Chapter 2: Breakfast Service
The first thing Connor registered was the unfamiliar pressure, a persistent, internal presence that had been with him even through sleep. The small silicone plug. He shifted on the expensive sheets, the movement sending a fresh, strange awareness through his lower body. Dawn was just a grey suggestion at the window of his garden-level room, but another sensation cut through the haze: the rich, salty scent of sizzling bacon, weaving its way under his door.
His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten much at the welcome party, too nervous to do more than pick at the pizza. The promise of a real meal pulled him from bed. He pulled on the same jeans from yesterday and a fresh t-shirt, the casual normalcy of the act a stark contrast to everything else.
The grand house was silent and shadowed, but a warm, buttery glow spilled from the kitchen doorway. The room was exactly as described—cluttered and lived-in, with a galaxy of mismatched magnet photos on the fridge and a half-eaten box of donuts on the counter. And there was Riley, her back to him, standing at the industrial stove. She wore a simple white apron tied over a thin tank top and sleep shorts. The apron strings cinched her waist, but did nothing to conceal the thick, unmistakable shape tenting the soft fabric between her legs.
She glanced over her shoulder, her red hair a messy bun. “Morning. You’re up early.” Her voice was husky with sleep.
“Smelled the bacon,” he said, his voice croaking. He cleared his throat. “Can I help?”
She gave him a slow, appraising look, her eyes dropping to his jeans and then back to his face. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “Sure. You can be my official taste tester. But first…” She turned fully, wiping her hands on the apron. The erection was impossible to ignore, jutting out proudly. “I’ve got a different kind of appetite to take care of. Since you’re here.”
Connor’s breath hitched. This was it. No more theory, no more practice with Chloe. This was the real start of his duties.
Riley didn’t wait for an answer. She untied the apron, letting it fall onto a nearby stool, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and pushed them down her thighs. Her cock sprang free, already fully hard and flushed a deep pink. It was thicker than Chloe’s, he thought distantly, the head broad and leaking a single pearl of moisture.
“Kneel,” she said, her tone not unkind, but brooking no argument. It was the same instructional tone Chloe had used.
The cool hardwood floor was firm against his knees. The scent of her, mixed with the aroma of coffee and bacon, was dizzying. She stepped closer, her heat radiating against his face.
“You know what to do,” she murmured, her hand coming to rest on the back of his head, not pushing, just guiding. “Lips over teeth.”
He leaned in, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The first touch of his mouth to her skin was electric. She was smooth and incredibly warm. He followed the remembered steps, starting slow, using his tongue, taking her gradually deeper. Her fingers tightened in his hair.
“Yeah, just like that,” she breathed, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust. “Good boy.”
The praise, so simple and direct, sent a jolt of something warm and shameful straight to his groin. He focused on the rhythm, on the mechanics of his tongue and the pressure of his lips, on the soft, guttural sounds she was making above him. The world narrowed to this: the taste of her, the feel of her in his mouth, the building tension in her thighs.
He was so absorbed he didn’t hear the soft footsteps.
“Well, look at this. The early bird gets the worm. Or, in this case, the relief pledge.”
Connor flinched, but Riley’s hand on his head held him in place. He glanced sideways to see Mia leaning against the doorframe, dressed in silk pajamas, her pink hair adorably mussed. She grinned, utterly unbothered.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Mia said, her voice light. “I just came for coffee. But since the main event’s already started…” She walked over to the counter, poured herself a mug, and then came to stand beside Riley, watching with open curiosity. “He any good?”
“He’s a quick study,” Riley grunted, her breath catching.
“Fantastic.” Mia took a sip of coffee, then set the mug down. She untied the drawstring on her pajama bottoms, letting them pool at her feet. Her own erection, slender and elegant, stood at attention. She moved to Connor’s side. “My turn for a taste, then. Open wide.”
Connor’s eyes widened. He looked up at Riley, who gave a slight, breathless nod. He turned his head, and Mia guided herself into his mouth alongside Riley’s. It was an awkward, overwhelming stretch. The two distinct textures and tastes filled his senses. He tried to find a rhythm, his head moving between them, a clumsy, double-sided attention.
“Teamwork,” Mia giggled, her voice tight with arousal.
The kitchen door swung open again. Victoria stood there, already dressed in workout gear, her expression as stern as ever. She took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance.
