Max's corrupted fingers touched the strings of her panties—just thin lace and ribbon, holding practically nothing in place. Keiko moved his hand lower, and—
She was bare. Waxed or shaved completely smooth. And wet. So wet his fingers slid against her soft petals with no resistance at all.
"Feel that?" Keiko gasped, her hips grinding against his hand immediately. "I've been wet since I saw what you've become. Since I realized you're not my nephew anymore. You're something else. Something that makes me want to spread my legs and beg."
She moved boldly, riding him right there in front of Elena and Velara. And the other two women didn't object—they just watched with hungry eyes, their own hands still on Max's body.
"I'll leave him," Keiko gasped. "Tonight. Right now. I'll divorce him. I'll become your slave if that's what you want. Your personal whore. I'll do anything—anything—you ask."
She grabbed his other hand—the one that had been on Velara's breast—and brought it to the single clasp holding her dress together. The one at her neckline.
"Pull it," she demanded. "One tug and this whole dress falls off. Do it. Strip me. Take me right here in the open where anyone could see."
Max's fingers trembled on the clasp. One pull. That's all it would take.
"I've had work done," Keiko purred, noticing his hesitation. "Breasts. Ass. Everything. Spent hundreds of thousands to look perfect. To look young. To look fuckable. And I've never wanted anyone to see, to appreciate, to use it like I want you to right now."
Her hand covered his, pressing his fingers against the clasp.
"Please," she moaned. "Please. I'm begging. Pull it."
And now all three women were touching him, hands everywhere, bodies pressed against him from three sides. Elena on his left, hand still working his cock through his pants. Velara bold and hungry on his right, fingers tweaking his nipple through his shirt, other hand joining Elena's. Keiko forbidden and wrong directly in front, his fingers inside her, her hand guiding him to strip her naked.
Their voices blended into one seductive chorus:
"Take us," Elena moaned, her thumb rubbing the head of his cock through the fabric.
"Use us," Velara whispered, her tongue licking his ear.
"Corrupt us," Keiko purred, grinding harder against the fingers inside her.
Their touches multiplied, overlapped, became impossible to track. Someone's hand was in his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. Someone's lips found his neck, kissing and biting hard enough to leave marks. Someone's hand was working at his belt, his pants, trying to free him—
"Just say yes," they whispered together, their voices harmonizing into something hypnotic. "Say yes and we're yours."
Max's hands moved without conscious thought—one still between Keiko's legs, fingers pumping while she rode them desperately. One squeezing Elena's ass, pulling her harder against him. One sliding under Velara's open blouse, unhooking her bra—
When did he get three hands?
The thought flickered briefly, but then Velara's breasts spilled free and into his palm—small, perfect, nipples hard as diamonds— he stopped caring about logic.
"Yes," he heard someone say in his voice. "Yes, fuck, yes—"
Then a fourth figure appeared.
And Max's entire world stopped.
His mother.
Yuki stepped out of the corrupted shadows like an actress entering a spotlight, and Max felt something inside his chest shatter into a million pieces.
She wasn't wearing her normal clothes. Not the practical outfits she wore to the hospital. Not the simple blouses and pants she preferred.
She wore the black cocktail dress.
The one from the shopping trip. The one that had made him see her more than a mother.
But this version was even more revealing, more seductive.
She looked stunning. Not like a mother. Not like a middle-aged woman who'd worked herself to exhaustion for years.
She looked like sin. Like temptation given form. Like every dark fantasy made real.
And her expression...
Max wanted to vomit. Wanted to scream. Wanted to tear his own corrupted eyes out rather than see his mother looking at him like that.
Her brown eyes—eyes that had comforted him through childhood nightmares, helped him with homework, held him when his father died—were dark now.
"My beautiful boy," Yuki said softly, her voice carrying that maternal warmth that made everything so much worse. So much more perverted. "My strong, powerful, amazing son."
"No," Max choked out, trying to pull away from the other women, but they held him strong. "No, not you. Not this. Please."
His mother took a step closer, and the heels made her hips sway hypnotically. The short skirt shifted with the movement, riding up enough that Max could see the strings of her panties digging into her hips, could see the curve of her ass barely covered by the thin fabric.
"Why not me?" Yuki asked gently, like they were discussing something mundane. "You've given me everything, Max. A beautiful home where I don't have to struggle. Financial security so I never have to work myself to death again. Clothes that make me feel beautiful for the first time in years." She gestured to the obscene dress. "This dress. You bought me this dress. You picked it out. You wanted to see me in it."
"I didn't—that's not—" Max stammered, but his voice was weak, unconvincing.
"Didn't you?" Yuki took another step, heels clicking on stone. "I saw how you looked at me in that boutique. When I was trying on clothes."
Max felt like he was drowning. Had she really noticed?
"I'm still young," Yuki continued, each word another nail in his coffin. "Only 52. I've spent decades mourning your father, working myself to death, denying myself everything—pleasure, companionship, touch, desire. But you've freed me from that prison. Given me a chance at a real life again."