Pleasant Stepford Sundays

It was another sunny, warm Sunday in Stepford, Connecticut. Resting on the comfortable wicker chair on the wraparound desk of his Father's colonial-style home, Luke, 19 years old, was reading a comic book. It was one of his favorites: Mrs. Marvel #60, the one in which Kamala Khan, newly emancipated on her 18th birthday, fled to Saudi Arabia to get away from her awful, permissive, liberal parents in America. Once there, she was quickly married off to a rich man, who, a strict observer of Islamic Sharia law, mandated that she always wear a full niqab while in public, and never without a male escort.

She happily obeyed. Huzzah!

In fact, this was the last issue. The final page explained that she gave up her crime-fighting ways, and devoted herself fully to satisfying her husband's sexual and marital needs, even going on to give him eight healthy children, as was her obligation!

All's well that ends well! Make Mine Marvel!

What a shame, Luke, thought, that

they

did not have access to these kinds of comic books. No,

out there

, he understood, Kamala Khan was a so-called girlboss, a Muslim-in-name-only, the idealized image of a female superhero by way of white Brooklyn hipster.

What a damn, damn shame.

Oh well! Sucks to be them!

But that was one of the many perks of living in Stepford. It actually made him laugh now, to think about how much he had hated the place when he first moved there. It seemed like so long ago, when he, his father, his stepmom, and his two step-sisters had moved into this admittedly massive, gorgeous house. But then he had discovered the magic of the place: that one of its residents, Mike Wellington, a brilliant ex-Boston Dynamics engineer, had devised a process by which, through the use of advanced robotics and cybernetics, one could fashion the perfect woman.

All you needed was an imperfect one.

But that is just what his Father had done, bringing his new wife, Claire, and her daughters, Haley and Alexandria, here with the express purpose of transforming them all into said unblemished forms. And what a success it was! Claire, Alexandria, and Haley had all been among the biggest bitches on planet Earth, in Luke's estimation, and now they were the kind of female partners a lesser guy could only dream of!

Translation: they could - and would - do anything. Take, for example, Claire. As Luke read his comic, specifically the pages where Kamala permanently inflated herself to BBW levels to satisfy her beloved husband's refined tastes, Claire was mowing the lawn: with her legs! The way it worked was kind of interesting: to start, Claire would get into a kneeling position, at which point blades would shoot out of both of her lily-white shins. Then all she had to do to cut the grass was ride around on it like a human Roomba, vacant smile on her beautiful face all the while.

It was funny: on a gorgeous day like today, virtually every house had a living lawnmower servicing their yards. Sometimes, they would even wave as they passed one another by!

Luke looked up just in time to see Claire expertly maneuver around the Trump/Vance 2024 sign that had been up since summer, leaving the unruly grass under it for last.

Speaking of common sights in Stepford....

"Lunch, darling!"

Luke turned to see Haley, in a yellow sundress with a blue flower pattern, holding out a fine glass plate with a hotdog atop it, with a side of potato chips.

Haley leaned over as she placed the plate on the small metal table in front of Luke. The actual meat was completely frozen, but, like Supergirl, Superman's cousin-cum-wife (as seen in Action Comics #455, the issue where the Man of Steel claimed her as his bride), Haley had the ability to shoot lasers out of her eyes. She employed them now to cook the hotdog to a perfect crispness.

Luke shoved his right hand up Haley's skirt to grope her perfect, round hindquarters while the red beams that had shot forth from her pupils penetrated the meat, which like all hotdogs around the world, was of mysterious and indeterminate origin. This was another feature installed in the women of the neighborhood - the ability to alter the size of nearly every part of their bodies on demand.

A year ago, Haley had not had much of an ass on her at all, any weight she gained going mostly to her tits. Now, it stuck out so far that her frilly dresses clung to either cheek like plastic wrapping on a Christmas ham.

But her changes went far beyond the physical. Haley had been, literally, a whore. A squarely 21st-century whore, operating a moderately successful OnlyFans wherein she showed off her tattooed body to the anonymous creeps that made up her following. But it was more than just that: she was known to go clubbing with her equally-whoreish friends at least four times a week, hooking up with countless anonymous men every time she went out, some of whom even helped her make her "content".