“Disorganized,” she stated flatly. “Inefficient.”
She crossed the room in three long strides. “You.” She pointed at Connor. “On your back. On the floor. Now.”
The command was so absolute he obeyed without thought, scrambling out from between the two girls and lying back on the hard floor. The plug shifted inside him, a stark reminder of his preparation.
Victoria looked at Riley and Mia. “You’re blocking the workspace. He has a mouth, and he has hands. Use them properly.”
She then unbuckled her own shorts, revealing her substantial length. She knelt by his head, guiding herself into his already-stretched mouth. “You,” she said to Mia, “take his right hand. You,” to Riley, “take his left. Put them to work. And don’t be gentle.”
The next few minutes were a blur of sensation. Victoria moved in his mouth with a relentless, practiced rhythm. Mia guided his hand to her, showing him how to grip her, how to twist his wrist just so. Riley, her own need clearly reaching a peak, took his other hand and wrapped it around her, her own hand covering his, setting a punishing pace.
The kitchen was filled with the sound of ragged breathing, skin on skin, and the sizzle of forgotten bacon on the stove. Connor was adrift in a sea of their collective need, his own body responding with a confused, traitorous excitement. He was an instrument, being played by three expert musicians.
Riley was the first to break. A sharp, choked cry tore from her throat, and her release flooded his mouth, hotter and more abundant than Chloe’s had been. She stumbled back, leaning against the counter, her chest heaving.
Mia followed soon after, her slender body tensing as she pulsed over his fist, her cries high and musical.
Victoria lasted the longest, her thrusts deepening until she, too, found her climax with a low, guttural groan, her hips stuttering against his face.
Silence descended, broken only by the panicked hiss of burning bacon. For a long moment, no one moved. Connor lay on the floor, spent and sticky, trying to catch his breath. The reality of what just happened, of the three women standing over him, began to sink in.
Then Riley pushed herself off the counter. She walked to the stove, turned off the burner, and moved the scorched pan to a cool one. She didn’t say a word. She went to the sink, wet a clean dishcloth with warm water, and came back to him.
“Here,” she said, her voice soft. She knelt and gently wiped his face, then his hands. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender it made his throat tight.
“Sorry about the bacon,” he mumbled.
A genuine laugh burst from Mia. “Oh my god, who cares about the bacon?” She was pulling her pajamas back up, a wide, sated smile on her face.
Victoria was already re-dressed, her composure fully restored. She looked down at him. “Adequate for a first group effort. You’ll learn to coordinate your breathing better.” She gave a curt nod and left the kitchen without another word.
Riley helped him to his feet. His legs were wobbly. “Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a stool at the kitchen island. He sat, feeling strangely hollowed out and fragile.
She moved around the kitchen with a quiet efficiency, scraping the burnt bacon into the trash and starting a new batch. She cracked eggs into a bowl, whipped them with a fork, and poured them into a fresh, buttered pan. Soon, the room was filled with the comforting smells of a proper breakfast all over again.
She placed a plate in front of him heaped with fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crispy bacon, and buttery toast. Then she set a large glass of orange juice beside it.
“Eat,” she said, leaning against the counter opposite him, her arms crossed. The earlier intensity was gone from her face, replaced by a calm, almost maternal watchfulness. “You need to keep your strength up.”
He picked up a fork. The first bite of eggs was sublime. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He ate ravenously, the simple, delicious food grounding him, pulling him back from the surreal edge he’d been standing on.
Mia finished her coffee and ruffled his hair as she passed. “See you around, Connor. Good job.” She disappeared, leaving him alone with Riley.
He finished the last of the toast, washing it down with the cold juice. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a pleasant fullness.
Riley took his empty plate. “You okay?”
He thought about it. His body was humming with residual adrenaline, his mind was a jumble of shock and a faint, burgeoning pride. But beneath it all, he felt… cared for. Weirdly, undeniably cared for.
“Yeah,” he said, and found that he meant it. “I think I am.”
“Good.” She smiled, a real, warm smile that reached her eyes. “Now, the real question is, how do you feel about pancakes?”
“Pancakes sound amazing,” Connor admitted, the word ‘amazing’ feeling desperately inadequate for the simple, profound comfort of more food. His stomach, now full of eggs and bacon, seemed to agree with a contented rumble. The lingering taste of salt and skin was being steadily overwritten by the rich scent of coffee.
