Someone skilled and eager had their mouth wrapped around Stephen’s cock. He was in a bed, covered in sheets and blankets, and under those blankets with most of his body was someone with a spectacularly talented tongue.

This was not how he started most mornings. This was not, indeed, how he started any mornings, and given the dismal state of affairs with his wife as of late, it was not even how he expected to spend any amount of time for the foreseeable future.

Instead he twitched, moaned, thrust his hips, and the happy mouth under the covers moaned in return and sank deeper. His cockhead hit her throat, distending the succulent sucking flesh, and he gasped and rolled slightly, hitting the other girl.

The other girl?

Yes, there were two of them. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet—this dream was far too nice to ruin. But there was clearly a face on his cock—no way around that—and his thigh just rolled into another face, which immediately began kissing his skin and whispering softly.

“That’s it, dearie. You see how much he likes it? I told you would be so good at this.”

He groaned. Whoever that was had a voice like an angel. So far from the kinds of female voices he was used to hearing—angry, accusatory, insulted female voices had haunted him now for months, climaxing in the deliverance of divorce papers from his wife and a round of sexual assault allegations at work.

How had he gotten here? Where was here? Dare he open his eyes to find out? There were two angels sucking his cock—he could feel the second girl guiding the first, her hand tight on the first girl’s skull and showing her the exact pace to drive him wild—and it felt entirely out of line to somehow break their spell. The last thing he could remember was being brilliantly, apocalyptically drunk—a drunk to end all drunks—and at the moment, although he was enjoying an incredible amount of heated, wet pleasure, he could feel no alcoholic-induced euphoria whatsoever.

He wasn’t hungover, either. Had he died? He had sort of meant to. You didn’t drink that much and not account for possibly dying. There had been several, several shots of whiskey in a row, punctuated by tall beers and many other shots of other liquors.

Slowly, finally, he opened his eyes. The clock told him it was late morning—far too late to be enjoying this sort of affair on a Monday. But the clock wasn’t his, and the sheets weren’t either, and he didn’t recognize the ceiling or the nightstand. They were all much nicer than anything he could have managed from his meager earnings at the law firm.

Most of his clients were crooks and deserved the sentences they got, but that didn’t make him feel any better about never being able to argue his way toward good settlements. He was a “good enough” defense lawyer, which meant in other words that he had a pulse and a law degree and that was about it. Stephen hated confrontation, part of why he still had not drawn the covers up to see whose bed he was in.

Two girls, that much was clear between the pitch of their voices, the feel of their heavy tits pressing against him, and the warmth of their pussies grinding on his legs. God, he hoped they were pretty. They certainly felt slim, and from the calf and high heel poking out from one part of the covers that he could see, at least they were rather in shape and healthy. Her skin was radiant, actually, glowing tan like she spent most of her days playing tennis. That was the life his wife Marisa afforded herself even though they as a family couldn’t afford it in the least.

Something wet and creamy dripped from the tits of the girls, lubricating their bodies and his. Milk. Somehow they were lactating, though neither felt pregnant. Their tummies, occasionally slipping across his thighs, were utterly trim as far as he could feel.

He didn’t know how such a thing was possible, but it made him even harder inside the mouth of the one blessed girl doing the perfect job of loving his cock with her tongue and lips and throat.

How had he managed two girls? Why couldn’t he remember it at all? The last thing he recalled was going to bed alone. He must have been on some divorce-inspired bender…

The leader of the two—the one guiding the girl on his cock—seemed to notice he was more awake. She sat up straighter under the heavy duvet and started working the other girl’s skull even faster.

“He needs it, dear.” Her voice pure sex. “Can’t you tell he needs it? Give Daddy what he wants.”

“Oh, god,” he groaned. “God…god…”

Calling him Daddy was a particular kink of his that he had never been able to shake, despite Marisa stripping most of the rest of his intimate desires from him.

“Take his cum, sweetie,” said the leader. “You can do it. You can take Daddy’s cum. You can take all of it…”

He bucked, hands reaching across the blankets and sheets and squeezing, looking for anything at all to keep from applauding. His legs wrapped tight and he twisted, fucking the girl’s face hard into the bed while he shot load after load down her throat. She was there for it, eagerly gripping his backside and moaning. Honestly, she sounded like she was cumming.

In all the twisting of the sheets, the other girl—the one who had been running the show—was revealed. An absolute smokeshow with dark hair, big bright brown eyes, and an utterly built body clad entirely in show-off lingerie. She looked fit for a runway, not a bed he was in.

Fuck yeah, man, all right. Good work, good work.

She looked at him with absolute adoration in her eyes and a deep intimacy that made him a little uncomfortable to be the recipient of. She was, after all, just some girl he had presumably picked up somewhere. But—whatever. If she wanted to guide her roommate onto his cock, then that was fine by him.

“Was it good, darling?” she asked him. “Did you like it?”

Something about the way she called him darling struck him as familiar, like he should know her. But he didn’t know any woman this beautiful, and certainly none who had slept with her.

“Hell yes,” he said, sitting up in the bed. “Of course I liked it. Hell yes.”

She clapped her hands excitedly. “That’s so lovely. I told Gale we could do it every day if you pleased her.”

He laughed, cringing a bit.

“Oh,” she frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing. Really. It was great. It’s just…that’s my daughter’s name.”

Gale, of course, was the adopted barely-eighteen year-old daughter of Stephen and Marisa, but they had raised her since she was little.

Under the sheets, the girl giggled. He could hear her lips smacking with his cum. The woman on top tossed her hair back and smiled.

“Of course that’s her name, my love.”

Everything felt like it turned to slow motion. He looked closer at the woman in front of him.

