submissiveness into me. To get me 'ready'. The lines of pain and pleasure start to blur. For the first time in my life, someone is touching me. Someone owns me. This is a dark romance.

What happens when your secret crush is your Boss and surprisingly he asks you to become the substitute mother to his daughter? Stacy Hills is a timid girl with no rights of her own in the hands of her very own father who is more than willing to her off to get more money to spend on and in the nearby club because to him Stacy is nothing but an invaluable object used for his own advantage. She is forced by her father to sign marriage documents to her old college bully who wanted nothing more than to get between Stacy’s legs and dominate her by any means possible. Stacy for the first time refused to abide by her father's commands. In a fit of anger, her father raised his hand, poised to strike Stacy across the face. However, before he could act, a chilling threat filled the room, freezing him in place. "If you lay a hand on her, I will not hesitate to take every measure to ensure you are imprisoned for assaulting a woman, even if that woman happens to be your own daughter," a deep, menacing voice threatened, causing Ethan's hand to pause mid-air. "Yes! No one dares to hurt my substitute mummy!” A young girl's voice said, coming out from behind her Dad. "If anyone dares, then they'll face a cruel punishment from my daddy,” She had a serious look on her cute little face.

I was prepping the ceremonial cloak for our seventh mating anniversary. The front door suddenly banged open. My son rushed inside, tears streaming down his face. "The teacher yelled at me," he sobbed. He shoved the wrinkled drawing into my hands before burying his face in my shirt. I smoothed out the paper to see what the drama was about. It was a sketch of a faceless woman titled: The Substitute Mom. My heart stopped as I read the scribbles underneath. "Daddy said she is the backup." "She does the chores but gets no wages." "The Real Mom is responsible for being beautiful and guarding the treasury." My fingertips turned ice-cold against the paper. My mate, Ethan, had just returned from a patrol. He kissed my forehead. "What did our pup draw?" The next second, his smile froze when he saw the content. His voice tightened, and he reached out to snatch the book. "He watches too many cartoons! He's writing nonsense!" I stared at the man I had shared a den with for seven years. He looked like a stranger now. If I was the substitute. Who was this beautiful real mother? And where had my true son been all these years?

A beautiful woman who loves her mother very much. She is willing to do anything for the sake of healing her mother. Even though she had to pay dearly by being the slave of an "Amar" who was able to buy anything he wanted with his money and power. "You are my nightmare, Amar, I hate you. If you are tired of my body, you better me right now, I don't want to live anymore."

The day my mom was beaten up for being a mistress, I slammed the family crest into my dad’s face. I had been studying abroad, and on my return flight, I came across a video. The title read, [Richest Family’s Heirs Defend Their Mom and Beat Up Mistress.] In the video, my mother was wearing coarse linen clothes while my brothers surrounded her. They were punching and kicking her. They even tore her clothes and cussed her out as a shameless mistress. Her eyes were teary as she desperately tried to explain. However, she was only met with mocking laughter. A stranger in haute couture stood shielded behind them, and she sweetly said, “Alright, I know you’re doing this for me, but we don’t need to waste our time on ungrateful people.” The surrounding guests showered her with birthday wishes and praised her for her graciousness. “This is the grace befitting Mrs. Roth! Do some people really not own a mirror at home?” “A mistress dares to call herself Mrs. Roth? Doesn’t she know the entire Roth family was built on her assets? Which part of her looks like a lady?” Hearing them call her “Mrs. Roth,” I clenched my phone, and the screen reflected my icy expression. I had only been away from home for three years. How did I not know that I had acquired such a despicable “mother”?

"I didn’t know I was marrying two people. He wore the suit, but she pulled the strings. The day I walked down the aisle, eyes locked with the man I loved, I thought I had found peace. I thought I was finally leaving behind the noise of my childhood, the ache of loneliness, and the years I spent praying for a love that would choose me, only me. But no one told me that some men never truly leave their mothers. They marry, yes,but their hearts remain tangled in an invisible umbilical cord, one that stretches past vows, past bedrooms, past boundaries. I moved into our new home, only to find that the walls had ears, hers. We lived in separate flats, but it never truly felt like my space. My marriage was a room she walked into, uninvited but ever present. Her opinions dripped into our arguments, her eyes followed me from behind lace curtains, and her voice echoed in decisions that should have belonged to me and my husband. At first, I kept quiet. I told myself it was cultural. Respect. Family. Then I told myself it was temporary. Then I stopped telling myself anything at all, because nothing I said made a difference. This is not a story of hate. It’s a story of love, tested by bloodlines, boundaries, and a battle I never asked to fight. This is my truth. The marriage I thought was mine. The home that never really felt like home. And the rules I never agreed to, but had to live by, simply because… I was under her roof".