Ch 6 - Sharing a House with a Sex Addict

Idun was on the couch again, naked, one hand buried between her thighs, the other gripping an oversized translucent turquoise dildo, plunging it into herself with an almost methodical determination. She wasn’t just masturbating—she was working at it, moaning absently, her body moving in sync with the soft flicker of light from the projector. The screen on the wall displayed a classic car restoration show, some old Saab being taken apart bolt by bolt while the narrator droned on about factory-original specifications.

Vieregg sighed, rubbing his temple. “Do you have to do that in the living room?”

Idun didn’t even break her rhythm, rolling her eyes mid-moan. “Fuck you Vieregg. You knew I had a sex addiction. What did you think living with me would be like?”

She grunted as she adjusted the angle of the dildo, the obscene wet sounds briefly drowning out the voice of the host explaining the difference between two-stroke and four-stroke engines. Vieregg pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.

This was normal. This was just another Tuesday.

Subconsciously, he had always expected her interests to align more with—he didn’t even know—makeup tutorials, baking, something that fit the absurdly hyper-feminine body she had been cursed with. But no, it was all engines, carburetors, torque wrenches, and power tool reviews. And this. The incongruity of it all was impossible to ignore: Idun, sprawled out and vigorously pleasuring herself, her moans punctuating the narrator’s careful explanation of sandblasting techniques.

By the time the episode ended, she would have climaxed at least three times. It had become a background noise in his life, as familiar as the hum of a refrigerator. He muttered under his breath, barely realizing he was speaking aloud: “I live in a crazy house. I live in a fucking crazy house.”

When he had hired Idun as his assistant and brought her to Sweden, he had not envisioned this as his day-to-day reality. Sure, he had known about her sex addiction—everyone knew about that—but knowledge was one thing, and this was another. The women of Imperial Norway were often called Neo Nordic Aryans, or NeoNords, the regime branding their genetic mutations as some kind of evolutionary leap forward. Enhancement or defect? A matter of perspective.

Vieregg just knew that his assistant-turned-roommate was currently writhing on his couch, in his living room, her body tensing in climax as the TV presenter cheerfully concluded, “And that’s how you restore an old crankshaft to its former glory.”

He sighed again.

At least someone in this house was satisfied.

Idun, like every other Norwegian woman, had been permanently altered by two different retroviruses, DOLL-3 and VIR-X9. Gene therapy had once been a hopeful field—curing diseases, fixing genetic disorders. In Imperial Norway, it had taken on a distinctly more crude function: optimizing women for strength, endurance, intelligence, and—most famously—an overactive libido and oversized breasts.

The origin of all this could be traced back to Novi Soviet. The VIR-X9 retrovirus had been designed in 2024 to create super-soldiers, back when Novi Soviet was still in its infancy and struggling to win the war in Ukraine. Before that, it had been called Russia—a free market economy, corrupt and dysfunctional, but at least pretending to have individual freedoms. The transition from that to the Soviet revivalist nightmare had been swift. Now, all that was ancient history, but Vieregg had taken an interest in reading up on it.

Partly, he wanted to understand his temporary homeland. Mostly, he wanted to understand the absurdly busty, sex-crazed redhead he was now cohabitating with.

The house had been his idea. Vieregg had bought it shortly after he arrived in Imperial Norway to use as a home while he built up the Norwegian factory.

A beautiful white house in Norwegian Swiss chalet style, perched above the Oslo Fjord, all intricate woodwork and steep eaves, the kind of home that looked like it had existed for a hundred years and would exist for a hundred more. It was distinctly Norwegian—solid, traditional, elegant. A house that demanded a certain dignity from its occupants.

Which made it all the more surreal when he stepped onto the balcony and found Idun naked in a deck chair, sunglasses on, fingers between her legs, sighing contentedly as she watched the ferries glide across the fjord.

It happened often.

Had he known, he might have reconsidered the balcony.

But then, there were the other moments. The ones that made him appreciate sharing this beautiful house with Idun. Grilling on the terrace, the scent of pine and charcoal mixing with the salt air. Lazy mornings with strong coffee. The way she moved through the house, barefoot on the polished wood floors, utterly at ease, as if she were the rightful owner and he was just some foreign exchange student who had inexplicably ended up in her guest room.

She wasn’t his girlfriend.

No sex. No kissing. No pet names.

Just a woman who walked around naked, stole his hoodies, and—most critically—prevented the entire Imperial Norwegian government from treating him like an unusually persistent houseplant.

