Ch 1 - A Sweet-Smelling Nightmare

"Oh, sorry! There’s only one bed. We’ll have to share!"

Tuva said it with the brightest, most innocent smile Tucker-James had ever seen. She stood in her little pajama shorts, brushing her teeth with exaggerated cheerfulness like nothing at all was wrong with what she had just said. The other girls were already unpacking, peeling off sweaters and socks—and with each removed layer, Tucker's sense of moral collapse deepened. Their bodies didn’t just emerge; they spilled out. Enormous breasts bounced free from support with unsettling momentum, bottoms swayed like overfilled sacks of flour, and thick thighs pressed against each other with suggestive resistance. This wasn’t just nudity. This was biological overkill., not a night of moral catastrophe.

The cabin was tiny. One room, a kitchenette, a woodstove, and the bed. No couch. No floor space unless you liked splinters. Outside, snow and darkness pressed against the windows like wolves. This was it. The bed or the wilderness.

“You sleep in the middle,” Eira said with dreamy finality, tossing a stuffed lynx onto the mattress. “We always argue if one of us ends up in the middle. But with you there, it’s fair.”

“That’s true,” Aasne added helpfully. “We always argue when we’re next to each other. You’ll be perfect in the middle. Like a big warm separator.”

Tuva grinned. “A cuddle sandwich!”

Tucker stood paralyzed with his towel clutched around his waist. He had no sleeping clothes except for thin cotton boxers and a T-shirt. He hadn’t planned for this. No one could have planned for this. Not even the Apostle Paul could’ve drafted a strategy.

The girls were already sliding under the blanket, giggling about nothing, limbs overlapping like happy otters. But these weren’t ordinary girls. Their bodies didn’t behave like the girls Tucker had seen in church or schoolbooks. Everything was... more. Their breasts shifted and flopped heavily as they moved, like physics was struggling to keep up. Thighs pressed against the mattress with a soft whump. Bottoms stretched fabric that had clearly lost the battle hours ago.

Tuva adjusted herself with a grunt and glanced over at Tucker. “Sorry if my boobs spill over,” she said sweetly. “It’s hard to keep them under control lying down. I’ll try to hold them, but my arms get tired.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Aasne asked from his other side, cradling her own absurdly generous chest like it was a bowl of rising dough. “It’s just for warmth.”

There was no cruelty in it, no seduction—just the suffocating warmth of affection turned into something horrifying.

“Come on, Tucker,” Eira said softly. “You’re getting cold.”

And so, trembling, he lay down. In the middle. Between two thigh-wrapped, breast-adjacent soft furnaces of good intentions. The blanket was tugged over him. A leg flopped across his ankle. An arm brushed his chest. He couldn’t move. One wrong shift and he’d graze something sinful.

The lights went out.

Minutes passed. Then a hand—Eira’s? Tuva’s?—slipped onto his stomach in sleep. Another hand, impossibly warm, landed squarely between his legs and stayed there like it had found its home. He stared at the ceiling. The room smelled like lotion and shampoo and girl.

And then came the sounds.

From one side—Tuva’s, he thought—came a soft, rhythmic motion under the blanket. There were little gasps. A stifled moan. Then a rustle of movement, and Eira’s breath quickened beside him. Wet, slick sounds followed. Licking. Panting.

“Ohhh,” one of them whispered, barely audible.

“We just need a little,” the other murmured. “It helps us fall asleep. It’s the addiction, you know that.”

Then, a breathy whisper closer to Tucker's ear: “I wish I could play with Tucker’s joystick…”

A slightly sharper whisper followed. “Don’t scare him! He’s a sensitive American. He’s still not used to our ways. Give him time.”

“But he smells so good,” came the pouty reply.

“Later. Let him melt in slowly.”

Tucker shut his eyes tight. His soul was leaving his body again. He clutched the edge of the blanket like a lifeline and focused on Psalm 119, trying not to think about thighs or tongues or the fact that two girls were possibly making out inches from his ribs.

