The same as his dad but not quite

Peter's fingers clamped around the remote like a lifeline, the plastic slick against his sweat-dampened palm. His mom was inches away, her face twisted in righteous fury, her hand outstretched to grab at the woman still straddling him—the woman who had been his father just moments ago. "Get away from him!" she bellowed, her voice echoing through the room like a thunderclap.

In his blind panic, Peter's thumb slammed down on the 'Imagine' button without a second thought, the remote aimed squarely at his advancing mother. He hadn't planned it, hadn't even formed a coherent idea in his mind beyond stopping her, but the chaos of the moment twisted his fleeting thoughts into something unintended. A beam of shimmering light erupted from the device, engulfing her in a golden haze that filled the room with an otherworldly hum.

His mom froze mid-lunge, her eyes widening in confusion as the light wrapped around her like a cocoon. "What—what is this?" she gasped, her voice faltering as the transformation began. Peter watched in horror, his mouth agape, realizing too late what he'd done. He hadn't meant to—God, not his mom—but the remote had already latched onto the same settings he'd used on his dad: the "Origin" dial still twisted to "Spanish," the "Language Priority" with English as tertiary, and the "Relationship" locked on "Girlfriend." His mind, in that split-second of desperation, had conjured an image not unlike the first—a sultry Latina beauty—but older, more mature, with the voluptuous curves of experience etched into her form.

The change swept over her swiftly, her sensible blouse and slacks dissolving like mist, reforming into a tight white dress that clung to her body like a second skin. Her frame softened and reshaped, her once-average build expanding into generous, hourglass proportions: full, heavy breasts straining against the thin fabric of the dress, the neckline dipping low to reveal deep cleavage that heaved with each breath. Her hips widened into lush, swaying curves, the dress riding up just enough to expose the edge of a bright red thong peeking out beneath, the thin strap hugging her rounded thighs. Her skin took on a warm, sun-kissed olive tone, smooth and flawless, as if years had been peeled away and replaced with timeless allure.

Her hair, previously a practical bob streaked with gray, exploded into a cascade of glossy black waves that tumbled down her back and over her shoulders, thick and lustrous, framing a face that sharpened into elegant maturity—high cheekbones, full lips painted with an invisible gloss that made them shimmer, and dark, smoky eyes lined with natural intensity, gazing out with a sultry wisdom.

Large hoop earrings dangled from her lobes, catching the light, while her hands, now adorned with manicured nails in a deep crimson, clutched at her sides as the final shifts settled. She stood taller in invisible confidence, her posture shifting to one of poised seduction, one arm crossing beneath her ample bosom as if to accentuate it, her legs slightly parted in a stance that screamed invitation. The faint scent of jasmine bloomed around her too, but mingled with a deeper, spicier note—like vanilla and cinnamon—evoking a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

The mental adjustments hit next, her expression morphing from shock to a hazy confusion, then melting into a warm, eager smile. "Ay, Dios mío," she murmured, her voice now a rich, accented purr, thick with Spanish inflection, English words slipping in like **** guests. Her eyes locked onto Peter, flickering with a hungry spark, then darted to the other woman on the bed—her "fellow" girlfriend—who grinned back with knowing mischief.

Peter stared, mortified, his face burning with a mix of shame and disbelief. This was his mom—his sweet, sandwich-making mom—now transformed into this mature vixen, her body on full display in that skimpy white dress that left little to the imagination, the red thong a bold flash against her tanned skin. He hadn't intended this; it was a panic move, a mistake born of fear. His stomach churned, guilt crashing over him like a wave, leaving him too stunned to move or speak. He could only sit there, the remote limp in his hand, as the two women exchanged glances that promised shared delights.

The new girlfriend—his former mother, though he could barely reconcile it—stepped forward with a sway in her hips, her heavy breasts bouncing slightly with each step, the fabric of her dress whispering against her curves. "Papi," she cooed, her voice low and throaty, laced with excitement as she climbed onto the bed without hesitation. "Look at you, all flustered. But mami's here now, and I see you already have company." She leaned in close, her long black hair brushing against his chest, her full lips curving into a teasing smile as she glanced at the first girlfriend. "Don't worry, chica—we can share him, sí? The more, the merrier."

