Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world has under gone an unprecedented change. A few centuries ago, there was a grand and terrible disease that rendered 90% of the male sex infertile or dead. The reasons as to why this happened are still in debate. But one fact is known: almost half the population of the world vanished in a few decades, leaving the remaining to stand atop the new world. This was known as “The Great Shift”

Over the course of time fertility and pregnancy rates dropped harshly resulting in mass hysteria and panic, the remaining men were terrified that they wouldn’t be able to save the rest of humanity and the women inconsolable. But in time new statistics kept popping up; the children that were born were better in almost anyway to their predecessors. Their genetics tuned to grant the new generations increased stamina and strength, endurance and increased brain matter density, and the rate of aging dropped. People quickly started to notice that their aging seemed to slow, almost to a crawl with bodies being able to better and more efficiently keep a healthy body fat percentage. This granted hope to the new age of humanity but one other thing became evident.

With all this, a war was bound to happen. With the start of ‘The Great Shift’, politicians and world leaders were quick to blame each other for the massive change in society. So war eventually broke out. Many of the already dwindling number of men met their end in this war dubbed “the war of the millennium”. This has resulted in the total new population of men being only about 300 million compared to that of about 4.09 billion women.

To ensure survival, biology took hold and did its thing; Though fertility rates have steeply dropped, the few children that were born, Male’s made up only 1 in 10. Thus, Male’s became more enticing to the women in the world, research eventually concluded, definitively, that men could now produce potent pheromones that would put anybody, man or woman, in a state of near constant arousal. In light of this, the governments over time began to loosen restrictions on displays of public affection, and over time so did the religions. With this, public and social stigma around sex eroded (mainly because the old and pissed off generations died off) and this marked a new age for humanity. People began to have no worry about having sexual relations in public and publicly displaying their love for one another. So the laws around public intercourse, nudity, and all else surrounding this became looser and looser to the point it no longer mattered to the extent of previous years harbouring a sexual renaissance.

Due to this new normality of sex. Female clothing shifted to be more and more alluring, with women and girls having the most major input on what clothing should be like. This also applies to uniforms of workplaces and schools along with most religious attire. This doesn’t mean that clothing has completely gone the way side, quite the opposite. Instead of covering and hiding the human form, it now celebrates it and treats it like an art. Showing the natural parts and the sexuality of the human body, while still providing warmth, protection, and comfort. Male clothing is somewhat similar, though it hasn’t changed that drastically. Only really moving to accommodate the new physical statures of men.

Chapter Text

“And that’s how stigmas revolving around sexual representation have changed and evolved around the shift,” the lady at the front said plainly, with a sense of normality. He heard a voice chirp somewhere up front, “But how? How did all this happen? Couldn’t just be a random effect, could it?” He didn’t quite care about the question, but he still listened. He knew the answer was going to be the same as always. “The Industrial Revolution most definitely had a part to play, no doubt about it. But why all of a sudden, not only did a disease pop up, but a disease that fundamentally changed the human genome, we can’t exactly pin point. We do know it seems to have had an overall positive effect on humanity in general, though! Compared to our predecessors of just a century ago, we are in all ways better.” The lady at the front said, matter-of-factly, Of course. Like this was supposed to be common knowledge. It, quite frankly, was. “Notice how illnesses that would’ve killed children decades ago are now no worse than the common cold. Humanity went through hell and came out improved, hardened by the fire, so to speak”. Auburn, light Auburn. That was the colour of her shirt. Satiny fabric clinging to her figure, he appreciated the look of the outfit, how it displayed the body. She paired it with black straight pants cut just above her—, his line of thinking cut short by a whimper? More of a moan from behind him, further up. He turned and saw a girl, about 19, he would’ve guessed, squirming around a bit, slightly flustered in her face. “Yep,” he thought to himself, “she’s going off on that thing”. He noticed a dampening spot on her pants, “she probably has a vibrator or an egg in there, must be nice, I guess”. He glanced down at his phone, 14:29, “thirty more minutes to go”.

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He attended this lecture with the hopes of a more introspective view on events that had unfolded years ago. An explanation, maybe? Or some insight on why he was so desired these days by so many. But nothing came up.