Without Idun, every conversation with an official would follow the same pattern:

1. Vieregg would introduce himself.
2. The official would squint at him, glance around as if expecting an actual authority figure to step forward, and then sigh deeply.
3. He would be asked if he had permission from his wife to be here.
4. Upon learning that he was unmarried, the official would sigh even deeper and inform him that while technically he was allowed to exist, it was strongly discouraged.
5. If he continued speaking, there would be a sudden and entirely coincidental clerical issue preventing whatever he needed from happening.

Enter Idun.

Idun, who could stride into a room, slam down a stack of documents, and instantly command respect, not because of her intelligence, nor her engineering expertise, nor even her position at Vieregg Industries—but because she was a woman, and therefore, by default, must be the one actually in charge.

Without her, Vieregg’s factory would be a conceptual art piece consisting of an empty lot, some invoices for machinery that would never arrive, and a particularly stubborn permit application that had been rejected sixteen times on the grounds that it was “filed in an unconvincing manner.”

An employee. A colleague. A walking, talking matriarchal shield between him and utter professional oblivion.

And yet, when he really thought about it, he wasn’t entirely sure—

Had she moved into his house?

Or had he moved into hers?

Being close to Idun for so many hours each day gave Vieregg an unsettlingly intimate understanding of what it really meant to be a Neo Nordic. While working with her in Gothenburg, he had known, intellectually, that she had been enhanced—heightened reflexes, increased strength, the kind of muscle efficiency that would make Olympic trainers weep—but there, in an environment of offices and controlled manufacturing spaces, it hadn’t been obvious. It had been easy to think of her as just another engineer.

Here, though, it became impossible to ignore.

The little things gave it away. Like the way she could casually knock over a glass with her tits and still manage to catch it before it shattered—a maneuver that would have been impressive if it didn’t happen twice a day. She was like one of those self-correcting robots in assembly lines, except significantly curvier and prone to swearing. Then there was her strength, which was particularly noticeable when she vacuumed or mopped the floor, lifting furniture as if she were rearranging a dollhouse. If a jar lid was stuck, Vieregg might struggle for a moment before handing it over. She would twist it open with a look of mild disappointment, as if the concept of resistance had personally insulted her.

If it were only those traits, if one looked only at the heightened reflexes, the strength, the sheer physical endurance, perhaps the fascists were right. Perhaps the Neo Nordics were a superior race.

But then there were the other things.

The things that state propaganda failed to mention. The everyday absurdities, the logistical nightmares that no one had accounted for. Like the fact that when he set the table, he had to push her plate further in, otherwise her breasts would be served up neatly like a second entrée, and while Vieregg found this hilarious, Idun did not. He had learned—through experience—that openly laughing at this scenario was a surefire way to have his shins kicked under the table.

But all of this—the superhuman coordination, the comedic boob-related catastrophes—paled in comparison to the sex addiction.

Living with Idun, Vieregg had come to realize that she was, in essence, a handicapped woman. Not in the way that one might traditionally think of disability, but in the way that she simply could not function normally. Sex was a biological imperative, an obsession that hijacked her mind if she went too long without relief. He had watched it happen—how she became distracted, unfocused, sometimes outright disoriented if she hadn’t gotten herself off in a while. There were moments, usually late at night, when her voice would turn raw with desperation, when she would beg him to fuck her.

And he wanted to.

He wanted to grab her hips, push her down onto the mattress, feel the obscene warmth of her body, watch her fall apart beneath him as she screamed his name.

But he knew himself too well.

If he gave in, he would never be able to stop.

She was not a woman he could allow himself to fall for.

And so, every time she pressed against him, every time she whispered please, every time he felt the heat of her skin so close—he forced himself to step back.

Because if he crossed that line, there would be no going back.

This state of affairs had developed into a constant, simmering tension between them.

She had even admitted—without the slightest attempt at subtlety—that being in close proximity to someone with a dick for prolonged periods was challenging. There had been late-night conversations where she had looked him straight in the eye and confessed, with all the sincerity of an addict in withdrawal, that sometimes she craved his cock like a drug. And when the craving got bad, she became moody, irritable, prone to snapping at him over nothing.

Once, after he had politely asked her to stop masturbating in the kitchen while he was trying to eat, she had called him a prude-ass Swede and refused to speak to him for an entire afternoon.

Not that Vieregg could blame her. This was Imperial Norway. If a man found himself living with a large-breasted, sex-addicted woman prone to occasional verbal abuse and random acts of masturbation, well… that was just part of the deal. Complaining about it would be like moving to the Arctic and whining about the snow.

