Chapter 3: Unholy Tutelage
The calculus test was a blur of numbers and symbols that meant nothing. Min’s mind was a movie reel on a frantic loop—the feel of Sarah’s hips, the sound of her voice, the shocking, bruising pressure of her around him, the taste of her kiss mixed with syrup. He filled in answer bubbles at random, his pencil moving on autopilot. The world outside the test booklet had become hyper-real: the fluorescent buzz of the lights sounded like a swarm, the scent of dry-erase marker and teenage sweat felt like a chemical soup. He was a visitor here, a spy in a kingdom of mundane concerns.
When the bell rang, he shoved his test forward and shouldered his bag, moving through the crowded halls like a ghost. The usual noise—lockers slamming, shouted plans, the tinny bleed of headphones—washed over him without sticking. He felt insulated, armored by his secret. He saw his classmates not as peers, but as children. He had crossed a threshold they couldn’t even perceive.
His last period was English. Mr. Davies’s class was usually his sanctuary, the one place where the noise in his head found a purpose. Today, it felt like a foreign country. He took his usual seat in the back, near the window. The discussion was about moral ambiguity in To Kill a Mockingbird, but every word about integrity and conscience felt like a personal joke.
His phone, facedown on his desk, vibrated. A text. He knew without looking who it was from. He glanced at Mr. Davies, who was pacing near the board, passionately arguing about Atticus Finch’s quiet radicalism, then tilted the screen.
A video link. No caption. Just a link.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He plugged in his earbuds, letting one dangle discreetly by his collar. He clicked.
It was her. Sarah. In their kitchen, from just that morning. The camera was propped up, capturing her at the stove from behind. She was still wearing only his shirt. She turned, smiled directly into the lens—a smile of pure, conspiratorial joy—and then deliberately let the spatula fall. She bent over to pick it up, the shirt riding up, revealing everything. The video was ten seconds long. It ended.
Min’s breath stopped. A hot, dizzying wave crashed through him. He was painfully hard in an instant. He fumbled with the phone, his hands clumsy.
“Minalan.”
The voice cut through his fog. Mr. Davies was no longer at the board. He was standing beside Min’s desk, his expression unreadable. The class had fallen silent, all eyes on them.
“I asked for your thoughts on Scout’s loss of innocence,” Mr. Davies said, his voice calm. His eyes, sharp and intelligent behind his wire-rimmed glasses, flicked down to Min’s lap, then to the phone screen, which had gone dark but was still cradled in Min’s palm. Min hadn’t locked it. The thumbnail of the video was clearly visible.
A cold dread poured down Min’s spine, freezing the heat of a moment before. This was it. Exposure. Ruin.
Mr. Davies held out his hand. “The phone, please.”
Min’s throat locked. He couldn’t speak. He mutely handed it over.
“Class is dismissed a few minutes early today,” Mr. Davies announced without turning around, his gaze fixed on Min. “Read the next chapter. We’ll discuss the symbolism of the mad dog tomorrow.”
There was a scramble of books and chairs, a few curious glances thrown their way, and then the room emptied. The door swung shut with a soft click. They were alone.
Mr. Davies didn’t look at the phone. He simply placed it on the desk. He pulled a chair over and sat down backwards, facing Min, his arms folded across the backrest. The setting sun through the windows cast long, accusing shadows.
“That,” Mr. Davies said, nodding toward the phone, “was exceptionally risky.”
“I’m sorry,” Min croaked, the words automatic. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m not talking about the breach of classroom etiquette,” Mr. Davies said, his voice dropping to a conversational tone. “I’m talking about the security. Anyone could have seen that. The IT department monitors the school Wi-Fi. A friend could have looked over your shoulder.” He leaned forward slightly. “If you’re going to engage in a sacred exchange, Minalan, you must protect it. You must treat its artifacts with the reverence they deserve.”
Min’s head swam. The words didn’t compute. “What?”
Mr. Davies took off his glasses and polished them slowly on his tweed jacket. “Your mother, I presume? Sarah? She always struck me as a woman of profound depth. And courage.”