He remembers history classes taught in school, how ‘The Great Shift’ changed society as we know it. “We’re all lucky to be here, the boys in this class even more so”. Those words kept clinging to him. In a world of anomalies, he was an anomaly. “Our first attempt, and we got lucky,” his mothers said to him when he could actually ‘understand’ the world he lived in. Apparently, on his mother’s first attempt to get pregnant via donor, it succeeded. Already rare. Even rarer, the offspring was a male. “10% chance,” the doctors told his mother. “10% and you won the lottery”. But he was the only one; his mother never tried again for a child. He was the only one with the name to carry on. “It’s your duty,” he heard every authority say to him, “to carry on your lineage and the human species”. He had a love-hate relationship with that. He liked being useful, to be necessary. But he also hated having a life already set in stone.

He had joined up with the army when he was 16; he loved it there. Made friends and relationships he’ll never forget, experiences never to be passed by word. He was in service to his country for 4 years, Canadian Armed Forces, Warrant Officer. Overall, an impressive track record but not extraordinary. He wasn’t top of his class in many things, but excelled at firearms training and navigation, though it was a good time. In his third year, a civil war broke out in Indonesia. He was deployed with his mechanized unit, specifically. He was meant to be more of a peacekeeper, assigned civilian aid tasks. that ended quickly. On his fourth anniversary, a terrorist cell or an extremist group, he never found out, attacked the city. His unit was understaffed, severely understaffed. They held off the attack for about a day, but it was never going to last. A VBIED hauled ass to their position. He and his unit did their best, but it was no use. It got to its objective, killed thirty and wounded 24, including him. He was evacuated to a medical hospital in Australia, wounded quite severely, and forced into retirement. He hated that. “Warrant Officer Jackson”, he remembered that voice too well, “you did a good thing for your country, but with your current state, I think you should get out while you can. Honorable discharge, the whole package. You’ll be set”. He hated signing those papers, hated the return home being celebrated as a hero. He wasn’t one.

His mothers were there, Anya and Sarah: Sarah was his birth mother, the one who gave life to him, Anya was his other ‘mom, the more “fatherly” of the two if it could be put that way. He called the two those, respectively, to avoid confusion. He was a bit surprised. He figured Anya would be there, being a CEO and all, she made her own schedule, but Sarah? Sarah was a politician in the Senate; she had a busy schedule. Must’ve pulled a few strings to be here, both literally and metaphorically. He was happy to see them, though, all considered. The hug and kisses were nice, but he definitely could smell the sex on the two. “Must’ve had some fun on the way here,” he thought to himself.

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“That concludes our time here. Of course, if you have any questions, please feel free to ask! Or if you have any other needs, I’m always available,” that snapped him out of his thoughts. Looking around, he saw people pairing off, some talking, most getting feely with each other. It’s a common sight, though, public affection was always in his life. He wasn’t a stranger to people having sex while in casual conversation, or just doing it for the love of it. He did it too, possibly more than the average person, on account of his unique body. He just packed his few things and left; he likes travelling light, which reduced the pain in his shoulder.

Stepping out into the main areas of the building, it was a sense to be sure. People everywhere, some studying, some lounging, some just “playing” around. The smell hit too, mixes of vanilla, cinnamon, and sex. Didn’t smell as unpleasant as one would think. People take great care in personal grooming and hygiene, just was how life was.

He felt a tug at his sleeve. Turning around, he saw a blonde girl. She looked young, maybe 20? He wasn’t good at guessing ages. She wore a simple outfit: a teal crop top that hugged her torso, showing off her midriff, and light grey leggings that clung to her legs, the fabric slightly sheer under the fluorescent lights. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, stray strands framing her face. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed pink. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers twisting together. The pheromones around obviously affected her, him too, he noted.

"You," she breathed out, voice trembling slightly. "I need you. Now. Please?" Her gaze flicked down his body, lingering for a moment before snapping back to his face. "I've been watching you since the break. Couldn't focus. Please?"

Logan didn't hesitate. He nodded once, sharp and efficient. "Where?" His voice was low, gravelly from disuse during the lecture. He scanned the corridor – alcoves near potted ferns, benches half-hidden by decorative screens, even the quieter corners near water dispensers were occupied by murmuring couples or trios.

"Chair," she gasped, already pulling him towards a sturdy, faux-leather armchair tucked beside a towering rubber plant. Its broad leaves offered a semblance of privacy. "Here. Now." Her urgency was palpable, a tremor running through her fingers where they gripped his forearm. Her teal crop top rode up further as she moved, revealing the smooth dip of her navel. The light grey leggings clung like a second skin, the sheer fabric hinting at the dark triangle beneath as she turned.