A sane man might have tried to renegotiate their living arrangement, maybe set some firmer boundaries. But Vieregg had long since realized that boundaries were more of a theoretical concept in Imperial Norway. He could either accept his circumstances or spend his remaining years futilely trying to enforce Swedish social norms in a country where even the bureaucrats were more interested in talking about their tits than their tax policies.

And besides—despite everything—Idun was, at her core, a kind and fiercely loyal person. She was funny. She had his back. And, embarrassingly enough, she had probably done more to make the weapons factory a success than he had.

While working in Gothenburg, he had never fully appreciated how intelligent she was. She didn’t just look over the logistics of the new factory—she ran them. If it was up and running so smoothly, it was largely to her credit.

The quadruple salary he had given her had seemed insane at the time.

Now?

It felt like a bargain.

By mid-2052, Vieregg and Idun had achieved something remarkable.

The Krag-22 and Krag-48 gauss rifles—developed in collaboration with Kongsberg Defense—were complete. The Aesir Armor, the next generation of advanced combat suits, was already rolling off production lines. The Imperial Matriarchy’s army was being outfitted with his weapons, his designs.

It was an impressive achievement.

It was also, predictably, causing his entire company to collapse in his absence.

His prolonged stay in Imperial Norway—along with Idun’s—was having a catastrophic effect on morale back in Gothenburg. Talented engineers were leaving. Productivity was down. His father, Carl Vieregg, who still controlled the majority of Vieregg Industries’ shares, was not pleased.

Things were beginning to spiral.

It started with a phone call. A Monday. The worst day of the week for bad news.

Vieregg had, reluctantly, adapted to the Norwegian way of telecommunications, which meant carrying a Simonsen Hugin phone. It was a hulking block of steel, more reminiscent of military hardware than consumer electronics. A bulletproof phone—literally. He was fairly certain you could shoot it with a high-powered rifle and it would still work. That seemed to be the design philosophy behind most technology in Imperial Norway: Will it survive a war? No? Then make it heavier.

“Your father, Carl Vieregg, is calling,” came the voice of the AI assistant, Liv, through the speakers. “Do you want to answer?”

He did not want to answer.

But not answering would only make things worse.

“Hold on, I will get my headset first,” Vieregg muttered.

This was partly because he hated holding the brick-sized phone up to his ear for long periods.

It was also because he did not want his father to hear Idun moaning loudly in the background.

He stepped into the kitchen, closed the door, and put on his Simonsen Mimir headset—another chunky Norwegian device, probably resistant to shock, EMPs, and low-yield nuclear strikes.

Then, with the resignation of a man who knew the conversation was going to ruin his day, he answered the call.

“Hi, Dad,” he said, trying to inject some friendliness into his voice. “How are things back in Sweden?”

He already knew Carl Vieregg was in a bad mood.

And his father did not disappoint.

“Son, you have done a stellar job getting our arms factory in Norway up and running, but you cannot continue to neglect the Gothenburg facility,” Carl said, his voice sharp, businesslike. “This is our core, and we are bleeding engineers and money every month. It cannot go on. If you are not back fixing things soon, the board will fire you, son.”

No small talk. No “How are you doing?” No “Are you eating well?” Just straight to the point, delivered with all the warmth of a corporate memo.

Vieregg tightened his grip on the massive Norwegian phone, the weight of it grounding him.

“We got a few more things to patch up here, Dad, and I will be straight back to Gothenburg,” he lied smoothly.

There was nothing to patch up.

Nothing needed fixing.

His father sighed, a long, disappointed sigh, like a man who had been listening to the same excuse on repeat.

“Son, that is what you have been saying for over a month now. This cannot wait anymore. I am giving you two weeks. Then I need to see you back here. Somebody else will have to go up to Norway and take care of business. Or, you simply delegate responsibility to one of our employees up there.”

His father’s voice was firm, carrying the weight of expectation—as if returning to Gothenburg was inevitable. As if Vieregg himself had simply lost track of time and needed to be reminded where his real life was.

Except…

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

This wasn’t just a delay anymore. It wasn’t just procrastination. He was stalling.

And deep down, he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to go back.

Had he told himself that over a year ago when he arrived, he would have laughed in his own face. He had hated the homeland of his early childhood. The ever-present cameras. Armed guards everywhere. Paranoid Inquisition officers. Heavily armored vehicles patrolling the streets.

Actually getting arrested by the Inquisition and stripped naked had been the cherry on top.