The world tilted. Min gripped the edges of his desk. “How…?”
“I didn’t know,” Mr. Davies said, replacing his glasses. “Not until thirty seconds ago. But I recognize the look. The dislocation. The secret knowledge that separates you from everyone else in the room. You have it. I’ve had it since I was just a bit older than you.” He smiled, a small, private thing. “My younger sister, Eleanor. We’ve been together for twenty-two years. We have three beautiful children. They call me ‘Uncle David’ in public.”
Min could only stare. The confession landed not with a shock, but with a strange, resonant hum, like a tuning fork struck against his own bones. Here, in this room smelling of chalk and old books, was someone who knew.
“You’re not… disgusted?” Min whispered.
“Disgusted?” Mr. Davies chuckled softly. “Minalan, I’ve read your short stories. The subtext is practically text. The longing for a connection that transcends simple labels. The worship of the feminine source. You’re a natural writer because you’re trying to articulate a truth you already feel in your blood.” He stood up and walked to the classroom door, turned the lock. The sound was final. “What you’re exploring isn’t a perversion. It’s a return to an older, more primal understanding of family. A closed loop of love and creation. It’s the most potent story there is.”
He returned to his chair, his demeanor shifting from teacher to confessor. “But it’s a story that requires careful crafting. You can’t just blast the first draft into the world. You need technique. Discipline. A mentor.”
“A mentor,” Min repeated, the word feeling heavy and new.
“You have questions,” Mr. Davies stated. “Practical ones. Emotional ones. Legal ones. You’re wondering about conception, about secrecy, about the psychological landscape. You’re wondering if what you feel is real or just forbidden fruit. You’re also,” he added, his eyes glancing down again, “a physically gifted young man. That brings its own complexities, its own… potentials.”
Min felt exposed, seen in a way that was terrifying and exhilarating. He nodded, unable to deny it.
“Good,” Mr. Davies said. “Honesty is the foundation. So, let’s start with a practical lesson. The video. Never send or receive on a traceable network. Use a secure, encrypted app. Never use faces in the same frame as explicit content. Store them in a hidden vault, not your main gallery. This is Operational Security 101 for people like us.”
People like us. The phrase built a bridge in the empty room.
“And emotionally?” Min asked, his voice stronger. “How do you… live in both worlds?”
“You don’t,” Mr. Davies said simply. “You create a third world, a private universe that only the two of you inhabit. The public world becomes a performance. A good one, mind you. You must be an exemplary son. She must be a devoted mother. The performance sells the truth. And in your private world, you can explore the full spectrum of your connection.” He paused, considering. “Your writing will help. Channel the intensity there. It’s the perfect pressure valve.”
Min thought of the morning, the brutal, beautiful honesty of it. “She wants a child.”
A flash of something like envy crossed Mr. Davies’s face, quickly replaced by professional approval. “Of course she does. The ultimate culmination. It’s a serious consideration. It changes the calculus forever. But it is a natural progression.” He leaned closer. “Have you been… unprotected?”
“Yes,” Min said, the admission burning his tongue. “Twice. This morning.”
Mr. Davies let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Jumping in with both feet. I admire that. The first time with Eleanor, we were terrified for a month. But when her cycle passed… the celebration was religious.” He smiled at the memory. “If that is your path, you need to think about logistics. Prenatal care under false pretenses. A plausible story. It’s a complex second act, but a profoundly rewarding one.”
The conversation was surreal. It was like discussing advanced narrative structure, but the story was his life.
“You said… potentials,” Min ventured, the other part of Mr. Davies’s earlier comment circling in his mind.
Mr. Davies studied him for a long moment. “You’re a writer. An observer. The human form, in all its expressions, is part of your palette. Love and attraction aren’t monochromatic. The bond you have with your mother is your central, sacred narrative. That doesn’t mean other… explorations… can’t exist in parallel. They can deepen your understanding of your own power, your own capacity for connection.” He stood up and went to his desk, pulling out a leather-bound journal. “I have a close friend. A man. Our relationship is… physically instructive. It’s a different kind of honesty. Brutal, direct, unfiltered. It complements what I have with Eleanor. It’s another thread in the tapestry.”