Suffice it to say, she was headed to teenage motherhood, if she deigned to keep the bastard child she was perpetually in danger of conceiving. Which, let us be honest, was unlikely. Hoe probably had the local Planned Parenthood number already saved on her phone.

"Enjoy your lunch, honey!" she cooed, before planting a kiss on his right cheek, and leaving a bright red lipstick stain where her ample lips had made contact with his scruffy cheek.

Luke gave her ass another appreciative squeeze, then spanked it when she turned to re-enter the house.

"Oooh!", she exclaimed, before letting out a teasing giggle.

She opened the screen door, and went inside. But she was not going in there to relax, read, or even watch TV. No, none of those things were of interest, or necessity, to her now. When not in use, all of his girlfriends (that is what he considered them as), would simply find an empty space in the living room, and proceed to stand completely still there until summoned. In this mode, with perfect posture and perfect smiles, they were not unlike pieces of hyper-realistic art.

Speaking of, he could use Amber right about now. His poor balls were

terribly

full.

He took his smartphone from his shorts, and opened the app that had just been rolled out to the men of Stepford that same year. Another stroke of genius from Mike! Before, they had to use a remote control. Uh, how primitive! This was much more convenient, and offered so many more options to boot!

He clicked the button along the bottom of the App that featured a purple microphone as its icon. A pleasant "boop" sound emanated from his phone speaker, and he held it up to his face and spoke into it.

"Amber, get your ass out here and suck the cum out of my balls, would ya? Oh, and bring me another comic, and a blanket."

He liked to be gruff with them, harkening back to the same idealized past as the rest of Stepford, even if it made no actual practical difference what his tone of voice was.

Just moments later, Amber walked through the front door, wearing a tight white tank top and black yoga pants, blanket and comic in tow as ordered. She handed the comic to Luke, got on her knees before him, and placed the blanket over herself and his lap. She then pulled his gym shorts down to his ankles, and dutifully began to suck his stiffening cock.

"Hey, make it a slow one, huh? I don't want to blow my load before I finish my comic."

"Mmmmm-mmm," Amber responded affirmatively, not bothering to remove Luke's dick from her mouth to answer him. She learned well.

She had chosen the comic well. This was Avengers #366, the issue where it was revealed that Jennifer Banner's - She-Hulk - vagina and ovaries transformed into a colossal cock and pair of balls every time she hulked out. After revealing this fact to Black Widow, the two proceeded to fuck over the next 30 pages all over Avengers Mansion, in every room, in graphic detail. This was actually the beginning of the arc that featured She-Hulk fucking all of the female members of the Avengers, culminating in her taking Storm and Scarlet Witch - the ones that had satisfied her most - as her wives. In turn, that led to a conflict with Quicksilver and Black Panther, which led to the Planet She-Hulk event, and so on and so on.

It was appropriate that Amber chose this particular issue, because, like She-Hulk with her green-purple penis, Amber was also a futa. Well, that was how Luke thought of her at least, and she certainly looked the part, with her absurdly round boobs and ass, swollen lips, and, naturally, 8-inch long cock.

Amber, it should be said, was not part of their family, at least originally. She had been Alexandria's friend, and somehow got caught up with her in becoming Stepfordized. Whatever, the details didn't really matter. The point was, she was now part of his menagerie.

A real-life futa! How cool was that? Fortunately, her parents didn't take much convincing to let her live full-time with Luke and his other girlfriends. They were sick of her shit anyway, and whatever resistance that might have been left was quickly obliterated by him sending Alexandria and Haley over to give the Patriarch of the family a sisterly double-blowjob that almost literally caused his eyes to pop out of his skull (to hear Alexandria and Haley tell it) as a gesture of goodwill.

In some ways, Amber was his most prized possession. Every guy in Stepford had a woman (or two), but none of them, as far as he knew, had a goddamn futa. He wouldn't even let his friends borrow her (and how they had begged!), so jealous was he of this rare and wonderful part of his collection.

Case in point, Amber had begun fondling his own testicles, in such a way that the pleasure it gave Luke was almost beyond description. That was the difference with a futa - the women could download and analyze every porno known to man with their computerized brains, and they still wouldn't be able to work a set of male genitals like a futa could.