Riley grinned, already reaching for a new bowl and the flour canister. “Chocolate chip or blueberry? Don’t say both, it’s a philosophical divide in this house.”
“Surprise me,” he said, and the casual trust in those two words felt like a small, significant step.
The kitchen door swung open before Riley could answer. A woman Connor hadn’t met yet stood there, blinking sleep from her eyes. She was tall and willowy, with a cascade of dark curls tumbling over the shoulders of her silk robe. She sniffed the air, her gaze landing on Connor with a slow, dawning recognition.
“Oh, hello. You must be the new project,” she said, her voice a languid, melodic drawl. She glided over to the coffee pot, pouring a cup with the unhurried grace of a cat. “I’m Lena. Art history. I heard the commotion earlier. Sounded… productive.”
Riley snorted, cracking an egg with sharp precision. “Victoria was running drills. Connor survived.”
“Evidently.” Lena took a slow sip, her eyes appraising him over the rim of her mug. They were a startling shade of hazel, flecked with gold. “He looks… functional. A little shell-shocked, but functional. Are we doing pancakes? I’m starving.”
The door opened again, this time with more force. Another new face, this one surrounded by a shock of short, platinum blonde hair. She was already dressed in running gear, a light sheen of sweat on her temples.
“Is that bacon I smell? And… other things?” she asked, her voice energetic and direct. Her eyes, a sharp, intelligent grey, scanned the room, cataloging the scene: Riley at the stove, Lena leaning against the counter, and Connor on the stool. “Ah. The relief pledge. I’m Jess. Neuroscience. I was on my morning run but the… aromas… were distracting.”
She walked straight to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank it down in one long go. “So, how’s the conditioning going? The plugs? Any discomfort?”
Connor blinked, thrown by the blunt, clinical question. “Uh. It’s… fine. A little strange.”
“Good. Strange is normal. You’ll adapt. The neural pathways will re-map.” Jess nodded, as if filing the data away. She then looked at Riley. “Save me some pancakes. I’m going to shower. Then I have questions for him about sensory acclimation.”
She was gone as quickly as she arrived, a whirlwind of focused energy. The kitchen felt suddenly quieter, though now occupied by four people.
Lena chuckled softly. “Don’t mind Jess. She dissects everything, including orgasms. It’s how she shows affection.” She drifted closer to Connor, the silk of her robe whispering against itself. “So, functional and shell-shocked. My two favorite qualities in a man.”
She reached out and lightly traced the line of his jaw with a single, cool fingertip. The touch was deliberate, possessive. “You know, I have a new series I’m working on. Life studies. The human form in states of… repose. You’d make an excellent model.”
Riley dropped a dollop of batter onto the hot griddle. It sizzled loudly. “He’s not a piece of meat, Lena.”
“Of course he is,” Lena replied, her tone still light and amused. “We all are. But he’s our piece of meat. And I’d like to draw him. Later.” She gave Connor a slow, smoldering look that promised something entirely different from art. “After you’ve… recharged.”
The griddle was now covered in bubbling circles of batter, filling the air with a sweet, cake-like fragrance. Connor watched them, his mind trying to catch up with the rapid-fire introductions. Lena’s sensual appraisal, Jess’s clinical curiosity—they were two more facets of this impossible world, each with their own demands and expectations.
He felt a strange sense of settling, like a ship finding its anchor in a wild, unfamiliar sea. The initial, paralyzing shock was receding, replaced by a buzzing, nervous anticipation. This was his life now. A life of pancakes and art models and neuroscientific inquiry, all tied to the constant, humming undercurrent of his body’s new purpose.
Riley slid a plate with three golden, chocolate-chip studded pancakes in front of him. “Butter and syrup are there,” she said, pointing. “Eat. You’ve got a big day.”
He picked up his fork, the metal cool in his hand. A big day. The words hung in the warm, sugary air, full of daunting and thrilling possibility. He cut into the stack, the soft interior giving way, and took a bite. It was perfect.
The sweetness of the pancakes was a profound comfort, a simple pleasure that anchored him in the swirling chaos of the morning. He looked around the warm, cluttered kitchen at the three very different women who now constituted his world. The question about the vanity, about Isabelle’s offhand comment, felt like a safer shore to swim toward than the deep waters he’d just been in.