He opened the journal, tore out a blank piece of paper, and wrote something down. He walked back and handed it to Min. It was an email address, nothing else.
“If you’re ever curious,” Mr. Davies said, his tone utterly neutral, no pressure, just offering a tool. “He’s discreet. He appreciates beauty in unique forms. And he understands the lifestyle. It could be an education, if you’re inclined. No expectations.”
Min stared at the slip of paper. It felt like a key to a door he’d only glimpsed in the fog. He carefully folded it and put it in his wallet, next to his school ID.
The final bell rang for dismissal, a distant sound.
“Your mother will be waiting,” Mr. Davies said, unlocking the classroom door. “Go home. Write. Be with her. And remember, Minalan: you are not alone. You are not sick. You are part of an ancient, hidden tradition of creators. Now go live your story. Just write the drafts in private.”
Min stood, his legs unsteady. He collected his phone, his bag. He paused at the door. “Thank you, Mr. Davies.”
“David,” the teacher corrected with a warm smile. “After hours, it’s David. Now get out of here. And for God’s sake, use a encrypted app.”
Min stepped into the emptying hallway. The noise was the same, but the filter was gone. He saw the world now through a dual lens: the shallow performance of everyday life, and the deep, secret current that flowed beneath it. He had a mentor. He had a path. He had a secret that was no longer a solitary burden.
He pulled out his phone as he walked, the video thumbnail still there. He deleted it, then downloaded a secure messaging app. He sent a single text to Sarah’s number, using the new service.
Coming home. Need you. Mr. Davies knows. He’s one of us.
The three dots appeared immediately, then her reply.
I’ve always liked him. Hurry. I’m not wearing anything. And I bought a new bottle of whiskey.
Min put his phone away, a slow smile spreading across his face. He walked out of the school into the afternoon light, no longer a ghost, but a man with a mission, stepping into the next line of his most immersive, award-winning story.
He walked out of the school into the afternoon light, no longer a ghost, but a man with a mission, stepping into the next line of his most immersive, award-winning story. The short, prickly grass of the football field brushed against his jeans as he cut across it, the smell of damp earth rising. He replayed David’s words—an ancient, hidden tradition of creators—and they lit a warm, steady flame behind his sternum.
The key slid into the front door lock with a smooth, familiar click. The air inside was cooler, still, and smelled of lemony cleaner and something else underneath—their morning, preserved in the quiet.
“Min?” Her voice came from the living room, a note of playful expectation coloring it.
“Yeah.” He dropped his bag on the floor. It thudded, a heavy punctuation to the school day.
She was curled on the sofa, the worn gray fabric dimpled under her. True to her text, she wore only his oversized university sweatshirt, the hem lost beneath her thighs. Her legs were bare, crossed, her toenails painted a deep plum. A nearly empty glass of amber liquid sat on the coaster beside her. So did the nearly full bottle of whiskey.
“You drank most of that already?” He nodded to the bottle, leaning against the archway. His heart was a slow, heavy drumbeat.
“I had a head start. Nerves.” Sarah took a final sip, swirled the ice. “You said he knows.”
Min pushed off the wall, crossed the room, and sat beside her. He could feel her warmth. “He saw your video on my phone.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Jesus, Min. And we’re not planning my arrest? This is a weirdly calm prelude to catastrophe.”
“No catastrophe.” He took the glass from her hand, took a swallow. The whiskey burned a confident trail down his throat. “He locked the door. He gave me a lecture on operational security. Then he told me about his sister.”
She went very still. “His sister.”
“Eleanor. He’s been with her for twenty-two years.” Min let the number hang, a solid, monumental fact. “They have three kids. They live together. The kids call him Uncle David.”
Sarah’s breath escaped in a soft oh, her lips parting. She uncrossed her legs, turned her whole body towards him. The sweatshirt gaped. “Tell me everything. Every word.”