At the time, he had been this close to leaving the country for good.

Yet somehow, this crazy matriarchal fascist dictatorship had grown on him. It made him feel like he was at the wild frontier. As if he had stepped onto an alien planet. And honestly, who wouldn’t want to be a part of that?

His old life in Sweden had become mundane routine. Safe. Predictable. Comfortable in a way that had started to feel like stagnation. The same friends. The same meetings. The same dinners. The same meaningless relationships that always ended in some kind of screwup.

By all logic, a man like him—with money, decent looks, and a good career—was supposed to have no trouble with women. And yet, he had been a complete failure in that department. It had become embarrassing when hanging out with his guy friends. He knew he was bad at communicating with women. He knew he lacked the confidence to fix it.

At a deeper level he felt that the experience with his sister Petra had messed up something inside him.

But in Imperial Norway, none of that mattered.

Here, he was a new man. With new opportunities. The old rules didn’t apply.

There were new things to discover. New risks to take. Adrenaline, fear, and excitement could be a powerful cocktail.

Two weeks ago, he had been downtown in Oslo when an explosion tore through a building near the central bank in Kvadraturen. The ground shook. A firefight broke out.

And he had just stood there, watching, as Imperial Matriarchy soldiers stormed past him in black armor—Aesir Armor, the very same armor he had helped design.

They carried Krag-48 rifles—his rifles.

But something was different this time.

This wasn’t a random attack. This wasn’t some petty act of sabotage.

The Red Pill insurgency had escalated.

They were using high-explosive munitions now.

They had learned.

Regular bullets weren’t cutting it anymore—not against his armor.

Vieregg watched as the corner of a building—where Imperial soldiers had taken cover—exploded, sending chunks of concrete and shrapnel into the street. Glass shattered, raining down as the impact rippled through the block.

This wasn’t some background noise of a foreign war.

This was his reality now.

And, for reasons he still didn’t fully understand, he wasn’t terrified.

He was thrilled.

In the end, it did not go very well for the Red Pillers.

They had put up a fight, sure—high explosives, ambush tactics—but they had underestimated just how brutally efficient the Imperial Matriarchy could be when challenged. The insurgents were overwhelmed, their resistance crushed under a wave of Aesir-armored soldiers who showed about as much mercy as a hydraulic press.

What followed next was familiar to Vieregg.

The captured insurgents were stripped naked—a ritual as predictable as a sunrise—and outfitted with the standard incentives for cooperation: ball stretchers and dick squeezers. A truly unpleasant combination of words.

Merely watching made Vieregg feel phantom pressure between his legs.

And then, of course, came the public humiliation.

They were paraded through the streets, naked, erect, and visibly regretting every life decision that had led them to this moment. Vieregg had seen a disturbing amount of male nudity since arriving in Imperial Norway, but this was still somehow worse.

“I am so glad that is not me this time,” Vieregg had muttered to Idun.

She didn’t smirk. She didn’t tease.

Instead, she just gave him a quick glance, her expression unreadable—but her hand found his wrist, squeezing it just enough for him to feel the warmth of her fingers.

She remembered. She had pulled him out of that nightmare once before. And now they were standing here, watching someone else take that walk.

She didn’t say anything, and she didn’t have to.

Vieregg exhaled slowly.

The Inquisition sex dungeons awaited the prisoners.

They would be raped for days on end until they broke, spilling names of other insurgents, who would, in turn, be hunted down, stripped, and added to the ever-expanding list of men learning firsthand why resisting the Matriarchy was a deeply unwise decision.

Fortunately, such violent episodes were rare.

Most days, life in Imperial Norway wasn’t about watching naked men getting tortured—it was about watching outrageous things happening in broad daylight, things that would have been scandalous anywhere else, but here were just background noise.

Because in Imperial Norway, female sex positivity wasn’t just a movement—it was national identity.

Sometimes that meant women casually walking around with their tits or asses hanging out.

Sometimes it meant exposed pussies, as if public nudity was just another fashion choice.

And the strangest part?

Nobody reacted.

There was no shock. No whispered gossip. No scandal. Just business as usual, as if the streets of Oslo had merged with the set of an avant-garde pornography film.

It was in that moment, standing there on the sidewalk, that Vieregg had an unsettling realization.

He wasn’t watching a porn movie.

He was inside one.

Just walking downtown as a man could be a wild ride.

Women could gang up on you, touching you in ways that would have been considered blatant sexual harassment anywhere else. It wasn’t dangerous—not in the sense of life and death—but it could be deeply humiliating. Vieregg had already experienced more than one situation where a woman had stuck her hand down his pants in broad daylight, apparently just to see what was there.

