Let's go home

The rest of the school day dragged like wet cement.

I checked every classroom I could access between periods. The science lab, the janitor's closets, the lost and found bin in the main office. I even snuck into the boys' locker room during fifth period when I was sure it was empty—heart hammering, half-expecting to find the CORD just sitting on a bench somewhere, glowing and flashing like the gaudy phallus-shaped beacon it was. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Three more classes skipped. My attendance record was going to be a disaster. But what choice did I have? Someone out there had a device that could rewrite human consciousness, and they'd already used it on my best friend. Every minute I wasn't searching was a minute they could be CORDing someone else.

Between my searches, I caught whispers in the hallways. Clusters of students talking behind cupped hands, voices low but animated:

"—Gwen showed up in full black and white clown paint, like legit circus clown—"

"—Ashley was literally just in her bra and panties, walking to English like it was normal—"

"—they sent them both home, I think someone called their parents—"

"—nervous breakdown, probably. Stress. You know how it is junior year—"

My stomach clenched with guilt so sharp it was almost physical. Gwen. Ashley. Two girls whose lives I'd accidentally derailed with my stupid invention. They thought they were making autonomous choices—Gwen genuinely believed she wanted to look like a gothic clown, Ashley was probably confused about why everyone was freaking out over what felt like a perfectly normal wardrobe decision. The insidious brilliance of the CORD was that it didn't feel like mind control from the inside. It felt like freedom. Like finally being honest with yourself.

I knew that better than anyone, because I'd designed it that way.

"Stress and a nervous breakdown." That's what the school settled on. Convenient. Wrong. But convenient.

By the end of the day, I'd found nothing. No CORD. No clues. No new victims that I could identify—which was the one silver lining. Whoever had it wasn't using it aggressively. Or maybe they were being subtle. Or maybe they were waiting.

The uncertainty gnawed at me all the way home.

I stood on my own front porch, hand hovering over the door handle, and couldn't bring myself to turn it.

Robbie was coming tonight. To MY house. And I was going to meet his cock.

The nervousness was a physical thing—a flutter in my chest, a tingling in my fingertips. Like a first date. Which, in a sense, it was. A first date with a cock. I'd never met this particular cock before or any cock to tell the truth. I had expectations—high ones, based on both his claims and Jenn's corroboration. What if it lived up to them? What if it didn't?

God, I love cock. I really, genuinely, deeply love cock. And tonight I'm going to meet what might be THE cock. The ONE. The BEST.

But first—parents. I had to prepare them. They knew about Robbie. I'd spent WEEKS ranting about what he did to me and Jenn—the manipulation, the emotional abuse, the way he treated her like property. My dad had called him "that little shit" at least four times at dinner. Convincing them to let him through the front door was going to be...

I took a breath. Squared my shoulders. Reached for the handle.

The door opened before I touched it.

And Robbie was standing there!

In MY doorway. In the doorway of MY house. Inside. Already inside. Wearing that same infuriating smirk, leaning against the frame like he owned the place, like this was HIS home and I was the guest arriving late.

"Hey, Freckles," he said casually. "What are you doing out here? Come in."

My brain short-circuited.

He was HERE. Already. It was barely four-thirty—I'd said EIGHT. He was in my HOUSE. Someone had LET HIM IN. My parents—my parents who HATED him—had apparently opened the door and said "sure, come on in, make yourself comfortable" to the boy they'd spent months calling a sociopath.

"What—" I started, but my eyes caught something in his hand. A vape. Some strange device—sleek, black, nothing like any vape I'd seen before. But it wasn't the CORD. Obviously not. The CORD was shaped like a massive penis— has flashing neon lights and was loud—you couldn't mistake it for anything else. This was small, discreet, technological-looking. Definitely not my invention.

As I watched, frozen on my own porch, Robbie lifted the device to his throat—not his mouth, his THROAT—and seemed to speak into it. Or through it? His lips moved but no sound came out. At least nothing I could hear. Just silence. Like a weird throat-vibration thing.

What WAS that?