He sat, the chair groaning softly. Before he could adjust, she was straddling him, knees pressing into the chair cushions on either side of his thighs. Her hands flew to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling slightly in her haste. "Need you inside," she breathed, hot against his neck. "So empty. Been thinking about it… since you walked in." Her breath hitched as she finally freed him, her own leggings already shoved down past her hips in one frantic motion. The damp patch he'd noticed earlier was clearly visible on the thin fabric bunched around her thighs.

He gripped her hips, steadying her as she sank onto him with a choked cry. Her head tipped back, exposing the pale column of her throat. "Oh god, yes," she moaned, the sound loud against the ambient hum of the building. Her body clenching around him immediately, a hot, insistent pressure. She began rocking, not tentative exploration, but a desperate, grinding rhythm born of immediate, overwhelming need. Her hands braced against his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

"Harder," she demanded, her voice thick. Her eyes snapped open, locking onto his. They were a startlingly clear blue, wide and unfocused with pleasure. "Please. Fuck me harder." She leaned forward, her messy bun brushing his cheek, her breath hot and sweet-smelling, like cinnamon gum. "Need to feel it. Need you to fill me." Her words tumbled out between gasps, punctuated by the slick, rhythmic sound of their joining and the quiet creak of the chair beneath them. She didn't ask his name. He didn't offer it. This was pure, urgent biology, a transaction of sensation echoing the lecture hall's themes writ small and intensely personal. Her blunt nails scraped lightly against his scalp as she pulled his face closer, her hips never stopping their demanding pace.

He braced his feet firmly on the floor, shifting his weight to drive deeper with each upward thrust. Her gasp was sharp, almost a sob. He felt the tremor run through her, the way her thighs tightened against his hips. Her teal crop top was damp with sweat now, clinging even more tightly to her breasts. He slid a hand beneath the fabric, rough palm meeting the soft swell, thumb finding a stiffening peak. She arched into his touch, a low moan vibrating against his shoulder. "Yes, touch me," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Need it. Need everything." Her movements became less frantic, more deliberate, grinding down onto him with focused intensity, seeking the perfect angle. Her eyes fluttered shut again, lashes dark against flushed skin.

Around them, the low murmur of the atrium continued – distant laughter, footsteps on tile, the hum of ventilation. A group of students walked past, engrossed in conversation, barely glancing at the couple half-hidden by the rubber plant. He saw a woman nearby leaning against a bookshelf, eyes closed, fingers working rhythmically beneath her skirt while her companion whispered in her ear. The blonde on his lap didn't notice; her entire universe narrowed to the two of them. "Close," she whimpered, her rocking becoming shallow, frantic jerks. "Oh god, I'm so close." Her hand snaked between their bodies, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in urgent circles. Her breath came in short, sharp pants against his neck. He could feel himself getting there too, that familiar tightening of his abs and loins.

He felt her inner muscles begin to pulse, a rapid fluttering that intensified with every stroke. Her cry, when it came, was muffled against his shirt – a choked, guttural sound of pure release. Her body locked, shuddering violently against him, her grip on his shoulders fierce. He kept moving, the pace relentless, aiming to finish himself. When he did, it was a feeling of bliss, something he was familiar with but could never get enough of. She slumped forward, forehead resting on his collarbone, breathing heavily. "Good," she murmured, dazed, a faint smile touching her lips. "So good, so full.” She didn't move to dismount, her body still wrapped around his, warm and pliant. Her hand slid slowly from between them, resting limply on his thigh. Her blue eyes opened, hazy and satisfied, meeting his for a silent moment. The damp patch on her discarded leggings seemed darker now, a small testament to the intensity spent.

He shifted slightly beneath her, the movement jostling her. He glanced past the rubber plant's broad leaves. The atrium was thinning out; A janitor pushed a cart nearby, whistling tunelessly, utterly unfazed by the lingering scent of sex and sweat mingling with vanilla air freshener. "Time's up," He said, his voice low, practical. He gave her hips a gentle nudge upwards. She made a small, protesting noise but complied, sliding off him with a slick sound that made her blush deepen. She wobbled slightly on her feet before quickly pulling her leggings back up over her hips, the sheer fabric clinging awkwardly for a moment before settling. She smoothed her teal crop top down, fingers trembling only slightly now. Her messy bun had loosened, more strands escaping to frame her flushed face.

