Ch 5 - Welcome to the Family

The cab hissed as it pulled up to a cozy white-painted wooden house. No shutters, no frills—just clean vertical paneling, a moss-lined roof, and a gravel path leading through a lush green yard. It looked quaint—almost storybook—nestled in a lush green yard that seemed pulled from a calendar. Tucker barely noticed any of it, because of what stood in the yard.

Four girls.

They stood lined up like something out of a fantasy dating sim. Same posture. Same bounce in their steps. Two were blonde—sunny and glowing. One had a mane of vivid red curls that caught the light like fire. And the last had soft brown hair with an aloof gaze that made Tucker’s heart pound for reasons he didn’t understand.

All smiling.

All… glistening?

Tucker blinked.

They were dressed. Technically.

Thin white lace clung to their bodies in the form of near-transparent sundresses, so sheer it was hard to tell where fabric ended and skin began. No bras. No panties. Just curves—poured into delicate mesh, like frosting barely holding back cake.

Their breasts didn’t bounce so much as moved, with a soft, unhurried sway that defied gravity and reason. Their hips flared like exaggerated parentheses. Their thighs gleamed in the sun, close enough to touch, close enough to trap.

He stepped out of the cab slowly, Bible clutched like a shield.

The girls squealed.

“He’s real!” one shouted.

“He’s cute!” said another.

“He’s ours!” giggled a third.

Then came the hugs. Four of them. In sequence. Slow, soft, and lingering just long enough to make his spine melt with confusion. Their bodies pressed against his, fabric whispering secrets his skin was not prepared to hear. Perfume. Warmth. Curves.

He followed them up the path in a daze.

One sister—Tuva, maybe—took his hand, gently, like she was leading a puppy across a frozen lake. Two others ran ahead toward the house, giggling like they'd already won something.

Inside, there was the smell of waffles.

And something else.

Something sweeter. Thicker.

Oh Lord, Tucker thought, stepping over the threshold.

This house smells like surrender.

Nothing explicit, of course. That would be improper. But nothing was hidden either. Everything was… pressed. Squished. Clinging. Whispered against his body in tactile memory.

“Come on, Tucker!” Tuva called, tugging him forward. “Mama’s waiting!”

The door slid shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss, sealing him into the fragrant, terrifying warmth of the house.

And then she appeared.

Katrine.

Host mother. Norwegian matron. Fertility idol in an apron.

She stood in the archway leading to the kitchen, smiling wide, arms open—not just with welcome, but with sheer maternal force. She wore only an apron—floral and cheerful, tied snugly around her waist. That was it. No dress. No blouse. Just the apron, and a staggering amount of exposed, pillowy cleavage. Her breasts were the largest Tucker had ever seen in real life. Possibly in any medium. They looked heavy enough to have their own gravitational field, barely restrained by the apron’s strained ties.

“Velkommen!” she sang, her voice rich with joy. “You must be Tucker-James. Come here, sweetheart!”

She swept him into a hug so plush and enveloping it felt more like being tucked into a warm bed than embraced. Her perfume was like honey and cream. Her softness defied logic.

“Oh—sorry, I should’ve put something more proper on,” she added cheerfully, stepping back and smoothing the apron against her hips. “It’s just us girls in the house most of the time, so I don’t really notice anymore. I heard Americans can be a bit delicate about nudity. I should’ve worn something proper like the girls.”

She gestured toward the daughters, who were twirling slightly in their sheer sundresses, the fabric clinging in ways that were anything but proper.

Tucker tried not to look directly at anything.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she cooed, pulling back just enough to cup his face gently. “You’re even cuter than your picture. Are you hungry? We’ve made waffles. And if you need anything else—snacks, a nap, some milk—I’m here for you.”

Tucker’s brain caught on one word.

Milk?

He looked down. Then instantly back up. Her apron didn’t show anything technically indecent… but it left so much exposed that the line between modesty and madness blurred entirely. And what it barely covered was indecent enough to short-circuit his nervous system.

“I—uh—yes ma’am,” he managed.