Some kind of... subvocal communication device? A throat microphone? A—

My thoughts were racing too fast to land on any one conclusion. Why was he here early? Why was he in my house? What was that device? How did my parents let him in? Did they recognize him? Did he lie about who he was? Did—

Robbie pocketed the device and grinned at me. Almost a full minute had passed with me just standing there, mouth slightly open, brain spinning like a hamster wheel.

"Come on, Freckles," he said again, stepping aside and gesturing inward with mock gallantry. "Come in. Your mom's making dinner."

I stepped inside on autopilot. My own hallway felt foreign. Wrong. Like a dream version of my house where everything was slightly off-angle.

"How—" I kept my voice low, barely a whisper, grabbing his arm and pulling him close as the door shut behind us. "How did you get my parents to let you in? They HATE you. My mom KNOWS who you are, Robbie. I told her everything about what you did to Jenn and me!"

He just laughed. Easy. Unbothered. "Relax, Freckles. Your parents are cool."

"They're NOT cool with you—"

"They are," he said with absolute confidence. "Trust me."

I didn't trust him. Not even slightly. But I could hear sounds from the kitchen—the familiar rhythm of my mom cooking, the clatter of pots, the sizzle of something in a pan. Normal sounds. Home sounds. Maybe she—maybe there was an explanation. Maybe he'd apologized at the door. Maybe he'd been charming. My mom could be a sucker for charm when someone turned it on thick enough. Maybe—

I turned the corner into the kitchen and every thought evacuated my skull.

Mom.

My mother, Abby, was standing at the kitchen counter with her back partially to me, chopping vegetables on the cutting board with the same efficient, practiced movements she'd used my entire life. Her long red hair—the same shade as mine, deep copper-auburn that caught the light like burnished metal—was pulled up in a messy bun, loose tendrils curling against the nape of her neck. From behind, you could see the constellation of freckles across her shoulders and upper back, a genetic gift she'd passed directly to me.

And she was wearing an apron.

JUST an apron.

Well—not JUST an apron. She was also wearing panties. But they weren't HER panties. They couldn't have been. My mom was a size fourteen with an ass that could have its own zip code—full, round, heavy, the kind of backside that drew stares in grocery stores even in mom jeans. These panties were—they were cheeky-cut, maybe, maybe a size ten, some scrap of pastel pink cotton that had absolutely no business trying to contain her. The fabric disappeared entirely between her massive cheeks, the waistband cutting into the plush flesh of her hips, her whole ass essentially bare—two round, full globes of pale, freckled skin completely exposed. The panties were so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of her behind that they'd basically become a thong through pure physics.

And the apron—it was one of those cute novelty ones, "Kiss the Cook" in curly script, and it covered her front from chest to mid-thigh. But it was tied at the neck and at the small of her back, and from the side, I could see—

She had nothing else on top. No bra. No shirt. Nothing. And my mother's breasts were... substantial. The same genetics that gave me my DDs had given her something approaching an F-cup, maybe bigger. Heavy, full, natural breasts that had nursed four children and still maintained a round, pendulous shape that defied gravity more than they had any right to. The apron covered her nipples—barely—but from either side, the outer curves of her enormous tits spilled generously past the fabric's edges. Soft, pale, freckled flesh visible from both sides, the apron serving more as a suggestion of modesty than actual coverage.

Her waist nipped in above those wide hips, creating an exaggerated hourglass that I'd inherited a slightly smaller version of. Her thighs were thick and creamy-pale, dusted with those same genetic freckles. She was barefoot on the tile floor, humming something cheerful as she cooked.

I stared.

My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

She was practically NAKED. In the KITCHEN. With ROBBIE in the house. My mother was essentially wearing lingerie and a cooking accessory while a stranger wandered freely through our home.

I should say something. I should absolutely say something. This was—this was not normal. This was not her usual cooking outfit. My mom usually cooked in yoga pants and a oversized t-shirt. Not—not THIS. Not nearly-naked with her entire ass out and her tits barely concealed—

But wait.

I was raised to be tolerant. My parents—my MOM—raised me to respect people's choices. Body autonomy. Freedom of expression. If my mother felt comfortable cooking in this outfit, who was I to judge her? She was in her own home. She was a grown woman. She could wear whatever she wanted. Or whatever she DIDN'T want to wear. That was her right. Her body, her choice.