“This might sound weird,” Connor began, pushing his empty plate away. “But Isabelle mentioned something last night… about a wardrobe in the basement? And a large vanity in my room.” He glanced at each of them. “Was she serious about the… crossdressing?”
The effect was immediate. Riley’s focused scowl melted into a wide, genuine grin. Lena’s languid posture snapped to attention, her artist’s eyes lighting up with predatory interest. Even Jess, who had just returned from her shower with damp hair, stopped toweling it dry.
“Serious?” Lena purred, closing the distance between them in a glide of silk. “Darling, she was prophetic. We’ve been waiting for a canvas with your… bone structure.”
Riley was already untying her apron. “The vanity is fully stocked. Base, concealer, palettes, the works. We all chipped in.” She came around the island and took his hand, her grip firm and sure. “Come on. Pancakes are digested. Time for your real education.”
He let himself be led from the kitchen, a current of giddy feminine energy pulling him along. Jess and Lena fell in step behind them, their excited chatter filling the hall. “The jawline is excellent, very workable,” Jess stated, as if analyzing a data set. “And his eyes are a neutral canvas, they can take a strong color.”
“I’m thinking soft-glam to start,” Lena countered. “Emphasize the innocence, but with a hint of… corruption around the edges.”
They swept into his room, the quiet space suddenly alive with their presence. The large, lit vanity against the far wall, which he had dismissed as an ornate piece of furniture, now seemed to hum with potential. Its surface was a sprawling landscape of brushes, pots, and palettes, all neatly organized.
Riley guided him into the plush stool, his own nervous reflection staring back from the brightly lit mirror. Lena leaned over his shoulder, her dark curls brushing his cheek as she surveyed the tools. “Don’t be intimidated. It’s just paint and powder. The principle isn’t so different from what you were doing on the floor.”
Jess picked up a bottle of liquid foundation, shaking it with practiced efficiency. “The goal is to even out the skin tone and create a flawless base. It’s about optics, not deception.” She squeezed a small amount onto the back of her hand. “Now, watch. You don’t rub, you stipple.”
He watched, mesmerized, as she demonstrated on her own wrist with a damp sponge. The motion was quick, precise. Riley handed him a clean sponge and a mirror. “Your turn. Start with the forehead and work down.”
His first attempts were clumsy, the sponge dragging instead of bouncing. The cool, thick liquid felt strange on his skin, a foreign mask. “Lighter pressure,” Lena coached from behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. “You’re not sanding wood. You’re caressing the canvas.”
He adjusted his grip, focusing on the stippling motion Jess had shown him. The foundation began to blend seamlessly, erasing the faint redness from his morning and leaving a startlingly smooth, uniform surface. A quiet thrill went through him. He was changing, right there in the mirror.
“See? You’re a natural,” Riley said, her voice warm with approval. She selected a palette of earthy tones. “Now for contour. This is where we play God with bone structure.” Her touch was confident as she showed him where to sweep the darker shade along his temples and under his cheekbones. The effect was subtle but undeniable; his face looked sharper, more defined.
Lena took over for the eyes, her movements slow and hypnotic. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, and he obeyed. The soft scratch of a brush traced his lids. “This is kohl. It’s been around for millennia. Cleopatra used it to seduce emperors.” When he opened his eyes, his gaze in the mirror was suddenly deeper, smoldering, framed by a smoky halo.
Jess applied a clear gloss to his lips, the sticky sweetness a final, shocking detail. “There,” she said, stepping back to admire their work. “Phase one complete.”
Connor stared at the person in the glass. It was him, but not him. The features were refined, the eyes dramatic, the skin poreless and perfect. A strange, buoyant feeling rose in his chest, part disbelief, part a powerful, burgeoning delight. He had survived the frantic chaos of the kitchen floor, and now he was being remade into something beautiful.
Riley leaned in, her cheek next to his, both their faces reflected in the bright lights. “So? What do you think?”
He couldn’t look away from his own eyes. “I look…”
“Fabulous,” Lena finished for him, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. “And we haven’t even touched the wardrobe yet. The shoes alone are a religious experience.”
The promise hung in the air, electric and undeniable. The makeup was just the beginning. "But today we'll only do one more thing, nails!" She exclaimed