“Call me Katrine,” she said, giving his cheek a gentle pat that somehow didn’t help at all.

She turned back toward the kitchen with a wink. “Waffles will be ready in just a minute. Make yourself at home, sweetheart.”

And with that, she vanished into the kitchen, the apron fluttering behind her.

Tucker remained where he was, clutching his Bible like a flotation device. 

Two of his host sisters hovered nearby—giggling, whispering, full of energy and hormones, unsure whether to offer him a tour, a waffle, or a full-body cuddle.

They were excited. Nervous. Curious.

He was a real boy. From America.

He had that foreign softness, that modest energy.

He smelled like laundry detergent and guilt.

One sister nudged the other and whispered:

“Do you think he’s been kissed?”

“Maybe not by accident.”

“Maybe we should—”

“No! Mama said we need permission now!”

They giggled harder.

Tucker blinked at them, unsure if he should say something or just… run.

But his feet wouldn’t move. The house felt warm.

So did their eyes.

Lord help me, he thought. Even the giggling is erotic.

A few minutes later, he found himself seated at the long wooden dining table. The smell of waffles was stronger now—sweet, homey, even comforting.

But the sight in front of him was anything but.

The girls sat casually with their massive breasts resting heavily on the table, the thin fabric of their sundresses doing absolutely nothing to hide the spill of soft curves. Every motion caused a ripple. A bounce. A jiggle.

Tuva leaned forward to pour jam and missed the plate completely—red goo plopped right onto her cleavage.

“Tuva,” Aasne sighed. “You got jam on your boobs again.”

Eira giggled. “You always get jam on your boobs.”

Tuva looked down with mild annoyance. “It’s not my fault they stick out like breakfast trays.”

Marte rolled her eyes. “She did it yesterday with syrup. Don’t give her the honey.”

Tucker stared into his plate like it might contain moral clarity.

Eira leaned toward him and smiled. “You’ll get used to it.”

He nodded dumbly. “Waffles are really good.”

After a few more bites—carefully chewed, eyes locked on his plate—he swallowed and asked timidly, “Um… could I use the bathroom?”

Before anyone else could respond, Tuva shot up with a bright smile. “I’ll show you!”

She took his hand without hesitation. Her fingers were soft and warm. Confident. The kind of grip that said follow me without asking.

Tucker’s heart fluttered in a way he’d never felt before. A girl was holding his hand. Willingly. Cheerfully. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And maybe that’s what terrified him the most.

Because he liked it.

Her skin. Her smell. The way she glanced back and laughed at something one of her sisters said before turning down the hallway, tugging him gently along.

His religious instincts screamed to clamp down, to stuff the feeling somewhere deep and holy.

But his heart was already floating somewhere behind her shoulder.

He didn’t know if this was sin, temptation, or some early stage of spiritual disintegration.

He only knew he didn’t want to let go.

Tuva stopped outside a door and nudged it open. “Bathroom,” she said cheerfully, releasing his hand with a warm smile.

Tucker stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

And immediately regretted it.

The bathroom was, in some ways, exactly what you’d expect in a modern Norwegian home: clean lines, pale wood cabinets, minimalist fixtures.

But then the details began to register.

The soap was shaped like breasts. Another bar—on the sink—was distinctly phallic, glistening pink and half-melted from frequent use. The towels had lace trim and faint embroidery of cartoonish goddesses in poses he didn’t think were appropriate for terrycloth. The faucet knobs were round and vaguely anatomical.

And on the shelf, beside an expensive-looking bottle of lavender shampoo, lay what Tucker prayed was a massager—though the translucent blue shaft and contoured ridges suggested otherwise. It looked… artisanal. Glass or maybe some ultra-modern polymer. Elegant, almost. But unmistakably a dildo.

He froze.

He was in a house of smiling women, floating fabric, exposed skin—and they had a display-grade sex toy next to the conditioner.

He stared at the sink. At his own reflection.

Hold it together, he told himself. You’re just using the bathroom.

He peed. He washed his hands. He tried not to glance back.

