The door clicked shut behind Cathy, but her presence lingered in my room like a sweet, expensive perfume. The air was still thick with the unspoken promise in her eyes, the memory of her damp, towel-clad body seared onto the back of my eyelids. My dick was still half-hard, throbbing with a frustrated ache from the sheer, mind-melting sight of her. I could still feel the ghostly impression of her gigantic, soft tit pressed against my arm.
I let out a long, shaky breath, running a hand through my hair. This was… a lot. too much stimulation, In one day. I'd barely had time to process the nuclear bomb my mother had just dropped on me when another soft knock echoed from the door. This one was lighter, more tentative.
"Sael? You still awake?" It was Bella's voice, sweet and a little nervous.
"Yeah, come in," I called.
The door opened slowly, and Bella peeked her head in. Then she stepped inside, and my brain, which had just been dealing with MILF-induced overheating, promptly blue-screened again.
'For god's sake, Bella'.
She was wearing a crop top and a pair of hot pants so tiny and tight they looked like they'd been applied with a spray gun. The crop top was a thin, stretchy white fabric that was engaged in a losing battle against the phenomenal, gravity-defying swell of her young, perky breasts. The deep neckline offered a breathtaking view of her cleavage, and I could see the faint outline of her nipples, hard against the material. The hot pants were a faded denim that clung to the insane, perfect curve of her hips and the glorious, round shelf of her ass like a second skin. Every inch of her toned, flat stomach and those thick, powerful thighs was on display.
"Hey," she said, blushing under my intense stare. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a movement that made her ass jiggle hypnotically. "I just… wanted to say goodnight. And, you know, thank you… For what you said at dinner. It really meant a lot to me."
"Yeah, of course, Bella. I meant every word of it..." I gestured for her to come closer. "You're gonna kill it at your tournament."
She beamed, that radiant, sunshiny smile that could power a city block, and took a few steps into the room. She didn't sit, just stood there, letting me look my fill. And I did. I drank in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. The old Sael was a fucking criminal for ignoring this.
We made small talk for a few minutes—about bowling, about her training, about nothing important. The whole time, my eyes kept dropping to her chest, to the impossible perfection of her body. She knew it, too. She preened under the attention, her confidence growing, as she knew I was looking at her.
Finally, with a shy smile and a promise to see me in the morning, she turned and left. The view from the back was just as devastating as the front. Those hot pants cupped her ass so perfectly it should be illegal. I watched the hypnotic sway until the door closed, leaving me alone again with my raging hard-on and my whirling thoughts.
I had about thirty seconds of peace. Then came the third knock. This one was different. It wasn't hesitant or soft. It was a firm, confident rap-rap-rap that brooked no argument. I knew who it was before I even spoke.
"It's open, Vera."
The door opened and Veronica Delgado filled the doorway. And I mean filled it. Her presence was a physical force. She'd changed out of her dinner clothes into a simple tank top and a pair of soft, stretchy shorts that did absolutely nothing to hide the epic landscape of her body. The tank top was stretched to its absolute limit across the monumental expanse of her chest. Those were not just breasts normal boobs, those babies are heavy, full, and so incredibly voluminous they created a shadow in the room. Her arms were toned and strong, and the shorts clung to the lush, heavy curves of her hips and the magnificent, giant globe of her ass.
In her hands was a small plate of cut fruit—melon, berries, a thoughtful gesture. But her eyes weren't on the plate. They were locked on me, dark, intense, and blazing with a possessiveness that made my breath catch.
"Mijo," she said, her voice a low, warm rumble. "I thought you might want a little something sweet before bed."
She didn't wait for an answer. She walked in, placed the plate on my desk, and then turned to me. The casual aunt from dinner was gone. In her place was the full, unleashed force of Vera.
"Come here," she commanded, her voice soft but leaving no room for refusal.
I stood up. The second I was within reach, her arms snaked out and pulled me into her. It wasn't a hug; it was an immersion. She crushed me against the incredible softness of her body. My face was plunged into the deep, warm, heavenly valley of her cleavage. The scent of her—spices, clean skin, and woman—was overwhelming. I could feel the immense, soft weight of her tits cushioning my head on either side, could feel the strong, steady beat of her heart against my cheek.
She held me there for a long moment, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other wrapped around my back, holding me possessively. "My good boy," she murmured into my hair, her voice vibrating through her chest and into my very bones.
"My strong man. You have no idea how happy you make me." She finally loosened her grip enough for me to breathe, but she didn't let go. She looked down at me, her eyes shining.
"From tomorrow, I am in charge of you… No more of that synthetic garbage. You will eat what I cook. Every meal. I will make you strong. I will put meat on those bones of yours..." Her voice dropped to a husky, intimate whisper.
"I will make you the healthiest, most powerful man in this city. You understand me?"
I could only nod, my voice stolen by the sheer, awe-inspiring force of her. This woman could probably bench-press a car, and she wanted to use that power to feed me. The possessiveness in her tone wasn't just about food; it was about every aspect of my well-being.
She gave me one last, bone-melting squeeze, her giant breasts compressing against me, before releasing me with a final, firm pat on my ass that was anything but aunt-like. "Sleep well, cielo."
And then she was gone, leaving behind the plate of fruit and the lingering, devastating impression of her body against mine. By 10 PM, the parade had finally ended. I was alone. The room was silent except for the hum of my PC. The air was a cocktail of their scents: Cathy's soap, Bella's vanilla, Vera's spice. My body was humming with unmet need and a deep, satiated warmth. They'd all come to me. Offered themselves in their own ways.
