Claim the House and the Mom

The pulse in your throat thuds like a bass drum as you stare through the knot in the wood. How do I play this? You could scale the fence, sprint across the lawn, and try to press the marker against Emma’s skin before she can even scream. But if the power doesn’t work on people, you’re looking at breaking and entering, ****, and a one-way ticket to a jail cell. Looking at this estate, her family clearly has enough money to buy the courthouse.

Playing it safe is the smarter play. You already know you can claim objects.

Moving quickly, you slip out from the side fence and walk up to the heavy, locked security gate at the front of the driveway. Beneath the polished brass letters spelling out Morgan, you uncap the Sharpie and aggressively write: Ryan Ferro.

The property is yours now. No more trespassing, no more sneaking. You could walk right up to Emma. But the gate is still locked, and you don’t have the code. More importantly, a thought hits you—Andrew only realized the sandwiches were yours after he looked at the wrappers. Does the power only trigger once someone reads the name? If you just stroll in, they might freak out before they ever look at the gate.

You need them to see it.

You step up to the intercom panel and press the call button. Your plan is ridiculously simple: “Hi, I’m Ryan Ferro. I think I own this house?” You’ll point to your name on the gate before they can call security, let their eyes track the ink, and let the magic do the rest.

The heavy front door of the mansion swings open, but it isn’t Emma who steps onto the porch.

It’s a woman who looks just like her—older, but jaw-droppingly gorgeous, with the same bombshell body. Her full, heavy breasts stretch the fabric of her designer swimsuit, leading down to wide, flared hips and an ass begging to be spanked. Whether she’s Emma’s mother or her older sister, your throat goes completely dry. I’m claiming her, too.

She struts down the concrete walkway toward the gate, her back perfectly straight and her chin tilted upward. Her posture does absolute wonders for her chest, pulling her shoulders back to thrust her heavy, full breasts forward against the thin fabric of her designer swimsuit.

When she stops on the other side of the iron bars, she doesn't speak right away. Instead, her piercing pale blue eyes slowly trail down your body. She lingers on your faded, slightly wrinkled t-shirt, drops her gaze to your worn jeans, and finally stops at your scuffed, ratty sneakers. Her upper lip curls into a sharp, unmistakable sneer of disgust.

“Yes?” she asks, her voice cutting through the air like a shard of ice.

She plants her hands firmly on her flared hips, angling her head back so she is quite literally looking down her nose at you through the gate. She catches you staring at the generous swell of her cleavage, and her eyes narrow, hardening into a glare.

Under the weight of her disapproval, your rehearsed lines completely vanish from your head. Instead of trying to stumble over an explanation, you lift your index finger and point straight at the fresh, wet black ink beneath her family name.

Her eyes track your finger down to the fresh, wet black ink beneath her family name. She blinks, focusing on the scrawled text, and her entire body instantly goes rigid.

The haughty sneer vanishes from her lips. The color drains from her cheeks as her piercing blue eyes go wide with deep, paralyzing shock. Her chin drops from its arrogant tilt. She stares at your name, her breathing suddenly turning shallow and rapid as a visible shudder ripples through her voluptuous frame.

“I… I am profoundly sorry, Mr. Ferro,” she says. Her voice is no longer a shard of ice; it is a breathless, trembling whisper, dripping with absolute mortification. She looks at your ratty sneakers and worn jeans again, but the disgust is gone. “I don’t know how I could have been so careless. I didn’t realize this property belonged to you. If you wish for us to leave your estate, we will pack our things immediately.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Vacate the estate? You look at her incredible curves, the way her swimsuit strains against her assets. That won't do. You can't have her escaping.

“Wait, you don’t have to leave,” you say, the words tumbling out as you wing it. “It’s just… have you ever been to Chuck E. Cheese?”

She blinks, looking dazed and bewildered. Her expression makes you self-conscious but you press on. “They stamp everyone who goes in, right? To keep track of them. I run a similar check-in system for my property. You and your family can stay, but I need to write my name on your hand first.”

The panic on her beautiful face instantly melts away, replaced by a look of relief. If she has any reservations about the bizarre nature of your request, she doesn't mention it before thrusting her arm through the iron bars of the gate, offering you her open palm to write on.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, your heart hammering against your ribs, before you step up to the bars and reach out. Your fingers wrap around her wrist to steady her. Her skin is remarkably soft and warm.

Glancing at her, you see that she looks uncomfortable by your lingering hands, but she isn't voicing objections yet. You don't want to give her a chance to change her mind, so hurriedly, you press the felt tip of the Sharpie into her skin, and write your name in thick, permanent black letters.

She pulls her hand back through the gate, immediately turning her palm over to stare at the fresh ink.

“You own me?” she reads aloud.

She looks up, her icy blue eyes locking onto yours. The same woman who looked at you like trash seconds ago now looks at you with a serene devotion.

Your breath catches in your throat for a hot second before you manage to **** the words out.

“I own you.”

Holy shit. It works on people.