Chapter 4: Like Mother, Like Daughter
The mansion’s front door clicked shut with a sound of final wealth, sealing them in a foyer of cool marble and the faint, cloying scent of gardenias. Percy stood, shoulders slightly hunched, his baggy hoodie and soft jeans a stark contrast to the gleaming opulence. Tiffany clung to Brittany’s side like a loyal, breathless shadow, her eyes wide as she took in the vaulted ceiling.
“Mom! We’re home!” Brittany’s shout echoed, devoid of warmth, a simple announcement of possession.
Footsteps clicked on the staircase—slow, deliberate, each one a statement. Dolly appeared on the landing, and the very air in the foyer seemed to thicken. She was a silhouette carved from desire and surgical precision, a monument to trophy-wife excess. Her platinum hair was bigger, her makeup sharper, her breasts a gravity-defying shelf that strained against the sheer silk of a lavender robe she hadn’t bothered to tie closed. It revealed a matching lace teddy underneath, the fabric doing nothing to conceal the dark shadows of nipples or the severe taper of her waist. She looked like a pornographic parody of motherhood.
Her eyes, lined with practiced seduction, swept over the trio. They lingered on Tiffany with bored recognition before snapping to Percy. A perfectly sculpted brow arched.
“Brit-Brit, sweetie, who’s the stray?” Dolly’s voice was a nicotine-and-champagne rasp. She descended the stairs, the robe falling open further with each step. “Did you join some charity program? Bringing home the… less fortunate?”
Brittany didn’t flinch. She slid her arm through Percy’s, pressing her impressive chest against his bicep. “This is Percy. My boyfriend.”
Dolly’s laugh was a short, sharp crack. “Boyfriend? Honey, he looks like he gets winded opening a juice box. Where’s Chad? He at least has shoulders.”
“Chad’s boring.” Brittany’s tone was flat, final. She looked at her mother with a chilling lack of deference. “And Percy isn’t winded. He’s just quiet. Because he’s hung like a fucking dinosaur.”
The foyer went utterly silent. Dolly froze, one manicured hand on the banister. Her gaze, which had been dripping with condescension, dropped. It traveled down Percy’s slender frame, past the modest swell of his hips, and fixed on the pronounced, undeniable bulge in his soft trousers. Something predatory ignited behind her eyes. The disdain melted, replaced by a frank, hungry calculation.
“Is that so,” she murmured, more to herself than to them. She took the last few steps slowly, her eyes not leaving that singular point of focus.
Brittany stepped directly into her mother’s path, her own chin tilting up. “It is. And he’s mine. So butt out.” It wasn’t a request. It was a warning delivered in a bored, singsong tone.
A tense smile stretched Dolly’s collagen-filled lips. She looked from her daughter’s defiant face to Percy’s blank, placid one, and then to Tiffany’s nervously twitching expression. “A girl’s first real prize is always exciting,” she purred, the implication clear. “Don’t let me interrupt your… playdate.” She swept past them, the cloud of her perfume lingering like a challenge.
Brittany didn’t watch her go. She tightened her grip on Percy and pulled him towards the sweeping staircase. “Come on. My room.”
Brittany’s bedroom was a perfumed fortress. She kicked the door shut, the lock engaging with a heavy thunk. The outside world, and her mother, ceased to exist. She turned to Percy, her earlier casual command hardening into something more immediate, more desperate.
“On the bed. Now.”
Percy complied, moving with his usual quiet languor. He sat on the edge of the crushed-berry silk duvet, watching as Brittany shrugged out of her designer jacket. Tiffany stood by the door, vibrating with anticipation.
“Tiff,” Brittany said, not looking at her as she pulled her top over her head. “You remember your job.”
“Yes, Brittany.” The words tumbled out in a grateful rush.
Brittany pushed Percy onto his back, crawling over him with the focused intensity of a panther. She kissed him, deep and wet, before breaking away to look down at his trousers. “Get it out. I want to see it.”