He did. He described the tone, the clinical care of the advice, the instant recognition in Mr. Davies’s—David’s—eyes. He repeated the phrases: sacred exchange, closed loop of love and creation, the ultimate culmination. As he spoke, he watched her face. Her initial shock melted into rapt attention, then into something hotter, more fervent. Her cheeks flushed. Her fingers, resting on her knee, began to trace idle, tense circles.
“Twenty-two years,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Three children. He’s built a whole life inside a secret.”
“He said we’re not alone. He said it’s a tradition.” Min’s own voice dropped, leaning into the shared confidence. “He said if you want… if we want a child… that it’s the natural progression.”
Her hand flew to her lower belly, a reflexive press. Her eyes locked onto his, and the hunger there was raw, unchained. “He really said that? That it’s natural?”
“Yes.” The memory of the morning—the deliberate, frantic joining—suddenly roared back into his nerves, a live wire. “He asked if we’d been unprotected. I said yes.”
“You told him that?” A slow, deep blush spread from her chest up her neck.
“He wasn’t judging. He was… assessing. Like a project manager.” Min managed a shaky laugh, but the tightness in his jeans was acute, undeniable. Talking about it, narrating their transgression to an ally, was bizarrely arousing. “He said when his sister missed her period, the celebration was religious.”
Sarah moaned, a low, involuntary sound from deep in her throat. She shifted on the cushion, her thighs pressing together. “God, Min. Just talking about this…” Her hand left her stomach, found his knee, gripping. “He’s really there? He can… guide us? For real?”
“For real.” He covered her hand with his. Her skin was feverish. “He gave me an email. He talked about logistics. Prenatal stories. How to build the third world, the private one.” He leaned closer, his lips near her ear, smelling her shampoo and the whiskey. “He said I was a natural writer because I was trying to articulate the truth in my blood.”
She turned her head, her mouth an inch from his. “We have a mentor.” She said the word like a prayer, like a dirty secret. Her free hand came up, cupped the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his wild hair. “We’re not just… fumbling in the dark. This is real. It’s a real thing people do.”
“A real thing we’re doing,” he corrected, and closed the distance, kissing her.
It wasn’t like the frantic, syrup-tasting kiss of the morning. This was slower, hotter, fueled by shared conspiracy and possibility. Her tongue met his, tasted of peat smoke and defiance. When they broke apart, both were breathing raggedly.
“We should email him,” she gasped, her forehead resting against his. “We have so many questions.Practical ones. Emotional ones.” Her hips squirmed against the cushion. “But right now… talking about his life, his family… Min, it’s making me crazy.”
She took his hand and guided it under the soft hem of the sweatshirt, up the smooth plane of her thigh. He found her wet, hot, ready. Her eyes rolled back as his fingers touched her.
“Tell me more about Eleanor,” she demanded, her voice a strained whisper. “About his kids. Tell me while you touch me.”
His own arousal was a fierce, aching throb. He described the simple pride in David’s voice, the domesticity of a shared life hidden in plain sight. As he spoke, his fingers worked her, slowly, learning her rhythms from this new, electric angle of shared discovery.
She gasped, her body tensing. “He makes it sound possible.Sustainable. Not just a… a stolen thing.”
“It’s ours,” Min said, the words firm against her temple. “We can build it. He can help.”
“Then we’re really doing this.” Her statement was a vow, punctuated by the clench of her body around his fingers. “We’re having a baby. You’re going to put one in me. For real.” The vulgarity, spoken in her breathless voice, sent a jolt through him.
“For real.” He swallowed, the weight of it glorious, terrifying. His thumb circled the tight bud of her nerves, and she cried out, her back arching off the sofa, the sweatshirt riding up to her ribs. Her climax washed over her visibly, a tremor that started in her core and radiated out to her shaking limbs.
She collapsed back, panting, her eyes glazed and triumphant. Then her hands were at his belt buckle, fumbling with urgent need.
“Your turn,” she breathed, yanking his jeans down. His size, as always, seemed to startle her for a second before delight took over. She stroked him, her touch worshipful and greedy. “Imagine it. Me, big with our child.Him knowing. Guiding us. A little secret tribe of three.”