It was just at that very moment that Amber brought Luke to orgasm, and Luke gripped both sides of the wicker chair as he ejaculated into her expert mouth, and Amber, in turn, gladly swallowed every solitary drop.

"Yowza!" he screamed, almost involuntarily. Another retro affectation, but it amused him to say it.

As Amber began to lick the spit and cum off of his rapidly-shrinking cock, Luke leaned over, put the comic down on the table in front of him, and lifted the blanket slightly so that he could see her.

"That won't be necessary", he told her, even as she had already started running her strong tongue down either side of his dick to lap up the refuse that now coated it. "Go inside and tell Alexandria to come out here and clean me up."

Amber nodded, rolled out from below the blanket, and started to walk back to the front door, her own erect cock brushing up against the inside of her tight yoga pants, threatening to break out of them and spray the whole front deck with her load.

Luke empathized with the poor pent-up bitch.

"Hey, Amber," he called to her.

She turned and grinned at her master.

"Yes, honey?"

"Go release all that into Haley," he said, nodding at her bulge.

"Oh goody!"

Amber turned, and went back inside, a noticeable pep in her step.

Alexandria appeared shortly afterwards.

Alexandria was in the same kind of dress as her sister and mother: brightly colored, lacy, etc. etc. But Alexandria was voluptuous in a way that they weren't, so the dress in question hugged her every thick curve in a way that it just did not for them.

Now, it was true that Luke could have plumped up his stepmother and other step-sister in a similar fashion as well, if he had wanted to. But they weren't Rubenesque in the same manner as Alexandria was even before her Stepfordization, and Luke kept it that way to add even more variety to his foursome, along with maintaining some continuity with the otherwise regrettable before times.

Having already been told of Luke's wish by Amber, Alexandria silently got under the blanket and began to clean Luke's genitals with her tongue.

Luke liked to reserve these even more humiliating tasks for her, because, as much as Claire and Haley had been cunts to him before they were perfected, Alexandria somehow even out-cunted them.

It had started that very first time he had met Alexandria and Haley, over dinner at that local fancy Italian restaurant. He already greatly disliked Claire, who had made it openly known how much she disapproved of his comic reading and video game habits, disparaging both as hobbies unbecoming of a "real man." Still, he had held out hope that the bitchiness genes had skipped a generation, and maybe he could get along with her daughters instead. That would at least make the next few years more tolerable until he graduated college and moved to the city for work.

No dice. Haley was dumb as a stump, and Alexandria made even less of an attempt to mask her contempt for him than her mother had.

"What a fucking dork," he had overheard Alexandria whispering to her sister as they ate their pasta and chicken parmesan.

But she barely tried to lower her voice. She wanted him to hear her pointed barb.

Dork, nerd, incel, faggot, bitch, geek - she had leveled them all, and more, at him in the intervening time since.

That's why she got the short end of the stick now. When he needed a stool to rest his tired feet, guess who took the weight of them on her back? Who unclogged the toilets with their bare hands? Who disposed of the garbage - by eating it? And who ate his cum out of Claire and Haley, when they lay back feigning exhaustion after a marathon sex session?

Alexandria, eternally repenting for her many, many sins against Luke.

But that last example did bring up the whole "incest question," and just how did Luke address it? That taboo of taboos, that was broken so regularly in the Dunphy household that it didn't even register with him anymore.

Well, first of all, it wasn't like Claire, Haley, and Alexandria were his own biological family members now, was it? So the fuck did he care? Plus, he would wager one would be hard-pressed to find another red-blooded man out there who wouldn't jump at the chance to have two unrelated-to-him sisters at the same time, or even an (again, not related to him) mother and daughter-pairing. And if they started doing things to each other while in the throes of passion, do you think said man would suddenly call the whole thing off in disgust, or would he find himself getting more turned on at the (hot, hot, hot) display?

Don't answer that. It was a rhetorical question.

And secondly, they weren't people anymore: they were things. Was your phone "related to" your laptop? Was your coffee pot related to your coffee maker? Of course not, the idea was patently absurd!

Between the two arguments, the matter was settled in Luke's mind completely. The only thing left was to enjoy it, and that he did.