As Percy complied, Tiffany was already there, kneeling on the plush carpet beside the bed. Her hands trembled as she helped push the fabric down, her breath catching in a sharp gasp when he sprang free, already thickening under the attention.
Brittany didn’t wait. She straddled his face, lowering her dripping cunt onto his mouth with a sigh that was half-relief, half-triumph. “Eat,” she commanded, grinding herself against his lips and tongue. Then she leaned forward, her full breasts swaying, and took the head of his cock into her own mouth with a practiced, suctioning pull.
Tiffany watched for a second, her lower lip caught between her teeth, before the obsession overruled any protocol. She didn’t ask. She lunged forward, burying her face between Brittany’s spread cheeks, her tongue lapping and spearing with frantic, animalistic hunger. She ate Brittany out from behind with a sloppy, desperate fervor, her moans muffled by flesh.
The room filled with the symphony of their use of him: Brittany’s guttural groans around his cock, the wet, slapping sounds of her hips on his face, the obscene, gagging gulps as she took him deeper into her throat, her eyes watering. Percy’s own muffled breaths came in short bursts as he worked his tongue, his hands coming up to grip Brittany’s ample thighs, his hips twitching up into the hot, constricting vault of her mouth.
Brittany pulled off with a gasping, ragged breath, a string of saliva connecting her glossy lower lip to his shining tip. “Switch,” she choked out, her voice ruined.
She rolled off him, lying back on the silk, her chest heaving. Her pussy glistened, wet from his mouth and Tiffany’s. “Tiffany. Now. I want to watch him wreck that tight little ass of yours.”
Tiffany scrambled up, her face slick with Brittany’s juices. There was no hesitation, no prep beyond the spit she now slathered over his length with hurried, reverent hands. She positioned herself on all fours next to Brittany, presenting herself, her own arousal dripping down her thighs.
Percy moved behind her, his movements still oddly calm amidst the frenzy. He guided himself to her puckered entrance and pushed. Tiffany screamed, a high, shattered sound, as he invaded her. It was a brutal, stretching intrusion. She choked, her body seizing, but she pushed back against him, begging through sobs for more.
Brittany watched, one hand pinching and pulling at her own nipple, the other snaking down to rub furious circles on her clit. “Harder,” she hissed. “Fuck the air out of her.”
Percy obeyed, his slim frame belying a ruthless, piston-like rhythm. Each thrust slammed into Tiffany with a sound of fleshy impact. Her cries became gulping, rhythmic things, timed with his drives. Brittany’s moans climbed higher, a counterpoint to the brutal slapping.
Then, on a particularly deep, lung-emptying thrust, a short, sharp pfft of air escaped Tiffany. A fart, ripped from her by the force of him. The sound was crude, absurd, deeply intimate.
Tiffany whimpered, humiliation and ecstasy twisting her face into a mask. “S-sorry, Britt…”
Brittany just laughed, a wild, delighted sound. “That’s how you know he’s doing it right.”
The door clicked open.
Dolly stood in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame. She held a crystal glass of white wine. Her robe was gone, leaving only the sheer teddy. She took a slow sip, her eyes crawling over the scene: her daughter, spread and masturbating; the red-haired girl, being brutally sodomized; the slender, androgynous boy moving between them with a terrifying, serene efficiency.
“Oops,” Dolly said, her voice dry as bone. “Forgot my magazine.” She didn’t move. She took another sip, her gaze locking onto Percy’s back, the flex and release of his muscles, the sheer, monstrous size of him stretching Tiffany obscenely wide. Her tongue flicked out to catch a drop of wine on her lip. “Don’t mind me.”
Brittany’s head lolled to the side, her eyes meeting her mother’s. For a second, pure challenge flashed there. Then a vicious, complicit smile spread across her fucked-out face. She knew exactly what Dolly saw. What she wanted.
“He’s mine,” Brittany gasped, her hips bucking against her own hand.
“Of course he is, baby,” Dolly purred, not moving from the doorway, her eyes gleaming in the low light like a hawk’s. “I’m just… admiring your taste.”