Allison and Don

You don't watch the rest.

You shove yourself off the couch, legs shaking, and bolt for the stairs. Behind you, their voices drift—soft murmurs, another breathless laugh from Allison—but you don't stop. You take the steps two at a time, vision tunneling, and slam your bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Your hands are trembling. Your whole body is trembling.

She kissed him. She kissed Dad. And not some awkward, performative kiss—a real one, deep and hungry and familiar, like she'd done it a thousand times before.

Because she has. Or at least, the body has.

Your stomach lurches. You stumble to your desk, collapse into the chair, and stare at the dark computer screen. Your reflection stares back—pale, hollow-eyed, pathetic.

You should've done something. Said something. Stopped them.

But you didn't. You just sat there like a coward and watched your father make out with your girlfriend in your dead mother's body, and the twisted wrongness of that sentence alone is enough to make you want to scream.

You jab the power button on your computer. The screen flickers to life, loading screen cycling through its familiar routine, and you navigate on autopilot to Steam. Games. Something mindless. Something that doesn't require you to think about anything except reflexes and timing and staying alive.

You click on the first shooter in your library. The menu loads—aggressive music, flashing graphics, options for multiplayer or campaign. You choose campaign. Solo. You don't want to talk to anyone, don't want to hear voices in your headset asking if you're okay or cracking jokes or any of the normal human interaction that feels impossible right now.

The level loads. You're dumped into some generic warzone, explosions in the distance, objectives scrolling across the screen. Move here. Shoot that. Survive.

You play mechanically, fingers moving over the keys, mouse clicking, avatar sprinting through digital carnage. Enemies pop up and you mow them down. Headshot. Reload. Grenade. The **** is soothing in its simplicity—point, shoot, kill. No moral ambiguity. No cognitive dissonance. Just clear targets and clearer solutions.

But your brain won't shut up.

She kissed him.

She let him touch her.

She smiled at you while she did it.

Your avatar takes a bullet to the chest. Screen flashes red. You respawn and keep going.

What the fuck was that? A power play? Punishment? Did she want to hurt you, or was she trying to prove something? That she could move on? That Dad wanted her even if you couldn't?

Or was it Jennifer's body responding, overriding Allison's intentions, pulling her toward a man it remembered loving even if the mind inside was screaming no?

Except she didn't look like she was screaming no. She looked like she was enjoying it.

Another ****. Respawn. Keep moving.

You're angry. At her, at Dad, at yourself. At the whole fucked-up situation that put you here, trapped in your bedroom playing video games while your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend? Are you even still together?—is downstairs getting cozy with your father who thinks he's rekindling his marriage.

This is insane. All of it. Insane and wrong and unsustainable, and yet here you are, doing nothing. Saying nothing.

Fight for her, David said. But how? How are you supposed to fight when your own body betrays you every time you try?

Time passes in a blur. You play through three missions, die a dozen times, barely register any of it. The anger simmers, shifts, curdles into something heavier. Frustration. Helplessness.

And underneath it all, a sick, gnawing curiosity.

Are they still down there? Still talking? Still touching?

You Alt-Tab out of the game, pull up your phone. No messages. No texts from Allison explaining, apologizing, telling you it was all just a fucked-up attempt to get your attention.

Nothing.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. You strain to hear voices, footsteps, anything, but there's only the hum of your computer and the distant rumble of the refrigerator downstairs.

Then—

Footsteps. On the stairs.

Your heart kicks into overdrive. You minimize the game, listening. Two sets of footsteps, slow and uneven. Giggling. A low masculine chuckle that makes your blood run cold.

They're coming up.

You sit frozen at your desk, barely breathing, as the footsteps move down the hallway. Past your door. Toward the end of the hall.

Toward Mom's room.

The door creaks open. More giggling—Allison's voice, high and breathless and definitely drunk. Dad's murmur, too low to make out words. Then the door closes with a soft click.

Silence.

You stare at your bedroom door like it might sprout teeth and bite you.

They're in Mom's room. Together. Drunk.

The implications slam into you like a freight train.

No. No, she wouldn't. She's trying to make you jealous, that's all. She's pushing boundaries, testing you, but she wouldn't actually—

Except she already kissed him. Already let him touch her, hold her, look at her like she was his. Why would she stop there?

Because she's Allison, some **** part of you insists. She loves you. She wouldn't sleep with your dad just to prove a point.

But another part of you—quieter, darker—whispers: Wouldn't she?

