Checking in on your territory.

Ding-dong.

A few seconds pass. When the door opens, a topless Heather is looking happily at you.

"John!" She scans what seems to be your feet. "No Cassie today?"

"'Sup Heather," you step in. "Mom got work today."

"Ah. Post office, right?"

"Head office, yeah." You drop into a couch, looking up at a framed photo of Heather's mother bending over, casually over the fireplace. Everything still mostly in place, apparently. "Nice breasts, by the way."

"Thanks," she falls into the loveseat. The TV was tuned into some kind of reality show. Looks like Big Brother, maybe. After some dramatic camera zooms following some heated argument or something or other, the broadcast enters commercials. Heather then swivels her head back to you, frowns, looks around, then tentatively returns her sights to her visitor. "Um..." she pauses uncertainly. "Do... you wanna watch some porn... or something?"

"I'm good for now."

Heather simply shrugs and her neck twists back to the screen.

As you observe the girl, you think of how the effects of the previous alteration did a number on this family, and Heather. How normal she used to be, compared to how topless she is now.

Cutting the silence short, your gaze flits down to her chest. "'Scuse me Heather." As she looks at you, you continue with a nod, "Can you bounce your tits?"

She leans forward and impishly lends you a capricious stare, as the two of you lock eyes for an interim. "Bounce my 'tits?'" she echoes. You nod.

A moment passes that would've been marginal to immediate deserved recoil before. Here, the corners of her mouth pull inward and she leans back.

Then, you watch as the dirty blonde gently lifts a bare, smooth shoulder. Then the other. And then repeat. Continuing in a rhythmic circular motion, she rolls them shakily before you, while looking at you for approval, and sure enough, her breasts start to jiggle pleasingly to the finagles underneath.

"Nice," you flick at your jeans-barred manmeat, giving it a tingle. You prepare to say something else, but are distracted.

"Heather?"

The male voice emerges from the hallway. You swing your head back, and take in the sight of a shirtless Devin walking forth lazily. Or Cole. One of the two.

"What are you--"

"What's up Devin," you interrupt, quickly catching his eye. "Can you cum in your pants?"

"Er... I... guess." The boy then suddenly clenches both his thighs as he buries one wrist into his groin, shuddering. "Oh... c-crap..."

You get up and stroll over past him to the kitchen, pulling open the door of the fridge. "Still got ice cream?"

Without batting an eyelash at her orgasming brother, Heather affirms, "In the lower drawer."

"Thanks." Out of the three packages, you grab one of the ice cream cones. The door closes with a chilly swoosh. When you return to the living room, Heather is still shaking her chest, albeit a little more lightly than when you last left her. "Where is he?" You refer to Devin.

"Soccer," she points toward the screen door, and with a mental scan, you confirm that is the case. You place a leisurely elbow on the top of the couch, summoning your thoughts.

Say you'd rather taste my dick than ice cream, you think while giving the cone a lick.

"You know, ice cream is good and all, but your dick would taste waaaaay better, John," Heather eyes you amiably with each bounce. The sight pushes you over again.

Slap your titties.

Suddenly, her hands come up to smack at her two fluctuating satellites. Once and then twice again, like she was matting dough onto a board. "Slap slap slap," she idly sighs.

Whether you are smirking or not, the white of the cone obscures it with a partial slather across your lips. You wipe it off and begin finishing the rest of your freezered appetizer in the living room of your newly reacquainted neighbor, thinkimg.