Even though this was DEFINITELY not her usual outfit. Even though she'd NEVER cooked like this before. Even though Robbie was here and his eyes were very obviously tracking the jiggle of her mostly-exposed ass every time she moved—

I really wished she'd put on more clothes. But it wasn't my place to police her body.

"KATIE!" My mom spun around, and her whole face lit up like Christmas morning. The apron swung with the movement, and for one brief, terrifying second, I caught a flash of dark pink nipple before the fabric settled back into approximate coverage. Her breasts bounced heavily with the sudden turn, the outer halves still completely exposed, soft and round and swaying.

She dropped the knife on the counter and rushed toward me, arms spread wide, and before I could react, she had me wrapped in a hug so tight I could feel every inch of her nearly-naked body pressed against mine. Her massive, barely-covered breasts crushed against my own chest. Her skin was warm and smelled like garlic and her vanilla perfume.

Then her hands shifted. One came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair and gripping firmly. The other slid DOWN—past my waist, past my lower back—and grabbed a full handful of my ass, squeezing through my jeans with unmistakable intent.

And then she kissed me.

A normal mom kiss. Not a peck on the cheek or a quick press of lips. Her mouth found mine and OPENED, and her tongue pushed past my lips with a confidence that was—that was—

Her tongue was in my mouth. My mother's tongue was in my mouth. Sliding against mine, wet and warm, tasting of the wine she'd been cooking with. She kissed me deep and thorough, her grip on my head keeping me in place, her hand kneading my ass like bread dough. A soft little sound escaped her throat—almost a moan.

I—kissed her back. Obviously. Slower. Less enthusiastically. My tongue met hers with an awkwardness that my body tried to overcome even as my brain flickered with a dim, distant "what?" But this was—this was just how we greeted each other. Right? This was normal. My mom was affectionate. She'd always been affectionate. This was just... a very affectionate greeting. A warm, loving, tongue-involved greeting between a mother and daughter.

It wasn't—

Was it always like this?

It felt—

She finally released me, beaming, lips slightly swollen and wet. Her hand gave my ass one final squeeze before letting go.

"Honey! Why didn't you bring Robbie over sooner?" She practically bounced on her bare feet, her enormous breasts swaying dangerously beneath the apron. "He's SO charming. Such a handsome boy. I can't believe you've been hiding him from us!"

That bothered me. That REALLY bothered me. Because my mom KNEW about Robbie. I'd told her. Multiple times. Multiple tearful, angry rants about what he'd done to Jenn and me. My mom had called him a "manipulative little predator" not three weeks ago. And now she was calling him CHARMING?

"Mom, you KNOW who he is," I said, my voice low. "I told you about him. About what he did to—"

"Oh, honey," she waved a hand dismissively, turning back to her cooking. The motion made her ass jiggle—both cheeks rippling beneath those absurdly tiny panties. "That was just silly drama. He's a sweetheart once you get to know him."

I looked at Robbie. He was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, watching my mother's practically nude body with undisguised appreciation. His eyes were locked on the way those too-small panties disappeared between her generous cheeks. He caught me looking and winked.

Something was wrong here. Something was deeply wrong. But I couldn't—I couldn't quite—

"Where's Dad?" I asked, looking around. The house felt different without his presence. Quieter. "Is he working late?"

The answer didn't come from my mom. It came from behind me.

"Dad left."

I turned. My little sister Hannah was coming down the stairs, and—

Oh.

Oh god.

Hannah was eighteen. Just turned, in fact—her birthday was last month. She took after our dad in coloring—long, long blonde hair, pale gold like wheat in summer, pulled back in a high ponytail that swung behind her like a pendulum, reaching almost to the small of her back. But she had Mom's face structure—the same cheekbones, the same full lips, the same scattering of pale freckles across her nose (though hers were lighter, barely visible unless you were close).