Ironically, the regime had been campaigning against this. Posters lined the streets, printed with cheerful, state-approved slogans about male dignity.

“Don’t touch a man’s dick without first being given permission,” one read.

It had been issued by the Ministry of Male Affairs—a fact that Vieregg found deeply unsettling.

An entire government body dedicated to male-related issues? He still wasn’t sure if that was a step forward or just another layer of condescension.

Because that was the other thing—the infantilization.

Whenever he and Idun went out, people addressed her first. If they were at a restaurant or shop, clerks and waitresses would instinctively look at her, treating him like a child incapable of forming independent thoughts.

The last time they ate pizza at Olivia, a restaurant at Aker Brygge, the waitress had turned to Idun and asked, “What does your male want?”

She hadn’t even looked at him.

Hadn’t even acknowledged his existence.

It was infuriating—but at the same time, Vieregg loved it.

Every moment in Imperial Norway felt like stepping into a virtual reality dystopia, except this one was real. He wasn’t just seeing it or hearing it. He could smell it. Touch it. There was real risk here, real adrenaline.

Unlike a VR simulation, he couldn’t just jack out and return to the safety of his living room.

And that was the problem. Because now, he had to decide.

The next morning, over breakfast, he looked at Idun and asked:

“My father wants me to come home to Gothenburg. What do you think? Do you want to return with me?”

Idun put down the slice of bread she was eating.

“I enjoyed experiencing something different in Sweden, but I eventually got tired of being treated like a freak show. A slut. A whore.” Her voice was steady, but her fingers tensed slightly against the table. “Somehow, the naive side of me thought that with time, things would change. But they never did. I wish Imperial Norway wasn’t a dictatorship, but at least here, people don’t make crude jokes and laugh behind my back.”

She paused, her eyes turning glassy.

“You know what the worst part was?” she said quietly. “I was so alone in Sweden. I wanted a man to share my life with. And I thought—stupidly—that it would be easy there. You have so many men, unlike here in Imperial Norway. And sure, they were always eager to fuck me.” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “But none of them wanted me as their girlfriend. None. I was just someone to be used. It really killed my self-esteem.”

Vieregg listened, nodding in what he hoped was an empathetic way. He should have said something supportive. Maybe reassured her, told her that those men were idiots for not seeing her worth.

Instead, his mouth did what it always did in these moments.

It betrayed him.

“I mean, Idun, you look like—” he hesitated for a second, then barreled straight into disaster, “some kind of slut or porn star with that body. Guys are going to be embarrassed to take you home to their parents. Or walk around in public with you.”

He barely had time to register his mistake before a slice of bread slapped him directly in the face.

“You are such a fucking insensitive sexist asshole sometimes!” Idun yelled.

Vieregg blinked, wiping crumbs off his cheek. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the impact of the bread or the fact that it had been buttered on one side.

“I’m just telling you the truth, Idun, so you’ll understand!” he shot back defensively. “I wasn’t trying to be mean!”

Which, to be fair, was accurate. But also, in no way helpful.

And deep down, a small voice in his head whispered the part he didn’t want to admit—

That he had done the exact same thing to her. That he had also chosen not to be in a relationship with her for that very reason.

Which meant that, inadvertently, he had become one of those assholes she was talking about.

Idun wasn’t finished. Her voice shook with anger.

“You tell me you have bad luck with women, Vieregg? You know why that is? Because you’re an asshole. A fucking asshole!”

“Hey, I’m a nice guy! I don’t use women. I don’t slap their ass or anything like that,” he argued, scrambling to defend himself.

Some of his cocky friends did that. He never had. That had to count for something.

Idun scoffed. A sharp, disbelieving sound.

“Nice guy?! Nice guys don’t call women sluts! They don’t describe them as looking like porn stars!”

“I never said you were a slut, Idun! I said you looked like one.”

Another slice of bread slammed into his face.

“FUCK YOU!” she snapped. “Don’t you think I KNOW what I look like? Do you have to rub it in?”

She slumped in her chair, shoulders shaking. And before Vieregg could even process what was happening—

She was crying. It was horrible. The worst thing he had seen.

Because when Idun yelled at him, when she threw things, when she ripped into him, he could handle that. That was normal.

But this?

This was pain. Real, raw pain. And he had caused it.

Vieregg swallowed. He realized he had fucked up again. Big mouth. Pedantic. Argumentative.