She looked at him, then quickly away, brushing stray hair from her forehead. "Right," she breathed, her voice steadier but still soft. "Thanks." She didn't meet his eyes again, her gaze darting to the floor, then to her discarded bag beside the chair. She bent to retrieve it, the movement economical. "Got stuff," she mumbled, slinging the bag strap over her shoulder. She turned without another word, walking briskly towards the east corridor exit, her steps purposeful on the polished tile. Her silhouette merged with the dwindling crowd near the coffee kiosk, the teal top vanishing around a corner.

He thought about waving goodbye, but didn’t get the chance. Just another tryst of life, come and gone like usual. He headed for the exit himself, to the parking lot. He went through the doors and up the stairs; he hated stairs, stopped on the third floor and proceeded to his car. A nice fifth-gen Chevy Impala he received on his return home a few months ago. He loved this car; it felt right. He’s made a few modifications to it, but overall, it was near stock: Just some light tinting and paint, along with some modernization packages.

He got in the car, started it, and was about to pull out when he got a text. His mom, “Anya: Logan, when you get home, we have dinner waiting. Don’t take too long or it’ll get cold”. He wondered what it could’ve been. Steak and potatoes, he likes that. Pizza? It was nice and easy, probably got that because of their work schedules. It might just be a simple chicken pot pie? Sarah was good at making those; she loved to cook. He responded with a simple “got it” and headed out. “Traffic shouldn’t be too rough,” he thought.

Chapter Text

“Why are there so many DAMN PEOPLE OUT! IT IS 3 PM. YOU SHOULD BE AT WORK!” Logan thought calmly as he drove on the highway. He hated driving during rush hour, which to him seemed to be all the time. Sitting comfortably in his Chevy Impala, he was wondering, “What’s gonna be waiting for me at home today? My mother riding a dildo like her life depended on it? Or my mom being in another world, absorbed in her work?” It could’ve been either way; this was how it tended to turn out: he gets to the building, goes up the elevator to their penthouse, and either sees one or both of them engaged in some nefarious sexual act, or nobody's there at all. It was just how things were.

He glanced down at his phone; this was supposedly the fastest route available, but it would still take at least 22 minutes. “Great, still gotta wait. Never changes,” he murmured to himself.

Meanwhile, over at the Jackson penthouse, Sarah was riding a dildo to kingdom come (both literally and figuratively) as her wife Anya was watching from the kitchen. Anya was busying herself with stirring around some borscht, a recipe from her homeland in Eastern Europe, while watching her wife enjoy herself.

Sarah was perched on the edge of their velvet chaise lounge—a relic from Anya’s grandmother—with her eyes closed and her head tilted back. Her hips moved in slow, deliberate circles against the silicone toy, which was anchored firmly to the cushion beneath her. Each rotation was punctuated by a soft, rhythmic gasp escaping her lips. Sweat glistened on her collarbone, catching the late afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air smelled faintly of lavender oil and the distant hum of city traffic—a stark contrast to the intensity of her focus. Her fingers dug into the velvet fabric, knuckles pale with tension.

Anya leaned against the marble countertop, spoon hovering over the pot. "You know," she called out, her voice dry but affectionate, "most people unwind with yoga or a glass of wine after work." Sarah didn’t open her eyes, but a smirk flickered across her face. "This *is* my yoga," she breathed, arching her spine as she shifted into a deeper grind. The dildo’s base vibrated faintly against the upholstery, a low thrum Anya could feel from across the room. Sarah’s movements grew more urgent, her breath shallower. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple and dripped onto the chaise.

Anya sighed, turning back to her borscht. "Just try not to stain the heirloom, darling. Your son will be home soon." Sarah’s rhythm hitched for a second—whether from the reminder or her own building climax, Anya couldn’t tell—before she let out a sharp, shuddering moan. Her body went rigid, then slackened against the chaise as she slumped forward, chest heaving. She finally opened her eyes, blinking lazily at Anya. "Twenty-two minutes," she panted, tapping her smartwatch. "New personal best." Anya just shook her head, ladling soup into a bowl. "Logan’s ETA is twenty-two minutes too. Perfect timing." Sarah groaned, peeling herself off the chaise. "Right. Better hide the evidence before the judgey-pants arrives."

Sarah padded across the cool marble floor, still naked except for a sheen of sweat. She stopped behind Anya, who wore nothing but a flour-dusted apron tied loosely around her waist. Sarah slid her hands around Anya’s hips, pressing her front against Anya’s back. "You smell like beetroot and temptation," Sarah murmured, nuzzling Anya’s neck. Her thumbs traced the curve of Anya’s ribs before drifting upward. Anya leaned into the touch, stirring the soup absently. "Flatterer. This needs more vinegar." Sarah chuckled, her palms settling firmly over Anya’s breasts. "And you need fewer aprons."

