I don't have a whole look to get through, so I'm downstairs already when Violette floats in from the hall wearing a knee-length fairy-tale pink dress with tiny red roses printed all over it. Her hair has a small section of the top braided and pinned back on both sides, and a large red ribbon hair clip at the back holds the braids in place. With the braids, her long bangs still cover the sides of her eyes, but her ears are more visible then they usually are. She only has a light layer of makeup on, school rules, and besides, she needed to hurry and come see me, right?

Eric's in the kitchen cooking eggs, dressed in his typical casual workwear, since he usually takes Violette to school when he's on his way to whatever house he's working on that day. Jett and I are new additions, but the kitchen table seats four, so it's not like we don't fit. Jett's sipping green tea and doing his best Steve Jobs impression in a black turtleneck. He'll be off to his stupid tech job in about an hour, so I'll be on my own until class after that. I'm the only one in pajamas, just a tank and the boxers I pulled back on after Violette was done with me.

"There's my sweetie pie!" Eric says as Violette draws into view. She's walking while checking her phone, but she lowers it when Eric greets her. "Is it a four egg morning? You want toast? Bananas are on the table."

"Yes, Daddy," she says gently as she takes the chair directly to my right. She reaches for a banana from the fruit bowl then looks at me as she peels it, and I half-expect her to make a show of eating it in a sexy way, but instead she devours it in about three bites. Ouch.

"After breakfast, right?" I say, nudging Violette's foot under the table with my own. She nods with a pointy smile, which makes Jett raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, you want to do it instead?" I ask him. He clears his throat and takes a hasty sip of his tea before shaking his head. Didn't think so.

In just a minute, Eric comes over with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast for Violette--sounds like the questions were perfunctory, he was making the food already. She claps in delight and says, "Yay, breakfast!" before digging in.

"You too, kiddo," Eric says. To my surprise, he sets down a plate with a smaller portion of eggs in front of me. Something weird rushes behind the backs of my eyes as I look at the humble stack of eggs and piece of buttered toast. Thank god Violette is busy eating, because I might die if she noticed me emotionally compromised by a plate of food.

He's good at making me feel included in a way that doesn't draw attention to it. Even I see why Violette and Jett love him so much.

Despite having about four times the food on her plate, Violette finishes before I do. It's early! Hard to eat fast when I just woke up. She doesn't care, and proceeds to stare at me while working her hand between her legs, based on the soft wet noises we can all hear. The comfortable atmosphere shifts into one of anticipation as I finish. Jett puts his mug down. Eric runs his hand through his short hair then scratches at the back of his neck. Both of them look at me expectantly.

My heart swells with pride and pleasure. They know I'm her favorite. They assume she's wet for me. I can't keep the smug grin off my face because they're right! Haha! I'm so lucky!

Eric takes the initiative of clearing the plates away, and he gives me a firm slap on the back when he takes mine. I wince, though I'm getting used to his encouraging thumps. I can hear his generous thoughts with greater clarity when he touches me. Unlike Jett, who's pulsing with faint jealousy and then disgust at his own emotions, Eric's just glad Violette's happy.

With the table clear, Violette puts herself on top of it, just like she promised. It's not as large as the one in the dining room, so when she lays on her back she stretches into Jett's table space. In an act of stubborn self-punishment, he stays put, though he lifts his mug out of the way with a cluck of his tongue. Whether it's the long gym sessions, regimented diet, or forced stoicism, Jett's all about unnecessary suffering.

"Take my panties off," she orders me, though she lessens the demand with "please" after taking a breath. It's like getting hit with a hammer made of fluffy bunnies. Still strong, but there's a cushiony softness to the blow.

I look at my hand holding her red panties and think, Huh, I got those off fast. I don't even remember standing up.

"It's okay to do it like this, right?" she asks.

I nod and move between her legs, knowing what's about to come. Standing like this at the edge of the table, I'll have good leverage to fuck her hard, so I don't think I'll disappoint.

She pulls her skirt up with one hand and parts her pussy lips with the other, giving me a clear view of that beautiful, needy part of her that anyone would be obsessed with, if they only had the chance to see it.

Her hole always looks so deep until I push my way inside and find it's exactly the right size for me. She hasn't hit me with the full, obliterating view of it in a while, so I hope she forgives me for my lack of technique.

"Oran, Oran, Oran, Oran," she chants between little gasps, louder than usual, so I must be doing all right. When she keeps going, mewling and calling me big brother next, purring that my cock feels so good, I realize with the corner of my brain that isn't focused on fucking her that she's teasing Jett. He's still sitting and clutching his mug with a conflicted expression while Violette moans up at him.

She's really the perfect woman, I think drunkenly. Sexy and yielding and mischievous in all the right ways.

I start to dissasociate for a second, my mind swept up in the image of the two of us, not just Violette but also me, boxers barely pushed out of the way, thrusting inside her while I grasp one of her hands and hold her hips in place with the other.