Maybe she was right.

He hadn’t meant to hurt Idun. But intention didn’t matter when the result was this.

It was better when she yelled at him. He could deal with that. A crying Idun was painful to watch.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then walked over to her. Slowly, hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m an asshole. Maybe I don’t know how to communicate with girls. Too much time around geeky engineers.”

He paused, then added, “I should probably include myself in that category.”

Idun started easing up. Maybe I’m doing it right this time, Vieregg thought.

“Maybe you need to teach me how to behave,” he said, trying for a small, self-deprecating smile.

Idun wiped her tears, sniffling. “Thanks, Vieregg,” she said softly. Then, after a pause, she looked up at him, her voice tired but still carrying the weight of frustration. “I don’t get why you need to learn it, Vieregg. How do you not just… get it?” She shook her head. “Put yourself in my shoes. Everyone stares at you. You’re not a person. You’re a sex object. It doesn’t matter if you’re fun, nice, if you have any talents. None of that counts. Because in their minds, you’re just a dirty whore who fucks anybody.”

She exhaled, rubbing her temples. “And the worst part?” she said bitterly. “You know it’s true. I am a sex addict. I do fuck around. I am that slut they believe I am.” She swallowed hard. “But I don’t want to be. I just want to be respected. I want someone to see past my big boobs and big ass.”

Vieregg understood. And that was the worst part—he really did understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see her as more than a sex object. It was that he was too much of a coward to act differently. He wasn’t strong enough to be the kind of man who could ignore the stares, the whispers, the judgment.

And there would be judgment. He could already hear it in his head. “There goes Vieregg with his whore. I heard he paid for her tits. A guy like him could have had anyone, and he picks a porn star and common whore.”

And that would be nothing compared to what he’d face at home. There was no way he could bring Idun Amalie Wang to his parents’ house and say, “This is my new girlfriend. I want to marry her.”

He could already imagine his father’s reaction. “You bring a whore to my house? No son of mine would date a common whore. Get the fuck out of my house. NOW!”

The words weren’t real. But they might as well have been. Because he knew—deep in his gut—that this was exactly how it would play out. And that realization made him feel sick.

For all of Idun’s strength, for all of her raw, painful honesty, she had one blind spot. She wanted someone to see past her body. But what she didn’t realize—what Vieregg hated himself for knowing—was that even if someone could see past it, that didn’t mean they would be brave enough to stand beside her.

And he wasn’t. Not yet.

A thought entered his mind: What if I never go back? What if I stay in Imperial Norway? Nobody would judge me for being with Idun. I’ll start a new life, with new friends.

It was a tempting idea.

But Vieregg never actually got to make that decision.

On Thursday that week, the doorbell rang.

Idun, as usual, was lying naked on the couch, pleasuring herself with a big dildo. For some reason, today it was a translucent pink one. Vieregg had stopped questioning the color rotation system of her sex toys.

He sighed. Probably just some annoying sales guy he could tell to leave. Except the person standing in the entrance was not the kind of guy who would leave.

It was his father. Carl Vieregg.

“Dad?!” Vieregg blurted, his body locking up in panic.

Carl Vieregg was a man of action, not of warnings. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t wait. He strolled right in like he owned the place.

“Son, we need to talk.”

At that moment, Vieregg felt like a pilot in a burning aircraft, plummeting toward the ground at insane velocity. Everything played out in slow motion.

He tried to stop his father. He really did. But Carl walked forward with purpose, brushed Vieregg aside, and entered the living room like a military commander securing a location.

And then.

Disaster struck.

Carl Vieregg came to an abrupt halt, staring at the scene before him.

A stark naked, voluptuous redhead lay sprawled across the couch, moaning loudly, a massive translucent pink dildo shoved up her very busy pussy.

If Vieregg had lived in a cartoon, his father’s jaw would have hit the floor with a loud thunk. For a long, horrible second, his father simply stared in disbelief.

Idun—completely unbothered—paused mid-thrust, turned her head, and gave a cheerful smile.

“Oh, hi!” she said, casually squeezing her right breast with one hand while still holding the dildo firmly inside herself with the other. “Who’s this, Vieregg?”

Vieregg could barely process the absolute catastrophe unfolding in front of him.

His father. His cold, conservative, moralizing father. Standing right there. Staring right at Idun.

And Idun—naked, moaning, massaging her own tit—acting as if this was a completely normal way to meet someone’s parents.

The image burned itself into Vieregg’s memory.

It was that moment when his whole life came crashing down.