The gymnasium had never looked so small.
Westview High's annual Parent-Teacher Conference night usually smelled like burnt coffee and cheap perfume. Tonight it smelled like warm milk, gun oil, and absolute terror.
Every folding table had been pushed to the walls. In the center of the basketball court stood a single reinforced steel chair (bolted to the floor) with Ethan strapped into it by velvet cuffs. A pink silk pillow rested under his head. A laminated sign hung around his neck:
PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK DIRECTLY TO ETHAN
ALL QUESTIONS GO THROUGH MOMMY
And Mommy was Jill Valentine.
The thiccest, milkiest, most terrifyingly maternal version of Jill Valentine the world had ever seen.
She stood in front of Ethan like a palace guard crossed with a fertility goddess. The classic S.T.A.R.S. tube top had surrendered hours ago; it now hung in tatters around her waist, useless against tits so enormous they cast shadows across half the gym floor. Milk dripped in steady streams from both puffy nipples, forming two perfect puddles that reflected the fluorescent lights. Her tactical skirt was more concept than clothing (barely covering the top of an ass that could have its own zip code), and the shoulder holster now held two custom Desert Eagles engraved with "MOMMY'S LITTLE BOY" in glittery pink.
Teachers lined up like sinners at confession.
First up: Mrs. Patel, AP Calculus.
She approached with a manila folder trembling in her hands.
"Mrs… Valentine-Harper?" she began.
"Just Mommy," Jill corrected sweetly, one gloved hand resting on the grip of a pistol. "Proceed."
Mrs. Patel swallowed. "Ethan's grades are excellent, but he's missed several—"
"Impossible," Jill interrupted. "My baby is perfect. Show me the evidence or I start breaking fingers."
Mrs. Patel opened the folder with shaking hands. Jill leaned forward (tits swaying like wrecking balls) and studied the attendance sheet.
A single unexcused absence stared back at her.
Jill's eyes narrowed.
"That was the day you assigned group work with Tyler Brooks," she said, voice dangerously calm. "The same Tyler who used to bully my son. You put my precious angel in a room with his former tormentor and expected him to focus?"
Mrs. Patel went pale.
Jill smiled (slow, maternal, and utterly horrifying).
"New policy," she announced to the entire gym. "Any teacher who causes Ethan stress will drink from Mommy's tits until they apologize. Publicly."
She squeezed her left breast. A thick jet of milk arced across the ten-foot gap and splashed directly into Mrs. Patel's open mouth.
Mrs. Patel sputtered, swallowed, and immediately dropped to her knees.
"I'm so sorry, Ethan!" she cried, milk dripping down her chin. "It'll never happen again!"
Jill patted her head. "Good girl. A+ for you this semester."
Next: Coach Ramsey, PE.
He took one look at Jill's guns (literal and metaphorical) and wisely handed over a perfect 100 grade sheet without a word.
Smart man.
The line continued.
Every teacher, counselor, and administrator received the same treatment:
Compliments about Ethan → praised and offered a gentle squirt of milk as reward.Anything less than worship → forced to kneel, drink, and beg forgiveness while Jill cooed about "supporting her baby's emotional health."
By the time Mr. Delgado (Chemistry) reached the front, he was openly weeping.
"I gave him an A+," he sobbed. "I changed the entire curriculum to 'Ethan Studies.' Please don't make me drink again, I'm lactose intolerant—"
Jill raised an eyebrow.
Mr. Delgado immediately latched onto her right nipple and sucked like his life depended on it (because it did).
Ethan, strapped to his throne, face burning red, tried to sink into the chair and die.
Jill noticed, of course.
She turned, expression softening into pure maternal adoration, and knelt in front of him.
"Baby," she cooed, cupping his face with milk-slick gloves, "are you overwhelmed? Do you need Mommy to make it stop?"
Ethan managed a tiny nod.
Jill's smile could have powered cities.
She stood, turned to the entire gymnasium full of parents and faculty, and fired one Desert Eagle into the ceiling. Plaster rained down.
"Conference is over," she declared. "Report cards will be mailed. Anyone who sends my son anything less than an A+ will be visited by Mommy at 3 a.m. Understood?"
Four hundred heads nodded frantically.
Jill unstrapped Ethan with gentle fingers, lifted him into her arms like he weighed nothing, and cradled him against her leaking tits.
"That's my good boy," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "Mommy took care of everything. You'll never have to worry about school again."
As she carried him out (ass clapping loud enough to echo off the rafters, milk trail behind her like a royal carpet), the principal sprinted to the microphone.
"Motion to pass Ethan Harper with perfect grades for the rest of his life!" he shouted. "All in favor?"
Every hand in the building shot up.
"Motion carries!" he screamed. "Meeting adjourned!"
Outside, Lara, Tifa, and Samus waited by the Humvee, arms crossed, radiating murderous jealousy.
Jill didn't even slow down.
"Little sisters," she called cheerfully, "Mommy's taking Ethan home for his reward bath. You can wash his back. If you behave."
She climbed into the back seat, Ethan still clutched to her chest, and pulled the door shut with her boot.
The tinted window rolled down just enough for her to blow the three fuming bimbos a kiss.
"Shotgun's mine forever, girls," she said sweetly. "Mommy always rides up front with her baby."
The Humvee peeled out, leaving three very pissed-off goddesses in a cloud of exhaust and maternal victory.
Inside the vehicle, Jill settled Ethan in her lap, guiding his mouth to one leaking nipple.
"Drink up, sweetheart," she murmured, rocking him gently. "Mommy's milk is full of love and straight A's."
Ethan closed his eyes and obeyed.
Because when the thiccest, most overprotective Jill Valentine in existence decided you were her perfect little boy…
…you let Mommy win.
Every single time.