But as the horny haze began to clear, the cold, hard reality of my situation settled back in. I thought about the dinner. The real food. Vera's cooking. That wasn't cheap. A bag of fucking lettuce was ten dollars. Lettuce! I'd looked it up. The stuff most people ate was lab-grown slop, nutrient-paste molded into vaguely food-like shapes. It kept you alive, but it left you weak, sluggish. No wonder this body was so pathetic. And if I was serious about getting strong, about building a body worthy of the harem I now possessed, I needed real fuel. The good shit. The expensive shit.
That required cash. Serious cash. The fifty bucks from a sperm donation was a start, but it was a drop in the bucket. I needed a river. A fucking tidal wave.
I looked over at my computer. The answer wasn't going to come from a government stipend or a minimum-wage job. The answer was sitting right there, in that machine. It was time to stop being a beneficiary and start being a provider. What kind of a man wanted to fuck, but penniless, I never want to be a guy like that. So, it was time to get to work.
I rolled my shoulders, the chair groaning under me as I turned to face my PC. Being horny was nice, looking at them was nice too, but to prove to them that I am changing, I need money. It was something that we desperately need.
"Sunday," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet. "Boot up the system. Open the data mall. It's time to go shopping."
The monitor flickered, and the familiar, sleek blue interface of Sunday's marketplace materialized, superimposed over my desktop. It glowed with a soft, futuristic light.
"[Are you preparing to take your first step, Sir?]" Sunday's voice was calm, yet it carried a note of anticipation. She'd been waiting for this.
"Yeah," I grunted, my eyes scanning the categories. "The talking part is done… The feel-good stuff is handled... Now we need cash. A lot of it. And the fastest way to do that is to give these entertainment-starved masses a taste of something real." I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk.
"Let's find our first project. Show me the top-selling games in the last year. And break down them by genres."
Data streams flowed across the screen. Charts, graphs, user reviews.
"See this?" I pointed at a massive bar labeled "Soldier of Red" and its countless clones.
"War games… overly saturated… A billion identical pieces of shit where the only innovation is a new overpriced gun skin. The players are showing the sign of being fed up… They're hungry, but they don't know what for. If we give them another war game; we're just going to be another drop in a polluted ocean."
"[A valid assessment,]" Sunday replied. "[The market is oversaturated with low-effort, high-monetization military shooters. User satisfaction, while high due to a lack of alternatives, is shallow.]"
"Exactly... What about the classics? Platformers? Puzzle games?"
"[The market for nostalgic or simplistic gameplay is niche,]" she responded. A list of indie games with tiny player counts appeared. "[Without an established name or reputation, a release in this genre would likely go unnoticed. It is not a sufficient catalyst for your goals.]"
I leaned back in the chair, the old leather creaking. I steepled my fingers, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling as if they held the answers. I sifted through the vast library in my head—every game, every meme, every cultural touchstone from my old life. I needed something small, but potent. A nuke. Something that would prove a point, create a shockwave, and leave everyone desperate for more.
And then it hit me. A slow grin spread across my face.
"There is one," I said, the words dripping with certainty. I sat up straight, my eyes locking on the screen. "There's one game—well, a demo, really—that did more with a single hallway than these companies do with billion-dollar budgets. It wasn't a game; it was an experience. A fucking nightmare you could play…. It was so good, so perfectly terrifying, that when they canceled it, people actually mourned."
The name felt like a secret weapon on my tongue.
"Silent Hill P.T."
The screen changed instantly. A new entry appeared in the storefront. The icon was hauntingly familiar: the gloomy, first-person perspective of that infamous hallway.
"[Silent Hill P.T. Experience Data Pack,]" Sunday announced. "[A masterclass in atmospheric horror and psychological tension. A paradigm-shifting piece of interactive media.]"
My eyes dropped to the price tag.
"$50.00"
I blinked. "Fifty dollars? Sunday, it was a free demo. A promotional thing, How the hell is it fifty bucks?"
"[The price is not for the data size, Sir,]" she explained, her tone that of a patient professor. "[It is for the value. The cultural impact. The critical acclaim... The innovative gameplay loop and its profound effect on the genre… You are not purchasing code; you are purchasing a proven, world-class idea that is guaranteed to evoke a powerful response. A full, completed game of equivalent quality and impact would command a price of one hundred dollars or more in this market.]"
I stared at the price, my initial outrage cooling into cold, hard calculation. She was right. Of course she was right. I was thinking like a consumer. I needed to think like a goddamn capitalist. This wasn't a game; it was a strategic asset.
This thing had broken the internet back home. It had created a cult-like fan, that still existed years later. In this world, a desert of microtransactions and soulless shooters, it wouldn't just make a splash. It would be a depth charge.
I thought about the fifty dollars I'd get from jizzing in a cup next week. I thought about the price of a bag of lettuce. This was an investment. The only investment that mattered and the only one that I can do now.
"Fuck it," I muttered, my finger hovering over the confirmation button. "You get what you pay for."
I clicked it.
"[Purchase confirmed. Data Pack acquired. Integrating now.]"
A progress bar zipped across the screen. And then, something incredible happened. It wasn't just files downloading to a folder. It was like a dam breaking in my mind. A flood of information—not just facts, but understanding—crashed into my consciousness.
I suddenly knew why the looping hallway was so genius. I understood the precise audio engineering behind the radio static and the creepy whispering. I could visualize the code that created the increasingly paranoid and terrifying events. I comprehended the psychological tricks, the use of subtle environmental changes to breed dread. The camera angles, the sound design, the narrative breadcrumbs—it was all there, in my head, as if I'd built the damn thing myself. I gasped, leaning back in my chair as the influx of knowledge settled.
"Holy shit."
"[The core data and developmental knowledge have been integrated into your neural pathways for seamless creative access,]" Sunday informed me, sounding pleased.
I looked at the new folder on my desktop, labeled [PROJECT_0]. It was no longer just a folder. It was the first step toward my empire was now complete.