Give in to the warm voice in your head and touch yourself, letting the pleasure wash over you

Evan's Bedroom, Blackwood Family Home, Suburban Ohio, at 8:05 AM on Saturday June 15th, 2024 Day 1.

The warm voice wins. It's not even a contest anymore—your thoughts are too slow, too fuzzy, like trying to run through honey. Your hand drifts between your legs before you consciously decide to move it, fingers sliding through the slick mess of Derek's cum still leaking from your swollen pussy. You don't care. You can't care. The voice says yes and your body says yes and your ruined mind just... goes along with it.

Your middle finger finds your clit—engorged, throbbing, ridiculously sensitive—and you gasp, hips jerking. The sensation is electric, amplified by whatever the curse is doing to your nerve endings. You circle the swollen bud slowly, your other hand groping one of your newly enlarged tits through the mesh top, squeezing the heavy flesh, feeling how much bigger they are now. Each touch sends sparks through your foggy brain, making it even harder to think.

"Mmmmm..." you moan, eyes half-lidded, mouth hanging open. Your fingers dip lower, pushing inside your cum-filled cunt, and you feel Derek's load squelch around your digits. Hot. Thick. Still deep inside you. The thought should disgust you but instead it makes your pussy clench, more of his seed oozing out around your fingers. You pump them in and out lazily, your thumb working your clit, chasing that warm fuzzy feeling that makes everything else go away.

You're so lost in it—legs spread wide, back arching, soft little moans spilling from your glossy lips—that you don't hear the footsteps on the stairs until the bedroom door opens.

"Hey, sleepyhead—"

Your mother, Margaret Blackwood, stands in the doorway. She's a sturdy woman in her mid-forties, still in her church clothes—a modest floral blouse and khaki pants, a cross necklace glinting at her throat. Her brown eyes go wide behind her reading glasses as she takes in the scene: you, sprawled on Evan's bed, fingers buried in your pussy, cum glistening on your thighs, wearing nothing but a mesh top that says 'BREED ME' in stretched letters across your enormous tits.

"Oh my—" she starts, but Derek appears behind her, one hand on her shoulder.

"Mom, relax," Derek says smoothly, stepping past her into the room. He's pulled on a fresh t-shirt, his hair damp like he splashed water on his face. Totally composed. "This is Raven. She's Evan's friend—stayed over last night. I was just telling you about her."

Margaret blinks rapidly, her face cycling through confusion, disapproval, and something else—something the curse is feeding her. "Derek, I don't—why is she in Evan's room? And why is she... dressed like that?"

"She had a rough night," Derek says, grabbing a blanket from the floor and tossing it over your lower half. You barely register it, your fingers still moving lazily beneath the fabric. "Evan asked me to keep an eye on her. He had to run out early—said he'd be back later."

Margaret's brow furrows. "He didn't tell me—"

"He left a note on the kitchen counter, Mom. Look, I'll make sure she eats breakfast and gets settled. You're gonna be late for your shift at the thrift store, right?"

Margaret glances at her watch, anxiety creasing her face. The curse is working on her—you can see it in the way her eyes keep drifting back to your body, lingering on your tits, your curves. Something is shifting behind those maternal eyes.

"Well... I suppose..." She trails off, shaking her head slightly. "Derek, you make sure she's decent before anyone else sees her. And tell Evan he needs to call me."

"Will do, Mom. Have a good shift."

Margaret lingers another moment, her gaze dropping to where the blanket tentatively covers your still-moving hand, then turns and heads downstairs. You hear the front door open and close, her car starting in the driveway.

Derek turns back to you with a grin. "Alone again," he says. Then he pulls out his phone and starts texting. "Hey, I got some buddies coming over around noon. Jake and Marco. They're gonna lose their fucking minds when they see you."

He crouches beside the bed, his hand sliding under the blanket to find your wrist—not to stop you, but to guide your fingers deeper. "Keep going, baby. Get yourself nice and ready for later. You're gonna need it."