Breakfast at the Bryans'

Light shines on your face through a crack in the blinds. "Fuck," you mutter, as a migraine hits and you begin to recall the events of yesterday. The dead guy, the sex, the magical creature that placed you above everyone else.

Wait... that couldn't have happened, right? You just got drunk, maybe. Perhaps had a nervous breakdown after the accident and imagined some sort of mystical remedy.

You slipped on your boxers and scratched your balls as you arose. The girl was gone, but it was definitely her bedroom. Photos from all ages lined the walls, her boyfriend and kid noticeably on the nightstand. Did you **** her? Did she fuck you out of fear of being killed? Your heart pounded, your mind raced, and your phone rang.

You found your pants folded neatly under where you grabbed the boxers. 9% charge at 6:15 AM. Pretty good after a day of non-use. But you soured when the caller was identified merely as "Boss".

You frowned and decided to get the first word in. Opening the call: "Hey, Chief, I just woke up in the middle of nowhere. Some, uh, punk kid stole my rig from the truck stop and must've roofied me. I'll file a police report. I promise." Perfect.

"Um, yes, Mr. Schlansky, I'm from Intercontinental Trucking. My name is Robert Pfieffer, and I'm the CEO. The board met in an emergency uh, meeting last night and determined that you, or the uh, punk kid, was not at fault for yesterday's unfortunate accident. We will remit the cost of repairs to your vehicle. Also... in appreciation of your many years of service, we have provided you a position on the board of Intercontinental with a salary of your own choosing."

"I've only been there two weeks."

"Right. Yes, sir. Whatever you say."

There was awkward silence before you hung up the phone. What. The. Fuck. Your phone was at 6% as you opened up the bank app. $29,324,538.15. You dropped the phone and sat on the bed. You were a millionaire now. Maybe more, and that's just what the bank had. The phone rang. You ignored it this time.

You looked out the window to the suburban street below. This wasn't an apartment, but a house. You heard footsteps up the stairs, coming to the door, and a knob turning.

"Sir," said Sandra in a silk robe as she entered the room. "Would you like breakfast? We have pancakes and waffles, but I can get you something else."

Her big breasts almost spilled out of the robe, and you saw plenty of the snake tattoo. You did not answer her as you approached, and asserting your power, grabbed her right tit and pulled it out of her robe. You looked at her face. She was afraid, but not resistant, shaking out of nervousness.

"Sure," you said, dropping your hand. "Pancakes sound great." She readjusted her breast, nodded, and hightailed it out of there.

You, on the other hand, needed to piss. You followed her trail, and looked down the hallway. There was another bedroom down the way on my right. On the left was a child's room, seemingly empty. Then the staircase. Then, across from the stairs, a small bathroom. You pissed in the toilet with the door open, because why the hell not? It was just you and Sandy in this big house, afterall.

Boy were you wrong. You washed your face, and spritzed your junk, but didn't feel like a shower just yet. Maybe after breakfast or when you get to your new "bachelor pad". You needed a fresh set of clothes. Maybe you'll make Sandy wash you.

You looked at the wall pictures. Sandy and her parents. And a sister. Her high school graduation. She didn't have piercings then. Her parents and their parents. Some old man from the 1800s. This wasn't Sandy's house at all. It was her childhood home.

You decided to toss on your shirt, but it reeked of sweat and beer, so instead tossed on a large white t-shirt from Sandy's parents' room. Nice bed. Better TV.

You stepped down the stairs slowly, hearing the sound of cooking, and some hushed whispers. It was Sandy, in her robe. And her mother and father. And her fiancee. Everyone was fully dressed except for you and Sandy.

"Mr. Schlansky," began the old man, gray hair, in a nice suit, "I'm Dr. Bryan, Sandra's father. It's a pleasure having you stay with us. How, uh, how long were you planning on staying?"

"I'm just here to fuck your daughter," you stated, plainly, looking for a reaction. The old man didn't give it, neither did his wife, but the boyfriend seemed angry.

"Yes, right, of course. She's a grown woman, with appropriate freedoms and allowances. It's none of my business what she engages with or whom and... um..."

You were bored by Dr. Bryan's statement and hand wringing. You instead walk up to Sandy at the stove and pull up her robe, rubbing her voluptuous ass. She looks around in shock, but makes no move to stop you.

'We should leave," says Mrs. Bryan, but you shake your head no. "I want you to watch."

And watch they did, as you freed your cock from the boxers and began rubbing her rear with it. "You," you point to the irked boyfriend staring daggers at you. "Where should I put this?"

"Up your own asshole, jerk." He blurted out. You smile at the first sign of defiance.

His eyes betrayed his confidence. "I mean, please, whatever. Just fuck her again and leave."

"Donny!" rebuked Dr. Bryan. "Uh, sir, he doesn't mean anything by that. My daughter's a good girl, she'll let you complete your... recreations."

"Answer me, Donny," you ignore the father, "where, on Sandy, should I place my dick?"

He mumbled something, but you asked for clarification. "I said her mouth."

"Wrong. I'll take her ass." And you did, pounding into her asshole with no more than a fistful of warm grease to light the way. Her parents watched coldly. Donny watched hotly, and Sandy took it all. She had been fucked here before, but was still mighty tight.

The pancakes were great, even if a little burned on the edges. Your fault for fucking the cook. Your phone, fully charged, was returned to you by Dr. Bryan, as the family sat solemnly watching you eat the last of the cakes.

"Oh, the bank called. Apparently, I have full access to all financial services, pro bono. Oh, some guy called from the FBI. Says I'm in the clear. Don't I get a goon squad?"

Sandy opens up, "Yes, sir, you ought to have protective services."

"Stand up, Sandy, I want to take your picture."

The woman whose all three holes you fucked stood up in her black robe in the middle of the kitchen. You get up, circle around her, and rip off the silk object.

She stands there, naked and afraid, as her parents and boyfriend in the background watch intently. You take photos and video of this hot fuck. Her snake tattoo, her piercings, even the residue of dry cum on her legs show crystal clear in your HD photos.

Your phone plan is now unlimited GB and storage for free.

"Okay," you say, slipping your phone into the breast pocket of this t-shirt. "Let's go, Sandy. I want to show you off to my bitch wife."

You toss away the silk robe and grab the nude woman and pull her out the front door.