Chapter 6: The triplets
The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting bars of gold across the disaster of Kyle’s bed. Brenda was sprawled atop him, her head nestled in the crook of his neck, her puffy lips parted in a contented sleep-smile. One of her massive, impossibly soft breasts was pressed against his cheek. The other was draped over his chest like a warm, heavy blanket.
He was still inside her. Not actively, just… present. A soft, full presence.
As he blinked awake, he felt a gentle, rhythmic suction. Glug. Glug. Schlorp.
He looked down. His mother, in her sleep, was drinking. A steady stream of his leftover release was being drawn from him, her throat working with tiny, satisfied swallows. Her hips gave a faint, sleepy grind, squeezing out another thick dollop for her to consume. She murmured, “Mmm… orange juice…”
A profound, buzzing emptiness filled Kyle’s head. This was his life now. The puddle in the foyer had been mopped up, but the smell, a deeper, more complicated musk now, lingered.Mrs. Hendricks had wobbled home at dusk, giggling and waving, her leggings still damp. His mom had just smiled and asked if she’d enjoyed her run.
As Brenda suckled gently, a resolve, fragile as glass, formed in Kyle’s chest. He wouldn’t let this change him. He was still Kyle. He had responsibilities. He had a… a lawn.
“I’m not gonna let this curse change my life,” he whispered to the ceiling fan, to the single glow-in-the-dark star. “I’m gonna be normal.”
A ripple of cold, sweet air passed over them. The Bimbo Spirit Queen materialized at the foot of the bed, licking glitter from her fingers. “Sure you are, slugger,” she chimed, her voice dripping with condescending sweetness. “That’s why your mom’s breakfasting on spunk and the neighbor’s shrubbery is probably pregnant. Very normal.”
Kyle ignored her. Carefully, he extricated himself from his mother’s slumbering embrace. She whimpered, her mouth searching the air before she rolled over, hugging a pillow, a thin line of white tracing her chin.
He showered in water so cold it made his teeth chatter. He put on his oldest, baggiest jeans and a thick hoodie, hoping to smother the scent, the shape, everything. He looked in the mirror. Just a lanky kid. A kid with a job.
“The Banks account,” he muttered, grabbing his keys. “Just mow the lawn. Get paid. Be normal.”
The spirit shadowed him, a visible shimmer of heat and glitter in the periphery. “The Banks. Oh, this is choice,” she giggled, drooling a silvery strand that evaporated before it hit the carpet.
Across the street, the Banks’ house was a pristine monument to suburban success. The lawn was already embarrassingly perfect. Kyle’s push-mower was an insult to it. He stood on their porch, took a deep breath that did nothing to calm him, and knocked.
The door swung open instantly.
Not Mr.Banks. Not Mrs. Banks.
Three of them. Triple the blonde. Triple the bust. They stood in a row, dressed in matching pastel tennis skirts and tiny crop tops that struggled heroically. They were identical: long legs, waist-length platinum hair, faces of porcelain perfection with pouty, glossed lips and wide, vacant blue eyes. They smelled of coconut sunscreen and expensive perfume.
“Hi,” they said in unison, their heads tilting at the same angle.
Kyle’s brain short-circuited.“Uh. Hi. I’m Kyle. To mow the… the lawn?”
“We know,” said the one on the left.
“Dad’s not here,” said the middle.
“Mom’s at spa,” said the right.
A flicker of something passed between them. A simultaneous, predatory inhale. Six nostrils flared. The coconut-and-perfume scent was violently overtaken by something else—the scent of his hoodie, seeping through, undeniable: fresh-cut grass, sizzling bacon, deep, damp earth.
Their perfect synchrony broke into a shared, twitching hunger.
Kyle took a step back. “I can… come back later—”
It was too late. The baggy jeans were a pathetic defense. The fabric strained, then tore with a loud rrrrip as his cock, as if summoned by their collective gaze, surged to its full, monstrous thickness. It burst free, standing upright and throbbing, dripping a bead of clear pre-cum onto the welcome mat.
The triplets didn’t scream. They didn’t gasp. They cooed.
“Oh, wow,” whispered Left.
“A new toy,” whispered Middle.
“Mine first,” whispered Right, but they all moved at once.