Nothing about her was similar to his wife—a cold, angry, stern woman who had been raised to despise pleasure in all its forms. Sex for her was for procreation and holding others in contempt. Stephen had made the match to earn a job from her father that he then proceeded to drink himself out of it in misery when it was utterly clear his wife didn’t love him, and anyway the business collapsed when her father had suffered a massive, hate-induced stroke.

Marisa had dark hair, but it wasn’t this dark hair. Not silky smooth and long and effortlessly sexy in tangles and waves.

His wife had brown eyes, but not these brown eyes. Not vibrant, full of love and warmth and promise—sparkling with intensity and need and the promise of her service for years.

His wife was in shape, but it was a formidable, utilitarian kind of shape. Stocky, almost. Rectangular. This siren in front of him was curves and angles, a rhomboid of sexual lust, sharp around her face and collarbones and curving at her waist just so.

And yet there was something…something there…in her face that was utterly familiar. Utterly belonging to Marisa.

And that meant…that meant…

Horrified, he ripped the sheets off the bed entirely and saw what he already knew was true—there was his sexy daughter Gale, smiling and cumdrunk, reaching around the waist of his transformed wife and working to slide her beautiful, young, barely legal face into her mother’s pussy.

* * *

The next few minutes were a blur. Somehow he found enough clothes to get to the garage.

He shuffled on his pants and hurried through his shoes and shirt, cursing as he buttoned and tied everything wrong twice, panicking. He was sure someone was on their way to catch him, to trap him, to expose him.

Worse yet were Marisa and Gale, who followed him downstairs in their high heels—he heard each distinctive click-clack with a wince—and called after him.

“Darling, don’t you want breakfast? You’ve got such a big day today.”

Gale joined in. “Will you let me suck you off again while you eat, Daddy?”

And when that didn’t work:

“Daddy, can’t I watch Mommy suck you off so I can do it better? I must have missed something in all the video I studied. Please let me make it better? I promise I’ll finger myself like a good girl! Daddy?”

Somehow, sex-crazed nymphomaniacs had replaced his wife and daughter. Or who at least said they were his wife and daughter. Yes—yes, that was it, perhaps they were just strange imposters playing some preposterous, sexy, jesus-goodlording-christ-they-were-both-so-fucking-hot game. His real wife and daughter were trapped somewhere, or held against their will. Perhaps he had to go save them?

If it had just been Marisa, perhaps he could believe that. But it was Gale, too—sweet Gale, lovely Gale, perfect Gale who absolutely hated his guts ever since he had just the once—the once!—hit on her best friend at one of their swim meets after filling up just a bit on liquid courage. And Gale hadn’t changed at all like Marisa had. Yes, she seemed rather more filled out, and certainly any female form was going to be enhanced from lingerie, but she was still definitely Gale—not some hyper-sexualized version of herself like Marisa.

That’s because Gale already was hyper-sexualized and one of the reasons Stephen had hit on her best friends was because Gale was terrifically pretty and was the kind of terrifically pretty girl who only had deeply terrifically pretty friends. And it just wouldn’t do for Stephen to hit on his only daughter—where would he even hide if she rejected him?—and so, feeling utterly despondent over another course of failed couples counseling with Marisa, he had remarked on how well Addalyn’s swimsuit fit on her ass.

And of course the whole situation wasn’t helped at all when he had followed up that rejection by getting a little more tight and hitting on Addalyn’s stepmother Abigail, who worked for him. He thought it had been a sure thing—she was unhappy in her marriage too and was always complaining—but then suddenly it was lawsuit this and disbarring that and it got quite out of hand.

That was all last week.

So why was Gale sucking his cock, for god’s sake, and what was Marisa doing showing her how to do it? Gale was barely even a month past eighteen.

And that—that wasn’t everything that was wrong. He tried to take stock in the garage, holding himself steady on a workbench filled with shiny tools. That was all wrong. His workbench was right here in the garage, but his tools were grungy and misused and the edges of anything sharp mostly dull—a side-effect of largely trying to use them while he was drunk. Thinking back now, he recalled other similar disparities. Everywhere he had looked, this was his house, but it wasn’t.

Everything was topsy-turvy and crazy. The busted wooden stairs that had squeaked on every step and constantly let Marisa know when he was coming in too late from the bar had been smooth, carpeted, and immaculate. The dreary entryway with its curtains so thick and dusty they may as well have been carpets in a mausoleum was instead now bright and airy and shining white, immaculate in its cleanliness.

Even his clothes! What were these clothes? He’d never owned a pair of pants that fit so well—yet they were clearly tailored and so clearly tailored for him.

And this car! The car in the garage—what even was it? Without thinking, he clicked the keys to turn on its lights, and saw one of those fancy top-of-the-line electric self-driving jobs that cost about twice as much as his net yearly income.

These were his keys. Attached to them was the little rubber logo of the college he went to, a dumb keepsake he kept around because he liked to mess with his hands in his pockets. Restless personality. It was even rubbed down and ripped on the same end as his.

“Darling? My love?” Marisa knocked on the door. “Darling, won’t you please come let me suck your cock in front of our daughter?”

His wife’s voice sparked something deep and undeniable in his soul. She made him burn with need, and even though only minutes ago he had cum, his cock hardened again. His erection was furious and instant, tailored pants easily making room for it, and it demanded attention and satisfaction. His legs drew him toward the door, toward her voice. Dear god, she had looked so sexy. The way she said Daddy. The way she had tossed her hair and smiled and looked so warm and inviting, god god god…

“Please, husband? Your daughter is just beside herself. I think she may start to cry if you don’t tell her what a good job she did, and—”

He couldn’t bear to hear anymore. Stephen lunged into the car and sped to work.