Her fingers teased Anya’s nipples through the thin cotton, pinching gently until they hardened into tight peaks. Anya gasped, arching backward as Sarah’s thumbs circled with deliberate slowness. "Sarah—the soup," she protested weakly, even as her hips rocked against Sarah’s thigh. "Needs to simmer," Sarah countered, biting Anya’s earlobe. She untied the apron knot with one hand, letting the fabric fall open. Cool air kissed Anya’s skin, but Sarah’s hands were warm as she cupped Anya’s bare breasts fully now, kneading their soft weight. "Still the largest distraction in the penthouse," Sarah breathed, rolling a nipple between her fingers until Anya whimpered.

Anya dropped the spoon into the pot with a clatter, twisting in Sarah’s arms. "You’re impossible," she laughed, breathless. Sarah grinned, sliding a hand lower, beneath the apron’s hem. "And you love it." Their mouths met—a messy, urgent kiss tasting of salt and earthy beets. Anya tangled her fingers in Sarah’s hair, pulling her closer in, ‘ping’, it was their automated doorbell of sorts, it tells them when the elevator gets accessed, Logan arrived. Both women froze mid-kiss. "Shit," Sarah hissed, “ phone must’ve been late to update the location”. Scrambling back, Anya quickly retied her apron while Sarah darted to their room.

Logan padded calmly through the hallway. It was pretty bare and sanitary, a few photos of his mother were up on the walls, some professional, some more boudoir in nature. “Don’t remember that one,” Logan thought as he looked at his mom’s portrait. It was her in a military uniform: he knew she had prior service, but never that decorated. “Must’ve kept that part to herself.” Logan mused to himself. He got to the door in no time, and he actually smelt food?! Had his mothers NOT gotten into their usual “stress relief” play? It smelled like varenyky and borscht, which she only made on special occasions. “Odd,” he thought. He couldn’t remember any special occasions; the birthday wasn’t until next year, the anniversary had passed a while ago, first time they all had sex together? Maybe? He didn’t know quite yet.

Opening the door, he was greeted by a most wonderful sight; his mom, Anya, in a bare naked apron, waiting for him. He knew where this was gonna go. He saw the dildo on the chaise, not that he minded imagining what transpired. Like his mom, he was a bit of a voyeur. He liked to watch a bit, especially of the wonderful ladies like his mother. “Welcome back, honey. How was your day?” Anya hugged him as she said. “Nothing special, same ole’ crap I hear every day, honestly. I did get to fuck this girl at the hall, though. It seems she got a bigger whiff of the pheromones than anyone else by the way she rode me.” Anya looked at him with that look. “Oh, I do hope you thought about me or your mother while you were there”. Logan shook his head, “Don’t worry, I did.”

Logan sauntered over to the table and took his seat at the so-called “round table of fuckery”, you could imagine why. As he sat down, “Where’s mother?” He asked. “Getting changed and comfy from her…trysts there,” Anya replied, half joking. As if you spoke of the devil, Sarah came out. She wore more casual clothing: some tan high-waisted slacks, a simple blue blouse, and her blonde hair in a bun. Logan noted how it showed her 32DD (yes, he knows his mother’s bra sizes. Makes for good gifts…Anya is a 32E) breasts and her heart-shaped ass. “Looking good, Momma,” Logan said earnestly. “Though you might like the look of it, I know how much you like these colours.” She moved over to the table next to Logan. “Ok, so, what’s the special occasion? You two never cook dinner on a random like this. Gotta be something I’m forgetting.” Anya looked over, a shred of joyful disappointment, “100th anniversary of my grandmother immigrating here from Ukraine, remember now?” Right. Anya’s family stemmed from Ukraine and bugged out of there when the war was heating up. Smart choice, too, from what he knew. “Right, sorry I forgot. I know it means a lot to you. Sorry, I forgot.” He quickly went up to kiss her, hoping to spare her wrath. “It’s alright, I don’t talk about it too often. Now, as you can see, I have spent all day breaking my back for you two with some homemade food that I know you guys like, so dig in!” Anya was cheerful. Logan remembered how much she liked to cook for him when he was little. How the years go by.