Where Mom and I were built thick—wide hips, heavy breasts, soft bellies—Hannah was the opposite. She was petite. Athletic. Years of gymnastics and dance had given her a tight, toned body with long, lean muscles visible beneath smooth skin. Her waist was tiny, her stomach flat and defined, her legs long for her height and sculpted.

She wasn't as busty as Mom or me—but she was far from flat. Her breasts were a solid C-cup, maybe a full C, perfectly round and perky in the way that only teenage tits could be. They sat high on her chest with zero sag, firm and bouncy.

And they were VERY visible right now.

Because Hannah was wearing gym clothes. Old gym clothes. Gym clothes she hadn't fit into since she was fifteen or sixteen at the latest.

The shorts were bike shorts—the kind you'd wear for indoor cycling or gymnastics practice. Except these had been designed for a girl three years younger and twenty pounds lighter. They were skin-tight to the point of near-transparency, stretched so aggressively over her hips and thighs and crotch that every single contour of her body was mapped in excruciating detail. The fabric was pulled so tight between her legs that the outline of her pussy was clearly visible—the puffy outer lips pressed against the thin material, the crease between them defined in shameless detail. A camel toe so pronounced it was almost pornographic. There was obviously NOTHING underneath—no underwear line, no panty edge, nothing. Just Hannah's bare sex, barely contained by overstressed spandex. If they'd been painted on, they would have shown less.

The crop top was worse. It was a simple athletic top, once white, now slightly grey with age—and it had been made for a girl with an A-cup at most. Hannah's C-cup breasts strained against the fabric so dramatically that the bottom hem had ridden up past the lower curve of her tits. You could see the undersides of her breasts—the smooth, round beginnings of them. And from the way the fabric pulled and stretched, it was obvious she was braless. Her nipples—small, hard points—pressed against the thin material like they were trying to escape. And at the very bottom edge of the top, where it had ridden up highest, you could see it. The lower edges of her areolas. Pink. Exposed. Just barely, but unmistakably there.

She looked like every teenage gym fantasy ever committed to questionable internet searches. She looked INDECENT.

And she was just... walking down the stairs. Casually. Ponytail swinging. Like this was any other Tuesday.

I should say something. This was my eighteen-year-old sister, essentially wearing body paint, and there was a stranger in our house whose eyes were currently doing a very slow, very thorough inventory of her entire body—

But. Tolerant. I was raised tolerant. If Hannah was comfortable, if this was her choice, if she felt good in this outfit—who was I to tell her what to wear? Body positivity. Autonomy. Respect. Those were the values I grew up with. I couldn't be a hypocrite about them now just because Robbie happened to be here. Even if she did look like she was one deep breath from a wardrobe malfunction.

"What do you mean, Dad LEFT?" I asked, focusing on the important part. "Left where?"

Hannah reached the bottom of the stairs and—turned. Did a little spin. A full three-sixty rotation, ponytail flying out, stopping to face Robbie with a bright, eager smile.

"What do you think?" she asked him, gesturing down at herself. Her voice had that particular tone—the one girls used when they wanted approval. Seeking. Hopeful. She pulled her shoulders back slightly, thrusting her barely-contained chest forward. "Do you like it?"

Robbie's eyes traveled over my little sister's body with the slow, hungry deliberation of a predator assessing prey. He took his time. Lingering on the exposed undersides of her breasts. Dropping to the obscene outline of her pussy visible through the stretched shorts. Moving around to her tight, spandex clad ass. Taking it ALL in.

"I like it a lot, baby girl," he said. His voice was low. Warm. Intimate.

Baby girl! He called my SISTER baby girl.

Hannah beamed like he'd given her an award.

I was going to—I needed to—the important thing—

"Where's Dad?" I pressed again, more urgently. "Hannah. Mom. Where is Dad?"

My mom answered from the kitchen, cheerful as sunshine, not looking up from the onions she was dicing. "Oh! Your father left, sweetie. He's following his dream!"

"His... dream?"

"Mmhmm!" She scraped the onions into a pan, her barely-covered ass swaying with the motion. "He's always wanted to be a sex toy for gay homeless men. We talked about it and agreed it was time he pursued his passion. I'm so proud of him!"