It was a blur of tan limbs and flying blonde hair. They dragged him inside by his hoodie, the door slamming shut. The foyer was all marble and chrome. Kyle stumbled, his torn jeans around his ankles.
The one named Chloe—or maybe it was Zoe—shoved him backwards onto a stiff, decorative couch. Before he could process it, she’d straddled him, her skirt rucked up, and plunged down onto him with a wet, meaty schlorp. Her eyes rolled back instantly. “Fuuuuck, it’s like a traffic cone made of bliss!”
The other two didn’t wait. The one named Zoe—or maybe Chloe—crawled over the back of the couch, pressing her enormous, sunscreen-scented breasts against Kyle’s face, smothering him. “Don’t be greedy, Sloane!” she hissed at the one riding him.
Sloane—that was the rider—just laughed, a breathless, hysterical sound, and bounced harder. Slap-slap-slap-slap! The sound echoed in the sterile room.
The third triplet, who must have been Blair, grabbed a handful of Sloane’s platinum hair and yanked. “My turn! You’ve had thirty seconds!”
“Fuck off, Blair! I’m calibrating!”
Blair didn’t let go. She leaned down and bit Sloane’s shoulder. Sloane shrieked, but didn’t let go of Kyle’s cock. Instead, she reached back and clawed at Blair’s face. For a moment, they were a snarling, scratching tangle of identical blonde bitches, a manicured fistful of hair torn out, a streak of red on a tennis skirt.
Kyle could only watch, pinned and smothered, as they fought atop him. The spirit floated near the ceiling, howling with laughter, doing a little glittery jig. “Sibling rivalry! It’s beautiful!”
Blair won. She shoved Sloane off with a brutal heave. Sloane tumbled onto the marble floor with a thud, her own slickness making her slide into a side table. A vase rattled.
Without missing a beat, Blair spun and impaled herself on Kyle, reverse-cowgirl, letting out a guttural “BRAAAP!” that was pure triumph. She rode him like a mechanical bull, her head lolling, her tongue hanging out. “Deeper! Deeper! I want to taste my breakfast in my throat!”
Sloane, from the floor, crawled over. She wasn’t defeated. She positioned her face between Blair’s pumping cheeks and began to lick furiously at where they were joined, her own fingers drilling into her skirt. “Mmm, salty!” she moaned, her voice muffled.
Zoe-Chloe, still smothering Kyle’s face, grew impatient. She slid down his body, pushed Sloane’s head aside, and began to suckle violently on his heavy balls, making loud, obscene slurping noises. SCHLURP-GLORP-SCHLICK.
It was a symphony of greedy, competitive filth. The crisp, clean house filled with the sounds of slapping flesh, guttural curses, and wet, messy friction. The scent of sex and sunscreen became a palpable fog.
Kyle felt the pressure build, an unstoppable tide. He managed a strangled, “I’m gonna—”
“CUM IN ME!” Blair screamed, slamming down and freezing, her body clamping like a vise.
He did.
It wasn’t a creampie. It was an excavation. A volcanic, geyser-like eruption that filled Blair to her limits in a nanosecond and then kept going. Her belly distended, round and tight as a drum. A torrent of white backed up around the seal of her body and then explosively burst out, painting the cream-colored couch in thick, ropy jets. It kept coming, a seemingly endless flood, cascading down the couch cushions to pool on the marble floor.
Blair slumped forward, a goofy, cross-eyed smile on her face, dripping from her chin.
Sloane and Zoe-Chloe were on it in a second, not fighting now, but collaborating. They knelt in the spreading puddle, lapping at it from the floor, scooping it from the couch fabric, slurping it directly from the source as it continued to pulse out in weakening spurts. They giggled between gulps.
“Tastes like… victory,” Sloane hiccupped.
“And mimosas,” Zoe-Chloe agreed, wiping her chin.
Kyle lay spent, a hollowed-out shell on the ruined couch, staring at the Banks’ family portrait hanging perfectly straight on the wall above the chaos. The spirit drifted down, phasing through the ceiling fan.
“So,” she whispered in his ear, her voice thick with amusement. “How’s that ‘normal life’ working out for you?”
From outside, through the large bay window, came the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. The crunch of gravel. Two car doors slammed.
Mr. and Mrs. Banks were home.