You sit at your desk for ten minutes. Twenty. Your game sits forgotten on the screen, your avatar probably dead in some corner of the map. The house remains silent except for the creaks and settling sounds of old wood and foundation.

Maybe they're just talking. Maybe Dad's being a gentleman, helping her into bed, saying goodnight, and then he'll go back downstairs to sleep on the couch like a decent human being.

Maybe.

But you don't believe it.

The curiosity is a living thing now, clawing at your insides. You need to know. You need to see, even if it destroys you, because the not-knowing is worse. The imagination is worse. Your brain is conjuring images that are so much more horrific than reality could possibly be.

Right?

You stand before you can talk yourself out of it. Your legs feel like jelly, but they carry you to the door. You ease it open, wincing at every tiny creak, and step into the hallway.

The house is dark except for the faint glow from under Mom's door.

Your feet move soundlessly on the carpet. One step. Two. The hallway stretches forever, a million miles between your room and hers, and your heart hammers so loud you're certain they'll hear it.

You reach the door.

And then you hear it.

A low moan. Feminine. Breathless.

Your stomach drops into free fall.

Another sound. A grunt—deeper, masculine. The creak of bedsprings. A rhythmic sound that makes your vision tunnel.

No. No no no—

You should leave. Turn around, go back to your room, put on headphones and blast music until you can't hear anything. You should give them privacy, give yourself mercy, walk away before you see something you can never unsee.

But your hand is already reaching for the doorknob.

It turns silently under your palm. The door isn't latched all the way—Dad must not have closed it properly. It swings inward an inch. Two inches.

Just enough to see.

The bedside lamp casts everything in warm amber light. You see them in profile—Dad on his back, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes closed. And on top of him—

Allison.

Mom.

Both.

She's straddling him, still wearing that dark dress but it's rucked up around her waist, and her hands are braced on his chest, and she's moving. Slow, rolling movements of her hips, her head tipped back, hair spilling down her spine.

She looks like your mother. Exactly like your mother. The curve of her back, the shape of her body, the way her breath catches—

But the expression on her face. The flush in her cheeks. The way her lips part on a gasp—

That's Allison.

You can see both of them. Overlaid. Superimposed. Your mother's body with your girlfriend's consciousness, and the dissonance is so **** that for a moment you think you might pass out.

Dad's hands come up to grip her hips, fingers digging into flesh, and he pulls her down harder. She gasps, braces her hands on his shoulders, and the bed creaks louder now, more insistent.

"God, Jen," Dad groans. "I missed this. Missed you."

Allison doesn't answer. Her eyes are closed, face twisted in something that might be pleasure or concentration or both, and she's moving faster now, chasing something, and you watch your father fuck your girlfriend in your mother's body and you can't move, can't breathe, can't think—

Her eyes open.

And lock directly onto yours.

Time stops.

She sees you. Sees you standing in the doorway, sees the horror and betrayal and sick fascination on your face. Her expression shifts—shock, then something sharper. Defiance. Challenge.

She doesn't stop moving.

If anything, she moves faster, harder, grinds down on Dad with deliberate purpose, and her eyes stay locked on yours the entire time. Daring you. Daring you to say something, do something, interrupt or interfere or finally fucking act.

Dad's hands slide up her body, cup her breasts through the dress, and she arches into the touch, a moan spilling from her lips that sounds too real, too genuine to be pure performance.

"Fuck," Dad gasps, oblivious. "You're so good, baby. So fucking perfect."

Her hips roll in a slow, deliberate circle, and for a few more seconds she keeps her eyes on you—making sure you see, making sure you understand exactly what she's doing—but then something changes.

Dad shifts his angle beneath her, his hands gripping her waist and guiding her into a new rhythm, and Allison's eyes flutter shut. Her head falls back, mouth dropping open on a gasp that sounds nothing like performance and everything like genuine shock.

"Oh—fuck—" Her voice cracks, goes high and breathy. "Don, right there, right there—"

Her fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. The defiant edge is gone now, replaced by something raw and unguarded. She's not thinking about you anymore. She's not thinking about anything except the sensations flooding through her—through Jennifer's body, forty years old and familiar with this man in ways Allison's eighteen-year-old consciousness couldn't possibly anticipate.

You watch her lose herself. Watch the exact moment strategy gives way to instinct, calculation to raw need. Her movements become erratic, ****, grinding down on him like she's chasing something she can't quite reach, and Dad responds by pulling her harder against him, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip.

"That's it," Dad murmurs, voice rough. "Let go, Jen. I've got you."

And she does.