As everyone got their food and settled in, the topic eventually turned to what every topic turns to in this household, sex. “Any girlfriends yet?” “Or boyfriends????” Both his mothers said with an unholy amount of curiosity. “First off: no, I don’t have a girlfriend yet. Second: you know I don’t swing that way. I get how some guys do, but I don’t.” He was straightforward with that, but his parents kept on bugging him about it. Not that they truly worried, though; they liked to keep him to themselves. “Oh yeahhhh,” Anya said sarcastically, “you only have eyes for the cute girls in the army,” she poked playfully. “Only the best of the best for our man,” Sarah winked over. Logan was annoyed by this line. It was a constant joke they prodded at him while he was in service, the worst part is that they are kinda right. He does have a little something for a woman in uniform and gear, scratched a unique itch and— interrupted in his line of thought by his mom, Anya, going under the table and fishing his cock out, “still so big for mom, aren’t you?” she purred. Somehow, he knew this was going to happen. Logan wasn’t too boisterous about his size, 6 inches long with a modest 3-inch girth. Pretty average for a guy in these times, but it was apparently how he used it. According to his mothers, he “had a knack for holding out till everyone was satisfied,” they often talked about this at social gatherings as a point of pride. He’s gotta admit, though, it is nice seeing everyone happy.

Sarah was talking about her day at work as Anya got to work. Logan was trying to focus on Sarah’s words, but Anya’s tongue was tracing the underside of his shaft with slow, deliberate strokes. He shifted in his chair, the soft scrape of wood against marble echoing faintly. Sarah paused mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow. "Distracted, Logan?" Her tone was light, teasing. Logan cleared his throat, forcing his gaze back to her. "No, just... appreciating the soup," Sarah smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Right. The *soup*." Beneath the table, Anya chuckled softly, the vibration traveling straight through him as she took him deeper. Her lips were warm and wet, moving with practiced ease. He could feel the slick slide of her tongue along his length, the gentle suction as she pulled back, only to engulf him again. The rhythmic bobbing of her head was hypnotic, her breath warm against his skin. Sarah continued chatting about quarterly reports, her voice a steady counterpoint to the slick, muffled sounds beneath the linen tablecloth.

Logan gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. Anya’s pace quickened, her hand working the base of his shaft in tandem with her mouth. He could smell the faint lavender scent of her hair, mixed with the earthy aroma of the cooling borscht. Sarah leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "You know," she said casually, swirling her spoon in her bowl, "I heard Jenkins finally closed the Henderson deal. Took him three months." Logan nodded jerkily, a bead of sweat forming on his temple. Anya hummed around him, the sensation sending sparks up his spine. He tried to focus on Sarah’s words – something about market fluctuations – but it was impossible. Anya’s fingers teased his balls, rolling them gently as she hollowed her cheeks, sucking harder. Sarah’s eyes flickered down briefly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Logan? You seem a little flushed." He swallowed hard. "Just... warm in here."

As Anya took him fully into her throat, Logan’s breath hitched. His hips bucked involuntarily, pushing deeper. Sarah watched him, her expression softening. "Relax, sweetheart," she murmured. "Don’t fight it." Her words, combined with Anya’s relentless rhythm, tipped him over the edge. Pleasure surged through him, sharp and overwhelming. He came with a low groan, shuddering as Anya swallowed, her throat working around him. She pulled back slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before emerging, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen. "Delicious," she declared, her voice slightly hoarse. Sarah grinned, pushing her bowl aside. "Now that dessert’s served," she said, standing and unbuttoning her blouse, "who’s ready for the main course?" Logan slumped back, catching his breath, already knowing the night was far from over.

Sarah swung a leg over Logan’s lap, straddling him in the sturdy dining chair. Her hands framed his face as she leaned in, capturing his mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and the lingering sweetness of borscht. Her tongue slid against his, urgent and demanding. Logan’s hands instinctively settled on her hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her slacks. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the faint tremor in her thighs as she ground against him. Anya moved behind Sarah, her flour-dusted apron discarded somewhere on the marble floor. Her hands slid beneath Sarah’s unbuttoned blouse, pushing it off her shoulders. Sarah broke the kiss with a gasp as Anya’s palms found her bare breasts, cupping their soft weight. "Always so eager," Anya murmured against Sarah’s neck, her thumbs circling Sarah’s stiffening nipples with practiced ease. Sarah arched back into Anya’s touch, a moan escaping her lips as she rolled her hips against Logan’s growing hardness.