He held his breath. With surgical care, he lifted the offending hand and moved it an inch to the side. It flopped back.

I am in hell, he thought. A sweet-smelling, skin-on-skin, boob-wrapped hell.

Two Weeks Earlier

Tucker-James Strickland had never kissed a girl, but he had once shaken hands with a homeschooled Baptist cheerleader at a church basketball tournament. Her hand had been warm and soft and smelled faintly of lotion, and the memory of that handshake still made him blush if he thought about it too long. He tried not to. It was a sin to dwell.

He sat on the floral-print couch now, hands folded neatly in his lap, a worn Bible resting against his thigh. Across from him, his father—Pastor Elbert R. Strickland—stood with his arms crossed, gazing up at the paused frame of a YouTube video playing on their old flatscreen. It was titled Imperial Norway: A Return to Tradition and featured a smiling blonde woman in a modest (but strangely tight) uniform blouse pouring milk into a wooden cup. The camera angle had been reverent. Maybe even a little sensual. Tucker wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Now look at that, son," Elbert said, jabbing a thick finger toward the screen. "Strong childbearing hips. That's what a real woman looks like. Not one of those slouchy girls with dragon tattoos and nose rings, wandering the halls of Target like they're looking for trouble."

Tucker-James nodded hesitantly. "Yes, sir."

His father turned to him, eyes alight with purpose. "This is our chance. God's providence. An opportunity to send you to a country where people still remember how to raise families. Where girls know how to bake, and boys learn discipline. None of this gender confusion and moral decay. Just honest-to-God values."

"Isn't it kinda far?" Tucker asked, voice small.

Elbert chuckled, like he'd just heard a child say something about the moon being made of cheese. "Tucker. Your great-granddaddy came from Norway. The real Norway. Before the war, before the communists, before the softening of men. He crossed an ocean to build a life. And now, God is calling you back—to finish what he started."

Tucker wasn't sure what that meant. He rarely was, when his father got rolling like this. He glanced over at his mother, who stood quietly in the kitchen, drying dishes with military efficiency. Her face remained unreadable, but she gave him a tight, approving nod. Like this was already decided.

He looked back at the screen. The video resumed with a stately orchestral swell. Women in long skirts marched in formation. Children stood in neat rows reciting multiplication tables. A stern matron snapped a riding crop against her palm and shouted something in Norwegian that was probably educational. Then came a montage of white families around dinner tables, blond boys with tucked-in shirts, and one suspiciously buxom woman in a national costume bending over to adjust a flower pot.

Elbert clapped his hands. "See? That's the kind of place where a man can still become a man. You're eighteen now. You're of age. It's time to find yourself a real woman. A wife of good breeding. Raise a family. Get your head out of those video devotionals and start living."

Tucker nodded, throat dry. "Yes, sir."

But his mind was spinning. Norway? Real Norway? He'd never been anywhere besides Michigan and a single youth trip to Branson, Missouri. The furthest he’d been from home spiritually was when he accidentally clicked a video of a woman in yoga pants doing squats on the church computer. He’d cried and fasted the next day.

He wanted to please his father. He really did. But something about the plan made his stomach twist—not quite fear, but not excitement either. Just something… off.

He looked down at his Bible. Maybe God had a plan. Maybe Norway was where he’d find the kind of clarity he was supposed to have. Or maybe—just maybe—he was about to be completely, hopelessly out of his depth.

His father grinned wide. "This is it, son. You're going back to the homeland. To find a real wife. A good girl. A Strickland woman."

And Tucker-James, still blushing from the thought of lotion-scented hands, managed a weak smile.

"Yes, sir."

He wasn’t ready. Not even a little bit.

This is my first draft. There are some things I need to rework like the descriptions of Imperial Norway commercial. The story is an experiment in more extensive use of AI for writing than I have done before.