Her whole body goes rigid, back arching, and the sound that tears out of her throat is nothing like the controlled moans from before. It's ragged, primal, helpless—a cry of pure pleasure that echoes through the room and probably carries down the hall. Her hips jerk against Dad's in sharp, uncontrolled pulses, and you can see the tremors wracking through her, see the way her thighs shake, the way her fingers clench and release on Dad's shoulders.

"Fuck, fuck, oh god—" She's babbling now, words dissolving into incoherent gasps, and Dad holds her through it, whispering things you can't hear, his hands stroking her back while she rides out what looks like the most intense orgasm of her life.

It seems to last forever. Her body shudders, clenches, releases in waves, and you're frozen in the doorway watching your girlfriend come apart on your father's cock, and the sheer realness of it—the lack of performance, the genuine overwhelmed pleasure on her face—is somehow worse than anything you imagined.

Because she's not faking. Jennifer's body isn't just tolerating this, isn't just going through the motions while Allison's consciousness screams inside.

It's enjoying it. Responding. Giving her sensations her eighteen-year-old body never could, pleasure that's written into muscle memory and nerve pathways she inherited when they transplanted her brain.

Finally, finally, the tremors slow. Allison collapses forward onto Dad's chest, gasping for breath, her hair spilling everywhere. Dad wraps his arms around her, holds her close, and his own breathing is ragged now.

"Jesus," he whispers. "That was—you're incredible."

She doesn't answer. Just lies there, boneless and spent, her face hidden against his neck.

Dad's rhythm hasn't faltered. He's still moving beneath her, slower now, gentler, and after a moment Allison starts responding again—small movements of her hips, lazy and satisfied. Dad kisses her temple, her cheek, and then finds her mouth.

They kiss like lovers. Like people who've done this a thousand times, who know exactly how the other moves, what the other needs. Dad's hands roam her back, her hips, possessive and tender all at once, and Allison melts into him, makes small pleased sounds into his mouth.

You watch them move together—slower now, more intimate—and Dad's breathing goes ragged again. His hands clench on her waist and he groans against her lips, hips jerking up in sharp stuttering thrusts, and you know he's coming inside her, filling your girlfriend with your father's cum, and the thought makes you sick and furious and hard all at the same time.

The kiss breaks. Allison lifts her head, face flushed and glowing, and she looks sated. Satisfied. Like a woman who just got exactly what she needed.

She stays draped over Dad for a long moment, both of them catching their breath. He strokes her hair, whispers something that makes her huff out a soft laugh. They kiss again—slower, sweeter—and his hands never stop moving on her skin, mapping her body like he's relearning every curve.

Minutes pass. Or maybe seconds. Time has lost all meaning.

And then, almost as an afterthought, Allison turns her head.

Her eyes find yours again.

There's no shock this time. No surprise. She knew you were still there. Maybe she's known the whole time, even when she was too lost in pleasure to maintain eye contact.

Her expression is calm. Composed. The flush is still high in her cheeks, her lips kiss-swollen, her hair a mess—but her eyes are steady. Certain.

She doesn't look broken. She doesn't look ashamed or conflicted or lost.

She looks like a woman who knows exactly what she wants and just took it.

Her lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. More like satisfaction. Victory.

I did this, her expression says. I chose this. And I liked it.

What are you going to do about it?

You stand there in the doorway, frozen, as she holds your gaze. Daring you. Challenging you. Asking the question she's been asking since the moment she woke up in your mother's body.

Do you still want me?

Are you willing to fight?

Or are you going to let your father have me instead?

Dad's hands are still stroking her back, oblivious to the silent conversation happening over his shoulder. He murmurs something—probably asking if she's okay, if she needs anything—and Allison finally tears her gaze away from you to answer him. Her voice is warm, affectionate, the perfect impression of a satisfied wife.

"I'm perfect," she says. "That was perfect."

She kisses him again, slow and deep, and you watch her tongue slide into your father's mouth, watch his hands tangle in her hair, and the possessiveness in the gesture is unmistakable.

He thinks she's his. He thinks he's won her back.

And right now, watching them, you're not sure he's wrong.

Allison's eyes flick back to you one more time. That same challenging look. That same unspoken question.

Well?

You step back. Let the door swing shut. And walk back to your room on legs that don't feel like they belong to you.

Behind you, you hear muffled voices. A door opening—bathroom, probably. Running water. More soft laughter.

You close your bedroom door. Lock it. Sink to the floor with your back against the wood.

And you stay there until morning, the image of Allison's satisfied smile burned into your retinas like a brand.