The first girlfriend laughed softly, her hands roaming possessively over Peter's thigh as she shifted to make room. "Ay, yes, hermana. Let's show him what we can do." She pulled the new woman closer, their bodies pressing together in a tangle of limbs and heat, both sets of dark eyes fixed on Peter with matching hunger.

Peter's world spun in a haze of disbelief, his body rigid on the bed as the two women—his transformed parents, now these voluptuous, eager girlfriends—closed in with predatory grace. The first one, with her flowing white blouse still half-unbuttoned from their earlier encounter, leaned in first, her dark hair cascading like a veil as she captured his lips in a deep, insistent kiss. Her mouth was warm and demanding, her tongue slipping past his parted lips to tangle with his, drawing a muffled gasp from him. She tasted of faint jasmine and something sweeter, her hands cupping his face to hold him steady as she explored, nipping gently at his lower lip before pulling back with a teasing smile.

Not to be outdone, the second girlfriend—the more mature one in her tight white dress that hugged every curve—took her turn seamlessly, her full lips pressing against his with a fiercer hunger. Her kiss was rougher, more urgent, her tongue delving deeper as if claiming him, her manicured nails grazing his jawline. Peter’s mind screamed in protest, the mortification burning hot in his chest—this was wrong, so profoundly wrong—but his body betrayed him, frozen in stunned silence, unable to push them away as they alternated, their breaths mingling in the heated air.

They shifted closer, their bodies pressing against his sides, the soft swell of their breasts rubbing against his bare chest in slow, deliberate circles. The first one's fuller, pert curves brushed against him first, the lace trim of her blouse teasing his skin, sending involuntary shivers down his spine. Then the second joined in, her heavier, more ample bosom pressing firmly, the thin fabric of her dress doing little to mute the warmth and weight as she ground against him, her nipples hardening noticeably through the material. Peter’s hands twitched at his sides, too overwhelmed to move, as they took turns again—kissing his lips, his neck, his collarbone—each one whispering soft, accented encouragements that made his pulse thunder.

Emboldened, they trailed lower, their hands exploring his torso with confident strokes. The first girlfriend slid down, her lips planting feather-light kisses along his stomach, down to his hips, until she reached his hardening length. She hovered there, her breath warm against his skin, before pressing a series of soft, lingering kisses along his penis, starting at the base and working up to the tip. Peter jolted at the sensation, a low groan escaping despite himself. She blew gently on the sensitive skin, a cool puff of air that made him twitch and ache, her eyes flicking up to meet his with wicked amusement as she teased him mercilessly.

The second girlfriend watched with a sultry grin, then joined her, taking her own turn to lavish kisses on him—firmer, more possessive—alternating with blows of warm breath that left him throbbing and ****. They made it a game, their lips brushing and occasionally meeting over him, their tongues flicking out just enough to heighten the torment without granting relief. Peter's mind reeled, the shock of it all pinning him in place; he wanted to stop this, to undo the chaos he'd unleashed, but the overwhelming sensations drowned out his resolve, leaving him mute and trembling.

Rising back up, they pulled him into more heated makeouts, the first one straddling his waist while the second knelt beside them. Her mouth claimed his again, deep and passionate, her tongue dancing with his as her hands roamed his chest. They switched, the second's kiss even more intense, her fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his head back, exposing his throat for nips and sucks that left faint marks.

Finally, they positioned themselves for more. The second girlfriend—the one with the mature, commanding presence—eased herself onto him first, guiding his length inside her with a slow, deliberate motion that made her gasp. She began to ride him roughly, her hips slamming down with forceful bounces, taking him deep along the full length of his cock. Up and down she went, violently rhythmic, her ample breasts heaving with each thrust, the bed creaking under the intensity as she ground against him, her inner walls clenching tight.

All the while, the first girlfriend leaned in close, her lips crashing against Peter's in a fervent makeout. She kissed him deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth with urgent strokes, muffling his involuntary moans as her hands caressed his face and neck. She whispered encouragements between breaths—"Sí, Papi, feel her"—her own body pressing against his side, her breasts rubbing against his arm in time with the second's wild movements.