Heading to breakfast, warily

You stand there for a few minutes, processing. An odd position to stay in, kneeling on Lucy's bed, cock hanging out.

Once you finally reclaim your ability to think, a million questions spring into your mind. Okay so, either this is one of the most elaborate practical joke in the history of practical jokes, or you're actually supposed to... well, do what you just did and piss on women's crotches. And wipe on their clothes too. Wait can you piss on a woman's crotch if she's naked? You dream did mention women's clothing, but what if you need to do so and there's no clothed woman near you? Wait what if there's no woman near you at all?! Will your bladder just keep on filling until you find someone to relieve yourself on? "Someone to relieve yourself on". God that sounds so wrong. Maybe the worst part is that everyone just go along with it and nobody bats an eye. And what about plain old toilet paper? What if you need to take care of your most manly urges?! Surely you're not meant to wipe this too on some wom-

"Honey?"

Your stream of consciousness is interrupted by the voice of your mother. You look at her, your eyes naturally drawn towards the very unusual fresh stain on her groin.

"I know you're groggy in the morning, but you may want to grab a pair of Lucy's panties before you wet her bed."

Coming from downstairs comes the voice of your sister:

"What?! He shouldn't need one, he just went on me like five minutes ago!"

Confused, your mother look at you.

"Is that so? Then what are you still doing in her room?"

You struggle to find any kind of answer that could be even remotely appropriate. Hell you're not even sure what appropriate even means now! But coming to think about it, there's one thing that should remain familiar, peculiar toilet habits or not.

"Sorry mom, I'm kinda tired."

As if you've flipped on a switch, your mom switches gears in an instant and crosses her arms.

"You should really stop playing video games all night." She emphazises her words with a stern gaze. As her gaze softens, she adds "Now come on down and get some coffee in your system."

As you're following your mom down, your mind is racing to figure out what your new situation even is, feeling like you're inches away from stepping on an etiquette landmine.

It takes the sight of your house's kitchen table, set up with bottles of orange juice, a fresh kettle of coffee and some toasts to yank you back to Earth. Lucy is picking away at some buttered bread, your dad is having only coffee for breakfast again - even though the rest of you keep on insisting that he should really eat solid things in the morning - and your mom is preparing her lunchbox.

This is still your family, and it's still your life.

You dare to relax a little, take a plate, start grabbing some fruits. Morning conversation is the same as it's always been: you and Lucy discussing your plans for the evening, your parents figuring out whether they can squeeze some family time in the schedule of the four of you and failing spectactularly. But as the conversation is steering towards the recent news, it happens.

At first, you don't hear much: just a quiet hissss and the sound of a stream hitting something. Engrossed in your daily breakfast routine, you don't really register it until you start hearing drops hitting the floor. Puzzled, you look under the table.

And there, in plain view for you to see, is your mother's suit, getting generously pissed on by your father's dick. Oddly enough, you dedicate a single thought to your dream lying to you: your father doesn't even seem to aim for the crotch area, he's just hosing in the approximative direction of your mother's leg, "aiming" with one hand and eating with the other. And right after you realize that, you jump up.

"Dad, are you pissing on mom?!"

The rest of your family startles at your sudden outburst. Your dad's stream even seem to interrupt.
A few brief moments that feel like an eternity pass, and your father is the first to react. As he resumes peeing on your mom, he asks you:

"Yeah, why? Is there a problem?"

Slowly, you start to realize that this is a totally natural occurence. As much as the concept sounds simple, it's hard to unlearn years of habits, social conventions and so on. You quietly sit down, and answer:

"No, it's just that... Um..."

Your mom intervenes, ever the motherly type:

"Come on, Jack. If there's a problem, you can tell us. We're your family: we won't judge you!"

You look at her. The cogs in your head take their sweet time turning, but you ultimately rationalize that she's right. She's your mom. The man pissing on her, as abnormal as that sounds, is still your dad. And the young woman you recently soaked yourself is still your sister. You can trust those people.

Taking a deep inspiration, you...