No, wait--I'm seeing what Eric's seeing. He's watching me fuck Violette with such interest that the tableau almost overtook my vision.

He's coming closer. I see it before I feel him put a hand on the small of my back.

"Violette, d-did you plan...?" I gasp out, trying to sound annoyed and not just in love with her and her pussy. It is difficult.

"Eric!" Jett protests as he sees his fiancé's hand drop to cup my ass. The touch makes me jolt against Violette, who giggles and arcs her hips up for me.

"Oh, don't be mad, Violette said I ought to, and she's really been talkin' them up for a while, " Eric says, and Jett blanches at that, then nods. Her name is an effective weapon. Eric's large hand remains on my ass, gets bolder about rubbing it, in fact.

"Sneaky," I hiss at her.

"You knew, you like it," she says, and both are true, I think. Whether they were before is--

"No, not today," I protest, wrenching back my mental acuity for a moment. I didn't know! Nobody warned me! I haven't prepared! "You've got school. I do too, later!"

She smirks at me as if to say, is that the best you can do?

"Daddy, it's okay if I'm late, isn't it?" she asks.

"Ah, well, just this one time, why not?" He strokes up my spine, under my shirt, so of course he's going to agree with her. His thoughts are not subtle about what he'd like to do to me. Comparing my tightness to Jett's is involved.

Everyone is against me!

I like it, she said. Do I like it? Hard to fight it when I'm locked inside her, struggling not to return to thrusting. She's been nudging me to appreciate him, yes, but not enough that I was seeking him yet! I shudder and try to resist it out of contrariness if nothing else.

Then I remember the feeling from Saturday night, or was it Sunday morning, the ache in my dream that filled me as that other-Violette climbed on top of me. Is she thinking about the dream, or am I? I stare into her eyes but get nothing back but the glimmer of her watching me. I'm sure I would have liked it in that little world.

"Here?" I ask her. My voice sounds small. In front of Jett and everything?

"Here," she says. "Like this."

I swallow, then nod, unable to fight against the parts of me that are ready. She takes my face in her hands and draws me down to kiss her until I go weak(er). Good thing she and the table are there to hold me up.

"Relax, you'll really like it. It won't hurt. Call him Daddy," she says, firing words like arrows into me one after another. Maybe she's some sort of cupid, the way they feel heart-tipped.

"Violette, I'm gonna die," I groan as the world splits into pieces.

Eric's attention. From the start, I liked it more than I wanted to say. The largeness of his body, his personality that's like a big hug, the way he's confident and enthusiastic but completely without guile, even more so than Violette.

"I do... I do like him," I admit.

That night. I saw his dick at dinner. Wanted it. Watched it push inside Violette the next day. Wanted it then too. Made Jett suck it for us. Wanted to taste it. Just little pieces of moments, but her orders have rearranged them for me into a whole new picture, a stained-glass portrait of desire and need that I can't stop studying.

"They're okay, aren't they?" Eric says from behind me. He's been gentle with his hands, waiting for Violette and I to finish our communication.

She begins, "I think they're--"

"Daddy," I interrupt, rolling the word off of my tongue as boldly as I can, finding it made familiar by Violette's order, "I want it now."

"You're gonna call me Daddy too, huh? Might have to get Jett to start if it's not just Violette," Eric says with a low laugh.

She grins, but Jett stands up in a huff. "I really think this is over the line, the both of you!"

I roll my eyes. Who's both, me and Eric but not Violette? Simp.

Violette doesn't even look at him. "Uncle Jett. You can have me when Oran's done if you behave. Sit down."

That shuts him up. Syrupy sweet relief drips off of Eric as he reaches down to spread my ass apart. He didn't want to upset his fiancé, no matter how tempting I am, but he'd much rather get to continue.

"I suppose it won't be so bad to watch them in that position for once," Jett mutters.

I'd rather die than let Jett do it, but Eric's pressing lubed fingers against my hole before I can tell him to go fuck himself. I moan instead. What did she say? That I'd really like it? Check. Doesn't help that I am still inside her, still hard almost entirely at her behest.

Daddy would get mad if I came too early.

Those violet thoughts are not the same color as mine. I laugh unsteadily as Eric fingers me with two... three fingers? His fingers are about the size of two of mine. Big. Clinging to Violette, I hope the table is rated for the force he's about to apply to it.

"You're being so good, Oran," she whispers in my ear. "You're relaxed, aren't you?"

I nod. It's true.

"Okay, I think you're up to it, kiddo. You just tell me if it's no good, all right?" Eric tossles my hair reassuringly. I feel... very small when he does that (complimentary).

I can't do more than nod again, overwhelmed as his body and thoughts shift toward one goal: fucking me.

God, this is one reason I don't bottom that often. Not finding the right person I'm good with yielding control to is the first one, but the second is what a tsunami of feelings it is.