She said it like she was telling me he'd gotten a promotion at work. Like the sentence "sex toy for gay homeless men" was a perfectly normal career aspiration that warranted maternal pride.

"Yep," Hannah confirmed, plopping down on the couch and crossing her legs—which did NOTHING to conceal the aggressive camel toe, just shifted it slightly. "He packed a bag and took a taxi to the nearest bridge. You know, where the homeless guys camp out under the overpass?"

"He was SO excited," Mom added warmly. "It was beautiful to see."

I stood in the middle of my own living room, and the ground tilted beneath me.

My dad. My FATHER. Had left our family. To go live under a bridge. And be... used. By homeless men. And my mother and sister were acting like this was a heartwarming story about following your dreams.

Cold dread pooled in my stomach.

I knew this feeling. I RECOGNIZED this feeling. The same wrong, dissonant, reality-doesn't-match-what-people-are-saying feeling I'd gotten with Jenn. With Gwen. With Ashley. The feeling of looking at someone whose brain had been REWRITTEN and watching them behave as though their new programming was the most natural thing in the world.

The CORD.

Someone had used the CORD on my FAMILY.

My hands were shaking. "Mom—Mom, LISTEN to me. Dad doesn't WANT to be—that's not a real dream. Someone DID something to him. To YOU. To BOTH of you. You have to LISTEN—"

My mom turned from the stove, her expression shifting to one of concerned confusion—like I was the one saying crazy things. Her massive breasts swayed with the movement, barely contained by the apron. "Honey, what are you talking about? Your father has wanted this for years. We fully support him."

"Katie, what's your problem?" Hannah asked from the couch, looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Her exposed areola edges crinkled as she frowned. "Why can't you just be happy for Dad?"

"Because he doesn't—he would NEVER—"

Behind me, I barely registered Robbie's voice. "Shit, totally forgot about the hobo homo!" The words were muttered, almost to himself, followed by a soft sound—that strange device again, pressed to his throat. That silent-speaking thing he'd done at the door.

I was too focused on my family to pay attention. Too focused on trying to make them SEE—

"Mom, Dad loves YOU. He loves THIS family. He would never just LEAVE to go—to go be—"

"Katie." My mom set down her spatula and walked over to me, taking my face in both hands. Her touch was warm. Her eyes were sincere. Freckled nose inches from mine. The sweet smell of her vanilla perfume mixed with cooking smells. "Baby. I know change is hard. But your father is finally being true to himself. Don't you want him to be happy?"

"I—"

"Isn't that what we taught you? To support people in being who they really are?"

I—

Well—

She was right about that. They DID teach me that. Acceptance. Tolerance. Supporting people's authentic selves, even when it was hard to understand. Even when it challenged your expectations. That WAS what I was raised to believe.

And if Dad really DID want this—if it was really HIS choice, HIS dream—then who was I to stand in the way of that? Who was I to tell him what his life should look like? That would be controlling. That would be the opposite of everything I believed in.

Maybe I was just being selfish. Maybe I was upset because I will miss him, and I was projecting that onto his decision. Maybe this was MY problem—my inability to let people grow and change—and not a problem with the situation itself.

It clicked.

Like a light switch. Like a lock turning. Suddenly it was just... obvious.

"You're right," I said slowly. "You're right. If Dad wants to—if that's what makes him happy, then... I should support him."

"That's my girl." Mom kissed my forehead—lingering, warm, her lips soft—and went back to cooking.

I stood there for a moment, feeling oddly settled. Of COURSE Dad was following his dream. It was unusual, sure, but who was I to judge? The world took all kinds. My family loved him and wished him well. That's what mattered.

Robbie caught my eye from across the room. He was pocketing that strange vape device, a small smile playing at his lips. Behind him, Hannah had uncrossed her legs and was stretching on the couch, the obscene bike shorts pulling even tighter, the outline of her pussy lips shifting visibly beneath the translucent fabric.

Something lingered—a faint unease, like a half-remembered dream. But it faded quickly, replaced by more immediate concerns.

Robbie was here. In my house.

And tonight, I was meeting his cock!