Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed.
His words hit me like a sledgehammer, shattering what little self-worth I had left.
Tears burned down my cheeks as I pulled away from him.
How could Professor Roland be like this?
After everything we'd shared—after all those stolen glances, those quiet moments where I thought he saw me, not just another girl—
A sob tore from my throat. Anger and despair twisted inside me until I couldn't hold it back anymore.
Professor Roland froze, then scrambled to hand me tissues. My hands shook so badly I could barely take them. My chest ached like I'd been hollowed out.
He sat beside me, hesitating—until his phone buzzed.
Ring. Ring.
A voice, eerily similar to his but not quite, crackled through the line.
"Bro, your birthday's this weekend. Got a special surprise for you!"
I'd heard that voice before, but through the haze of my breakdown, I couldn't place it.
He hung up abruptly. His hand twitched toward my shoulder—then stopped. Too proper. Too distant.
When it became clear he wouldn't comfort me, I bolted. Stormed back to class, mumbled some excuse to the homeroom teacher, and fled home.
The second I opened the door, I heard rustling from Mom's room. A pair of polished men's dress shoes sat by the entrance.
I didn't care. I ran to my room, collapsed onto the bed, and let the tears come.
Mom slipped in moments later, clothes wrinkled, hair a mess. "What's wrong?"
Behind her, a stranger slunk out of her room. Disgust coiled in my gut.
I didn't know what Professor Roland really felt for me—but I knew Mom had set this whole thing up.
I screamed at her, raw and broken. She just sighed, shut the door, and left me alone.
I skipped school all week. Mom called it in, claiming I was sick. Days blurred together, each one a fresh stab of pain whenever I remembered Professor Roland's stupid, gentle face.
Men still came and went. But he never did.
Then Friday night, the noises started again.
I got up to use the bathroom—and slammed straight into a man adjusting his pants.
Drunk, he grabbed me. I begged Mom to help, but she just smoothed her tangled hair and said,
"Ten grand."
The man yanked a wad of cash from his bag and threw it at her. She picked it up, gave me a cold look, and vanished into her room.
He dragged me inside, his breath reeking of whiskey.
"Feisty. I like that."
I fought. He backhanded me, then lashed my wrists to the bedpost with his belt. His greedy eyes raked over me before he tore off my nightgown.
His hands were rough, his weight crushing. Terror clawed up my throat.
In that moment, I prayed—begged—for Professor Roland to burst in, sweep me into his arms, and tell me I was his.
But no one came.
The man took what he wanted. Left me bruised and broken. When it was over, Mom reappeared with ointment.
I glared at her with pure hate. She didn't even flinch.
"Get cleaned up. Professor Roland sent a dress. He's coming for you soon."
"He was your boyfriend! Why sleep around? Why drag me into this?!"
I screamed, knocking over the medicine bottle. The sharp stench of herbs filled the air.
"In our line of work, love doesn't exist."
Her laugh was bitter. She tossed a designer bag onto my bed and left.
Inside was a white Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress—pristine, perfect, like a sick joke.
Tears burned down my cheeks as I pulled away from him.
How could Professor Roland be like this?
After everything we'd shared—after all those stolen glances, those quiet moments where I thought he saw me, not just another girl—
A sob tore from my throat. Anger and despair twisted inside me until I couldn't hold it back anymore.
Professor Roland froze, then scrambled to hand me tissues. My hands shook so badly I could barely take them. My chest ached like I'd been hollowed out.
He sat beside me, hesitating—until his phone buzzed.
Ring. Ring.
A voice, eerily similar to his but not quite, crackled through the line.
"Bro, your birthday's this weekend. Got a special surprise for you!"
I'd heard that voice before, but through the haze of my breakdown, I couldn't place it.
He hung up abruptly. His hand twitched toward my shoulder—then stopped. Too proper. Too distant.
When it became clear he wouldn't comfort me, I bolted. Stormed back to class, mumbled some excuse to the homeroom teacher, and fled home.
The second I opened the door, I heard rustling from Mom's room. A pair of polished men's dress shoes sat by the entrance.
I didn't care. I ran to my room, collapsed onto the bed, and let the tears come.
Mom slipped in moments later, clothes wrinkled, hair a mess. "What's wrong?"
Behind her, a stranger slunk out of her room. Disgust coiled in my gut.
I didn't know what Professor Roland really felt for me—but I knew Mom had set this whole thing up.
I screamed at her, raw and broken. She just sighed, shut the door, and left me alone.
I skipped school all week. Mom called it in, claiming I was sick. Days blurred together, each one a fresh stab of pain whenever I remembered Professor Roland's stupid, gentle face.
Men still came and went. But he never did.
Then Friday night, the noises started again.
I got up to use the bathroom—and slammed straight into a man adjusting his pants.
Drunk, he grabbed me. I begged Mom to help, but she just smoothed her tangled hair and said,
"Ten grand."
The man yanked a wad of cash from his bag and threw it at her. She picked it up, gave me a cold look, and vanished into her room.
He dragged me inside, his breath reeking of whiskey.
"Feisty. I like that."
I fought. He backhanded me, then lashed my wrists to the bedpost with his belt. His greedy eyes raked over me before he tore off my nightgown.
His hands were rough, his weight crushing. Terror clawed up my throat.
In that moment, I prayed—begged—for Professor Roland to burst in, sweep me into his arms, and tell me I was his.
But no one came.
The man took what he wanted. Left me bruised and broken. When it was over, Mom reappeared with ointment.
I glared at her with pure hate. She didn't even flinch.
"Get cleaned up. Professor Roland sent a dress. He's coming for you soon."
"He was your boyfriend! Why sleep around? Why drag me into this?!"
I screamed, knocking over the medicine bottle. The sharp stench of herbs filled the air.
"In our line of work, love doesn't exist."
Her laugh was bitter. She tossed a designer bag onto my bed and left.
Inside was a white Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress—pristine, perfect, like a sick joke.
End of Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed book page.