Logan watched, mesmerized, as Anya teased Sarah’s nipples into tight peaks, pinching and rolling them between her fingers. Sarah’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, her movements becoming more erratic against him. Anya leaned forward, her breasts pressing against Sarah’s back as she kissed a trail along Sarah’s shoulder. "Look at him," Anya whispered, her voice thick with desire. "See how much he wants you?" Sarah’s eyes, heavy-lidded with lust, met Logan’s. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. She shifted her weight, grinding down harder, the friction through their clothes sending sparks up Logan’s spine. Anya’s hands continued their work, kneading and squeezing, drawing little cries from Sarah. The air thickened with the scent of sex, sweat, and cooling beet soup – a heady, primal mix.

Sarah leaned forward again, her lips brushing Logan’s ear. "Tell me what you want," she breathed, her voice husky. Before he could answer, Anya pinched Sarah’s nipple sharply. Sarah cried out, her hips jerking. "He wants what I want," Anya answered for him, her fingers tightening possessively. "He wants to feel you come undone right here." Sarah whimpered, her body trembling between them. She kissed Logan again, deep and sloppy, her tongue tangling with his as Anya’s relentless hands pushed her closer to the edge. Logan felt Sarah’s inner muscles clench around nothing, her thighs tightening against his hips. He could feel the tension coiling in her, the frantic pulse of her heartbeat echoing his own. Anya’s lips curled into a satisfied smile against Sarah’s skin. "Almost there, darling," she purred. "Show him how beautiful you look when you fall apart."

Sarah’s climax hit abruptly—a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her body went rigid. Her back arched impossibly, pressing her breasts harder into Anya’s palms. She shuddered violently against Logan, her cries muffled against his shoulder. Anya held her firmly, fingers still working Sarah’s nipples through the aftershocks. Sarah slumped against Logan, breathing raggedly. "Fuck," she muttered, dazed. Anya chuckled softly, tracing idle patterns on Sarah’s flushed skin. "Told you he’d like the show." Logan shifted beneath Sarah’s weight, his own arousal pressing insistently against her thigh. Sarah lifted her head, meeting his eyes with a lazy, sated grin. "Your turn," she murmured, already sliding a hand between them.

With deliberate slowness, Sarah unfastened her tan slacks. The zipper rasped loudly in the quiet room. She wriggled her hips, pushing the fabric down past her thighs. Cool air kissed her bare skin as she kicked the slacks away onto the marble floor. Her blue blouse hung open, framing her flushed torso. She didn’t wear underwear. "Come on," Sarah breathed, shifting higher on Logan’s lap. Her damp heat settled directly over his straining erection. She rocked against him once, experimentally, drawing a low groan from his throat. Her eyes locked onto his. "Don’t make me wait." She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, tugging impatiently. "Fuck me. Now."

Anya moved behind Logan, her fingers deftly undoing his belt buckle. "Let him breathe, Sarah," she chided lightly, but her hands worked quickly. Leather slid free, denim loosened. Logan lifted his hips, letting Anya pull his jeans and boxers down to his knees. Sarah guided him impatiently, positioning him at her entrance. She sank slowly, her gasp sharp as he filled her. Her inner muscles clenched tight around him, hot and slick. Logan hissed, fingers digging into her hips. Sarah began to move—slow, deep rolls of her hips that drew him deeper with each rise and fall. Her eyes fluttered shut. "Yes," she breathed. "Just like that."

Sarah’s rhythm built steadily, her movements growing urgent. Anya leaned over Logan’s shoulder, her lips brushing his ear. "Watch her," she whispered. "See how she takes you?" Sarah’s head tilted back, blonde hair spilling loose from its bun. Sweat glistened along her collarbone. Her breaths came in short, sharp bursts. Logan’s gaze dropped to where their bodies joined—the slick slide, the tight clutch of her around him. Anya’s hand slid down Sarah’s stomach, fingers finding her clit. Sarah jerked, a high whine escaping her. "Anya—!" "Shh," Anya murmured, circling firmly. "Let him feel you come again." Sarah’s hips stuttered, her pace faltering as pleasure coiled tight. Logan felt it building inside her—the tremors, the desperate clench. He thrust upward, meeting her frantic movements. Sarah cried out, her body locking around him as the wave crashed over her. Logan followed, burying himself deep as his own release tore through him—a ragged groan ripped from his throat. Sarah collapsed against him, trembling. Anya pressed a kiss to Logan’s temple. "Good boy."