And he absolutely did not touch the soap.

After emerging from the bathroom, still rattled by the anatomical soap and display-grade… accessories, Tucker was swept up into a house tour.

The girls led him from room to room with practiced enthusiasm—bright, giggling commentary and bouncing bodies everywhere he turned. The house was cozy and clean, not large by American standards, but well-kept and warmly decorated in the Scandinavian style… mostly.

There were photos on the walls. Family memories, he assumed. But then he stopped.

One framed print showed Tuva sitting fully nude in a sunlit meadow, smiling at the camera like it was the most normal thing in the world. Another showed Åsne in high heels and nothing else, her body draped across a pile of woven blankets with a sultry gaze that made Tucker drop his eyes instantly.

“Doesn’t Åsne look great in that one?” Katrine asked cheerfully, appearing behind him with a mug of warm milk in hand. “We took that just a few months ago. She was feeling so confident that day.”

“Oh… uh, yes ma’am,” Tucker stammered, focusing hard on the crown molding.

“You can call me Katrine,” she said again with a smile, handing him the mug.

They continued past what appeared to be a workout space—mirrored walls, a sound system, and in the middle, a shiny chrome pole.

“That's Åsne’s pole dancing corner,” Tuva explained brightly. “She practices three times a week. It’s super empowering.”

“Very artistic,” Eira added with a dreamy smile.

Tucker nodded, unsure what else to do. His soul felt like it was being slowly dissolved in hot cocoa.

That evening, Tuva and Eira showed him their room.

They were really sweet about it, said he could take Eira’s old bed, and that they’d just share now to make room for him.

Tucker thought that was nice. Kind. Generous.

But then they just… flopped onto the bed together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They were wearing little tank tops and… not much else. Just tiny underwear things. Smaller than he thought were legal.

They started giggling. Touching each other. Not in a—bad way exactly, but… definitely in a way that made it hard to think about anything except how much skin was everywhere.

Eira ran her fingers over Tuva’s stomach, and Tuva just smiled and reached over and—he couldn’t believe it—kind of cupped Eira’s chest like it was no big deal.

They weren’t embarrassed. They just kept laughing and whispering like they were talking about what movie to watch.

And Tucker? He stood there. Trying really hard to keep his eyes somewhere neutral. Failing.

They weren’t trying to tempt him. Honestly, they seemed completely unaware.

And maybe that was what messed him up most—because they weren’t sinful. They were just happy. Comfortable. Beautiful.

Now he felt all twisted up. Embarrassed. Nervous. A little sick. But also… fluttery.

Is this what love feels like?

Or is this just hormones trying to ruin my life?

Either way, he was definitely not sleeping tonight.

The lights dimmed. The girls pranced around brushing their teeth, still giggling—still half-naked. And then, with a total absence of ceremony, they stripped completely.

Tucker froze.

He had never seen a naked girl before.

Now he had seen two.

They looked like giggling, voluptuous porn stars… if porn stars had fuzzy socks and bedtime routines and bumping into each other while shouting, “Boob bump!”

“Girls,” Katrine’s voice called from another room, not unkind but firm. “Finish up and stop the boob bumping. It’s bedtime.”

“Yes, Mama!” they sang in chorus, grinning and pressing their bodies against each other one more time for good measure.

When they finally slid under the covers beside him—Tuva on one side, Eira on the other—he pulled the duvet up to his chin and stared at the ceiling like it might offer an escape.

Then came the sounds.

Whispers. Giggles. A shifting of sheets.

Wet, slow sounds.

Sighs.

Tucker squirmed. Shifted. Tried not to breathe too loudly.

A pause.

“Sorry,” Tuva whispered. “Are we too loud?”

“We’re sex addicts,” Eira added gently, as if explaining a food allergy. “We can’t fall asleep without… you know.”

“You can join if you want,” Tuva offered kindly. “We don’t mind sharing.”

It wasn’t seductive. It was sincere. Sweet. Like offering him a piece of gum.

Tucker made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.

Please, Lord, he thought. I need help. Or earplugs. Or a different room.