Whatever. I want it. It's fine if I drown.

As always, her words ring true. His cock just fits, though it also makes me feel like I'm a toothpaste tube getting squeezed for just the last bit. It's so close to too much. This better be how Jett feels when I fuck him.

Oh, that's right!

"Daddy, how's my ass compare to Uncle Jett's?" I ask, curving my butt up when I say it, playing up my twink vibes just for him. He's sexy, he's earned it.

Eric grunts, then gives an amicable swat to my right buttcheek. "Totally different, but good. Real tender." He thrusts with each word, driving me into Violette, whose eyes are rolled back from like she's communing with the other side.

Heh. He likes it so much. Die mad about it, Jett, I think as Eric fucks me harder. He starts hitting my prostate in the way that makes my breath whoosh out of me, and then it's like I finally have to turn my brain off and just enjoy it.

We don't go at it for that long; the only one with supernatural stamina is Violette, but in the moment it feels like hours that he's making me his. I cum before he's finished and don't even get embarrassed about it as my cock softens inside her. How was I supposed to stand up to him?

But Violette, still panting, reminds us all who's in charge when she says, "F-Finish up, Daddy, so you won't be late."

He curses and cums inside me, and that feels really, really good too.

* * *

I don't allow myself to become mortified about acting like a total slut for Eric until everyone else is out of the house--Eric and Violette first, then a recalcitrant Jett, who barely got to fuck Violette before she made him cum. When no one's there to witness it, I bury my burning face in my hands and scream until all the feelings are out.

* * *

I'm fine by the time I have to be at class, okay? It was just a lot to take in. Physically, mentally, spiritually, too many ways when I stop to think about it. Bottoming in front of Jett, let alone calling Eric capital-D "Daddy" the whole time? Horrifying in retrospect, no less so because it was super hot and I loved it. Would do it again without too much pressure, I can already say. Like Violette promised, it didn't even hurt, so the only downside for begging for it in the future will be the damage done to my dignity.

Anyway, that's the emotionally compromised state I'm in when I slide into my seat near the back of Blanc's class. I'm early; she's not in yet. I pull my notebook and pencil out of my messenger bag and glance around the classroom. Belatedly, I notice that there's a certain unrest to people's thoughts.

I hear a whisper (an actual whisper, not a mental one) that someone saw her in the hallway, and she's in a dress.

Huh. She's not usually the sort, she really must be out to get it today, I think, before she walks in and most of the class's jaws drop.

This is a woman who teaches classes like Postmodern Literature in America and Eighteenth Century British Women's Literature. She wears her hair tied back and sensible pants and blouses in muted colors. Not a lot of makeup, if any. She's crafted an image where people largely take her seriously, even if they notice how young and attractive she is compared to the professors in their fifties.

All of that's true, so what is she's doing with her red hair blown out and styled, wearing a tight black dress with a dip in the neck that emphasizes her chest, on top of sheer stockings and high heels? Why is she wearing perfectly applied red lipstick to top it all off? What alternate reality walked in with her?

"All right, class, we're in the last third of the semester, so it's time to start talking about your final papers. Go ahead and pull out your syllabi so we can discuss the timeline listed there." Somehow, she starts class like nothing is unusual.

I hope they're looking, it's making me so hot to imagine them looking, she thinks faintly. Everyone else's thoughts are so loud as they question her movie star makeover, it's hard to hear her.

I sink back in my chair and let out a frustrated breath. This got out of hand fast. Maybe I can't put the genie back in the bottle without more effort than it's worth, but I can at least try to make her less obsessed with me. If she wants to get laid somewhere else, I am all for it! Now that I've moved in with Violette, I really don't need her.

I reach out for her mind, only to find it oddly distant. Everyone else is so noisy today. They might quiet down once we're actually reading the syllabus, so I open my notebook and tug it out.

She starts talking about the various due dates for topic choices, drafts, peer review, all the things you have to do to make college students turn in their work on time. I might see if I can convince her to let me skip a few steps. It's such an annoying process when I can just write the essay and be done with it.

It only I could just...

But my attempt to reach into her mind slides off again. Like she's frozen over when I wasn't watching her. Not only that, but now that the rest of the class has settled, she's still quiet. Unease rises in my throat. Why can't I find a foothold? Where's she gone that I can't follow?

That's when I look at the header on the syllabus and feel the floor go out from under me.

I drop my forehead to my hand, pushing my bangs out of my eyes, reading the paper over and over again, hoping it'll stop showing the truth.

"I go by Christy, " she said, and I got her to spell it for me for my phone, C-h-r-i-s-t-y. Cute, unexpectedly girly, short for Christine, I assumed.

Please tell me how I missed that the syllabus had her full name at the top all along. It's right there, above her office hours, written in bold, where it very clearly states that her name is Chrysanthemum Blanc.