Gwen chose "suitable" movie

When you finally emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, you feel somewhat more composed. You dress in a simple t-shirt and shorts - nothing too provocative - and make your way back downstairs. The kitchen is empty, but you hear voices from the living room.

"Stacy, come join us!" your mother calls out. You find her and Gwen settled on the couch, the TV already on.

"Where's dad?" you ask, looking around.

"He had to run out for a bit," your mother replies smoothly. "Said he needed to pick up some things from the hardware store." You nod, feeling a mixture of relief and - was that disappointment? You push the thought away and settle onto the couch beside them.

"We thought we'd watch a movie," Gwen says, already scrolling through the options. "Something to take your mind off things."

"That sounds great," you agree, grateful for the distraction. Gwen selects a film and hits play before you can read the title.

The opening credits roll over soft, atmospheric music. It looks like some kind of independent drama. The first scene shows a young woman returning home from college, greeting her father at the door. Seems innocent enough. You settle back into the cushions, letting yourself relax for the first time all morning. But as the movie progresses, something feels off. The camera lingers too long on the daughter's body, the father's touches seem to last a beat too long.

"Gwen, what is this movie?" you ask, shifting uncomfortably.

"Shh, just watch," she replies, a smile playing at her lips.

On screen, the father and daughter are now in the kitchen, and the dialogue has taken an unmistakable turn. The daughter is confessing feelings she shouldn't have, and the father is responding in kind. Your eyes widen as realization hits you.

"Gwen!" you exclaim, but she just giggles.

"Relax, it's just a movie. It's not real."

Your mother watches you carefully, gauging your reaction. On screen, the father takes his daughter's hand, leads her toward the bedroom. Your breath catches in your throat. Despite yourself, you can't look away. The curse pulses through you, making your body respond to the taboo imagery. You feel yourself growing wet again, your nipples hardening beneath your thin shirt.

"This is not right," you whisper, but there's no conviction in your voice.

"Is it?" your mother asks softly. "Sometimes what we think is wrong is just what we're afraid to admit we want."

You stare at the screen as the scene intensifies. The actors look nothing like your family, but your mind substitutes them anyway. You imagine yourself as the daughter, your father as the man leading her to bed. A small moan escapes your lips before you can stop it. Gwen puts her hand on your thigh, squeezing gently.

"It's okay, Stacy. It's okay to feel things." You want to protest, to stand up and leave, but your body won't cooperate. The warmth spreading through you is too powerful, too insistent. You sink deeper into the couch, your eyes fixed on the screen, as your family watches you succumb to the curse's influence.