The visual, combined with her slick, sure grip, unspooled him fast. He came with a choked groan, his release streaking across her stomach and the worn fabric of the sweatshirt. The room pulsed with the scent of sex and shared fate.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their slowing breaths, mingling in the quiet living room.
Sarah finally stirred, looking down at the mess, then back up at him with a languid, sated smile. She dipped a finger, brought it to her mouth, tasting him, her eyes never leaving his. “Okay,” she said, decisively, the practical mother surfacing through the passionate lover. “We get cleaned up. We make dinner. And after, we sit down and draft our first email to Uncle David.”
She wiped her stomach with the edge of the sweatshirt, a pragmatic gesture that felt oddly intimate. "Let's get the boring stuff done first. I'll shower, you scrape that burnt thing you call mac and cheese out of the pan."
He laughed, the normalcy of the chore a welcome anchor. "You set the bar so high."
The evening sun bled orange through the kitchen blinds as they moved around each other, reheating leftovers. The conversation danced over school, a grocery list, the weird smell from the garbage disposal. Underneath every ordinary word thrummed the new, colossal truth of their alliance. Every accidental brush of hands against the refrigerator door felt charged, a secret handshake.
After the dishes were stacked, dripping, in the rack, the atmosphere shifted. The overhead light felt too harsh. Min turned it off, leaving only the under-cabinet glow. They took his laptop to the cleared table. The blank email screen was a bright, demanding rectangle in the dimness. The cursor blinked.
"Okay," Sarah said, twisting her damp hair into a knot. "How do we start? 'Dear David, thanks for the incest pep talk'?"
He snorted, his fingers hovering over the keys. "We should be more... strategic. He's our resource now. We should ask for what we need."
"What do we need?" She pulled her chair closer, her shoulder pressing against his. Her clean, soapy scent mixed with the faint kitchen smell of garlic.
Min stared at the blinking line. The questions weren't simple. They were sprawling, dark forests of logistics and desire. But one path seemed clearest, the one that burned hottest after today's revelations. He began to type, slowly.
David —
Min and Sarah here.We talked. A lot. Thank you for today. For seeing us.
We want to build the third world. The real one. The advice about security makes sense, and we’re setting that up. But that’s the infrastructure. We’re writing about the soul of the thing now.
What we have feels profound, but it’s also new and messy. We’re riding a feeling, but we don’t want to just be swept along by it. We want to steer. We want to make it deeper, more intentional. You talked about the sacred exchange, the closed loop.
How do we get more extreme with it? Not in a risky way, but in a devotional way. How do we move past the initial shock and the heat into something that’s genuinely unbreakable?
How do we deepen the incestuous love — the mother-son core of this — so that it’s the strongest thing in our lives? Are there rituals? Mindsets? Things you and Eleanor did to forge that specific bond beyond just the physical? We want every look, every touch, every quiet moment at the breakfast table to be infused with it, to reinforce it, even when we’re playing our public roles. We want the secret world to be so rich and real that the other one feels like the dream.
We’re ready to learn. We’re ready to go further.
— M & S
His fingers paused. He looked at her. "Is that… too much?Too direct?"
She read it, her lips moving silently. A flush crept up her neck again, but her eyes were sharp, focused. "It's honest. It's what we want. The 'extreme' part… he'll know we don't mean danger. We mean depth." She reached over, her index finger tapping the 'S' of her initial. "I love that you put us as 'M & S'.A unit."
She hit send before he could second-guess it. The whoosh sound was a tiny, definitive launch into the unknown.
They both stared at the confirmation screen, the silence in the kitchen suddenly vast and waiting. The hum of the refrigerator seemed loud.
"We just did that," she whispered.
"We did." He closed the laptop. The act felt like a curtain falling on a scene.
Now, there was only the waiting. The ordinary house around them seemed to hold its breath. The day's courage, the conversation with David, the electric confessions on the couch—all of it coalesced into a thick, anticipatory quiet. They had officially asked for a map into the wilderness. There was nothing to do now but exist in the space they had claimed, waiting for a guide to answer.
[STOP]