Lust Unraveled (AI assisted)

The screen flickered, casting blue light across Brandi's face as she leaned closer. Outside, rain drummed against the cabin roof. She typed quickly, fingers dancing over the keyboard. "Almost finished uploading," she murmured to herself. Her latest video edit showed her bare back arching, moonlight catching the sweat on her spine.

A floorboard creaked behind her. She froze, cursor hovering over the delete key. Her son, Liam, shouldn't be home from his night shift for hours. Heart pounding, she minimized the browser window just as the kitchen door swung open.

"Mom?" Liam's voice had exhaustion, his boots tracking mud onto the worn linoleum. He flicked on the overhead light, harsh yellow flooding the small space. Brandi instinctively hunched her shoulders, pulling her robe tighter. "Thought you'd be asleep," he mumbled, shrugging off his soaked jacket. His eyes lingered on her screen—now displaying a spreadsheet of herb sales—but a frown creased his forehead. "You look... tense."

Brandi forced a smile, clicking the spreadsheet closed. "Just concentrating. Rain makes me restless." She watched him rummage in the fridge, his tall frame filling the cramped kitchen. At twenty, Liam carried the ghost of her own features—the sharp cheekbones, the stubborn set of his jaw—but none of her hidden complexities. *Does he ever wonder why I never dated? Why we moved every few years?* The questions tightened her throat.

He pulled out leftover stew, slopping it into a bowl. "Old Man Henderson offered me full-time at the garage." He didn’t look at her, his voice carefully neutral. "Says I’m the best mechanic he’s had in a decade." Pride warred with dread in Brandi’s chest. Stability meant roots. Roots meant scrutiny. She pictured Henderson’s shrewd eyes, the way he noticed everything in their small town.

The microwave hummed, filling the silence. Liam leaned against the counter, rainwater dripping from his dark hair onto the linoleum. "He asked about you." Brandi’s fingers tightened on her robe’s sash. "Said it’s odd, a woman living alone out here with just her grown son." His gaze finally met hers, sharp and questioning. "Said folks talk."

Brandi’s pulse thrummed in her throat. Small towns were minefields—every kindness laced with curiosity. She forced her voice steady. "Let them talk, Liam. We’ve always been private people." She rose, busying herself with wiping the already-clean countertop. The scent of wet earth and cheap detergent hung thick in the air.

Liam’s spoon clattered against his bowl. "Private’s one thing. Secrets are another." He didn’t look up, but the accusation hung between them like static. "Henderson’s not just gossiping. He’s *digging*. Asked if you ever worked in the city. If you had ‘unusual family history.’"

Brandi’s knuckles whitened on the dishcloth. Henderson’s garage sat near the county records office. *How much could he uncover?* Her old life—the vanished medical files, the fake IDs—was buried deep, but not dead. She turned slowly, meeting Liam’s troubled stare. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing." Liam pushed his bowl away, stew untouched. "But he kept pressing. Said he saw a documentary once... about genetic mutations." The word hung like a blade. Rain lashed the windowpane. "Mom, what aren’t you telling me?"

Brandi’s breath hitched. Twenty years of careful isolation trembled at the edges. She saw the flicker in Liam’s eyes—not disgust, but raw confusion, the kind that fractures trust. Her robe felt suddenly thin, inadequate armor. "Some people are born different, Liam," she began, voice fraying. "It doesn’t define—"

"Different how?" His interruption was sharp, urgent. He stepped closer, rainwater from his hair dripping onto the linoleum between them. "Henderson wasn’t just curious. He sounded… afraid. What documentary?"

Brandi’s hands trembled. She gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles bone-white. The lie she’d rehearsed for years—*car accident scars, hormonal imbalance*—dissolved on her tongue. Liam’s eyes held no judgment, only the raw ache of a son realizing his mother was a stranger. She inhaled the damp, pine-scented air drifting through the cracked window, then let her robe slip open.

Liam flinched backward. His gaze locked onto her chest—the impossible symmetry of four full breasts, milk beading at dusky nipples in the fluorescent glare. "Mom?" His voice cracked, barely audible over the rain. Brandi didn’t stop. She untied the sash completely, letting the robe pool at her feet. Her twin cocks hung heavy and flushed between her thighs, the swollen clit already thickening into a third shaft. Liam staggered, catching himself against the fridge door. "What... *is* this?" Horror warred with fascination in his widening eyes. Brandi stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the cold linoleum. "Hyper-Androgynous Genesis Syndrome," she whispered. "Born this way."

He didn’t recoil. Instead, he leaned closer, transfixed. "Does it... hurt

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