Logan eased Sarah off his lap onto the chair beside him. Her legs shook as she slumped back, eyes half-lidded. Anya moved around the table, her apron discarded long ago. She stopped before Logan, her gaze steady. "My turn," she stated, her voice low and certain. Logan nodded, still catching his breath. Anya climbed onto his lap, straddling him with deliberate grace. Her thighs bracketed his hips—firm, unyielding. She guided him inside her, sinking slowly. Logan hissed at the tight heat. Anya sighed, rolling her hips once. "Always so eager," she murmured. Her hands settled on his shoulders, fingers digging in. "Now," she commanded. "Don’t hold back." Logan gripped her waist, lifting her slightly before pulling her down hard. Anya gasped, head snapping back. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. "Again." He obeyed, driving upward. Anya met each thrust—a sharp, controlled descent. Her eyes locked onto his. "Harder." Logan slammed into her, the chair groaning beneath them. Anya’s breath hitched, a flush spreading down her neck. "Yes," she breathed. "Like that."

Sarah watched from her chair, legs still splayed. She traced lazy circles on her thigh. "Show him who owns that cock, Anya," she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. Anya didn’t glance away from Logan. Her movements grew sharper—less rhythm, more force. Logan matched her, his thrusts relentless. Anya’s nails scraped his skin. Her breath came faster now, shallow pants escaping her lips. Sweat beaded along her hairline. Logan felt her inner muscles tightening, fluttering around him. He gripped her hips harder, driving deeper. Anya’s eyes widened slightly. "Close," she gasped. Logan didn’t slow. He watched her face—the flicker of surrender, the parted lips. Anya’s body arched, stiffening. A low cry tore from her throat as she came—silent tension snapping into shuddering release. Logan followed instantly, burying himself deep as his own climax surged through him. Anya slumped forward, her forehead resting against his. Her breath warmed his skin. "Perfect," she whispered.

Sarah pushed herself up, stretching languidly. "Dinner’s cold," she observed, nodding toward the untouched bowls. Anya lifted her head, a lazy smile touching her lips. "We’ll reheat it." Logan eased Anya off his lap onto her feet. She swayed slightly but steadied herself. Sarah padded to the kitchen, hips swinging. Logan watched her bend to retrieve the apron from the floor. Anya traced a finger down his cheek. "Still hungry?" she asked softly. Logan glanced toward Sarah, then back at Anya. "Starving," he admitted. Anya’s smile widened. "Good." She turned, following Sarah. Logan stood, adjusting his jeans. The scent of beetroot and sex lingered in the air. He trailed after them, already knowing dessert would come first.

Logan idled at the table while his mother reset and re-heated dinner, mind flashing back to high school. “Due to the genetic changes in humanity, researchers have observed a sharp downturn in incestuous deformations. Upon further study, they found that the genetic coding usually affected by incest has, in a way, fortified itself. In layman’s terms, it keeps a large stockpile of genetic sequences and genome types to better produce healthy offspring in the event of an incestuous birth. Of course, this resulted in more and more pregnancies from sons and brothers impregnating their mothers and sisters, and of course, in the face of the birth rate issue. Many governments made incest legal so long as it was consensual.” That was 12 years ago, now in Logan’s bio class. He remembered Mr. Albert, who looked a bit like Einstein.
_____

As the evening wore on, dinner was eventually finished (albeit with a bit more sex) and the family started winding down for the night. Logan’s mothers retired to their room. They were probably going to fuck for an hour or so, and Logan was going to his room.

Logan’s room was spacious, easily worth its own rent. But it was his, and provided for by his mother’s. He loved them, he truly did. In more ways than just physical, they taught him how to navigate life with these new emotions and rules, taught him compassion and understanding, taught him how to please a woman, the whole shebang.

He wandered about, looking at the strewn memorabilia he had from his service: he had his dress tunic on display with the medals and ribbons he had earned, some books and his gaming setup, and a lot of diagrams of blown-up firearms and vehicles. He had wanted to be a technician in the past, but fate had other plans for him. He just looked through them as a pastime now.

Changing into his PJs, a simple pair of shorts and a T-shirt, he slumped on his bed and thought to himself. “I never have to worry, I’m set up both financially and personally, I have two wonderful mothers that dote over me, why the fuck am I so off in my mind. It feels like I’m missing something but I don’t know what…” Those thoughts consumed him until he eventually passed out. His dreams were…odd. Nothing he could really make sense out of: he was driving a car, but the brakes were slow to act. He could stomp them, and it would take forever for the car to stop…maybe it was a message he was trying to tell himself. Who knows.