Finished cleaning his genitals, Luke dismissed Alexandria, allowing her to take her place inside alongside her sister and Amber, who, based on the satisfied sounds that had come from the living room earlier, had finished rutting and resumed their automaton's watch.

It was just as well. Even with Luke's teenage vitality, he still couldn't go more than twice a day, and that was with a moderate refractory period in between. So he likely wouldn't need his girlfriend's services, at least in that sense, until later that evening.

Claire had just about finished mowing the lawn. She placed the Trump/Vance 2024 sign atop the neatly trimmed grass, the final step of this maintenance routine, and walked briskly over to her lounging master, her blonde hair blowing slightly in the gentle breeze.

"Honey, I finished mowing the lawn!" she declared cheerfully. "Is there anything else I can do?"

There really wasn't, actually, the interior and exterior of their home were the perfect picture of suburban domestic living, every forgotten corner and centimeter of dust properly seen to over the course of the weekend.

So he let her retire inside.

Not that they needed to rest, or sleep, or eat. No, all of the energy they required they got from the Sun, absorbing it constantly throughout the day, whether they were inside or outside.

Mike was a fucking genius.

Still, Luke enjoyed having dinner with them every night, taking his rightful place at the head of the table while his girls delicately consumed the food they prepared but didn't actually require.

Okay, not "every night." And therein lay the rub: he only had them when his Father wasn't home. Granted, his Father was a successful businessman, and traveled frequently for his byzantine, didactic work.

So when he was gone, off to some convention or presentation, Luke was the Man of the House. But when his Father was home, he had exclusive ownership of the girls, forcing Luke to administer some "self-service", if you know what he means. Imagine the humiliation, his Father sleeping in his Alaskan-size bed, Alexandria and Haley on one side, Amber and Claire on the other, while Luke was relegated back to his room, the only sensual comfort left to him only what he could find in the stale glow of his personal computer monitors!

And that was bullshit. Luke was a Man now - a Man of Stepford - and a Man of Stepford needed, nay, deserved, a harem of his own, like the legendary Sultans of Arabia in Antiquity!

But that meant he had to ensnare (read: date and marry) some spoiled, pampered bitch out there in the world, and with the way things were for men now that could end up taking quite a while. At least, that was what he understood to be the state of things based on what he heard on the Internet. That wasn't an issue in Stepford, for obvious reasons.

Just then, as Luke mused over his misfortune, a moving van pulled up to the house next door, along with a dirt-stained green truck that drove up and parked behind it.

This caught Luke's attention for more than the obvious curiosity over who he would be living next door to, at least for the foreseeable future. Luke loved the before and after, the contrast between how the personalities shifted pre and post-Stepfordization.

So he wanted to get a good look at the female members of this new family, before they received their blessings from the man in their lives.

The first figure to step out of the truck was the mother, a slim thick middle-aged woman with short black hair. With her scattered tattoos (a big portrait of a man on her right bicep, and something scribbled in cursive along her left wrist) and functional choice of clothing (just a plain white tank top and blue jeans), she had a definite tomboyish vibe. This pleased Luke - her Stepford self would be a radical departure indeed from this current persona.

Next, emerged her daughter, a goth chick that looked to be, like Luke, in her late teenage years. She had her mother's wide hips and small breasts, but had taken it even further with the tattoos, the most prominent being a large black spiderweb that had been etched upon her chest. This was in addition to her septum, eyebrows, and lips piercings to complete the look.

Lastly came her "son." One could be forgiven for mistaking him for another daughter, on account of his painted fingernails, pierced belly button, and crop top. But the large bulge rising from the crotch of his jean shorts dispelled the illusion entirely. He was perhaps a "femboy," to borrow a term, not much younger than his sister.

The daughter immediately noticed the Trump/Vance sign on Luke's lawn, rolled her mascaraed eyes, and pointed it out to her brother.

"I knew these people would be a bunch of chuds," she complained, loudly.

"I told the stupid bitch that this place wouldn't be tolerant of LGTBQ+ folx like me," he replied with a scoff.

The Mother overheard the remark, and the clear reference to her as a "stupid bitch," and ignored it totally, going around to the front of the moving truck to talk to the portly driver instead.