The Morning After

The bed vibrates with the sound of the alarm, a jagged, electronic screech that feels like it’s sawing through my skull. My body is a wreck—heavy, salt-crusted, and glued to Jenny’s skin by a film of cooling sweat and friction.

I blink, the red glow of the nightstand clock burning into my retinas.

5:52 AM.

The deadline. If I hadn't won, this would be the sound of the end—the moment I’d be **** to let go and slink back to my basement, ending the best day of my life. But the air in the room has changed. The silence between the beeps isn't empty; it’s heavy with the weight of her total, crushing defeat.

"Turn it off," Jenny whispers.

Her voice is a wrecked rasp, a ghost of the haughty supermodel who had sneered at me hours ago. I reach over, my muscles screaming in protest, and slam the snooze button. Silence crashes back into the room.

I don't pull away. Instead, I shift, my weight pressing her deeper into the silk. She’s a mess. Her blonde hair is a matted nest against the pillows, her makeup is smeared into dark halos around her eyes, and my dried cum is tacky on her inner thighs—a white, branding mark of exactly what happened. She is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

"Where do you think you're going?" I mumble, my voice muddled with sleep. "The week just started. Stay put."

"I have hot yoga at seven," she says, her tone flat, looking at the ceiling with a thousand-yard stare. "A juice cleanse after. I’m supposed to meet my manager at noon to discuss the Radiant Skin campaign." She pauses, a shudder racking her frame. "But I guess none of that matters now, does it?"

"Why wouldn't it?"

She lets out a sharp, jagged laugh that turns into a half-cough, half-sob. "Are you actually this stupid, Jake? You told me you were going to take pictures of me dressed me like a bargain-bin fetish doll and post them online. Worse, you said you were going to film me doing whatever depraved sex acts you have been dreaming of and posting those online. You think Radiant Skin will want a whore representing their brand?"

She turns her head, her emerald eyes dull and haunted. "You’re going to destroy everything I’ve built. My career, my reputation... my parents won't even look at me. You won, Jake. You get to watch me lose my entire life. Is that what you wanted?"

"I didn't think—"

"Don't. Don't you fucking dare pretend you didn't think about what this would do to me," she snaps, her voice sharpening with pure vitriol. "Don't pretend you didn't want exactly that." She throws my own words from last night back at me. "'Willing to lose everything... your career, your reputation, your dignity... just to feel this over and over.' Isn't that what you said, Jake?"

Hearing it now, in the cold, gray light of dawn, feels surreal. Last night, that predatory confidence had made those words feel natural. Now, it sounds like the confession of a fantasy I've been burying since puberty—a dark, morally bankrupt hunger to not just sleep with beautiful women, but to dominate, break, and own them.

Jenny is the worst person for me to have confessed this desire to. If she thought I was a creep before, when she only knew I was staring at her, what must she think now that I've confessed wanting to see her dressed in a skimpy **** outfit, while being my sex **** for the week?

I should probably tell her I was joking. I should tell her I’d never actually post those photos or make her dress like **** Leia. Instead, what slips out is, "You said yes last night. That you would be my slut, my ****, for this week. Would you really let me do it? Let me record every depraved thing I’ve ever dreamed of doing to you and put it online for the world to see? Let me destroy your life?"

"A bet is a bet," she says. Her jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle jumping in her cheek. "I don't have a choice. I lost."

I stare at her, genuinely stunned. I’ve known Jenny and Eric for over a decade. How had I not realized they took their bets this seriously? If I had know this sooner, I would have taken advantage of this years ago.

"So, to be clear," I say, "you’re just going to let me do whatever I want to you over the next week, record it, and post it online."

"Are you dense? I said yes."

I still don't quite believe it, so I decide to test her. I roll out of bed, my legs heavy and trembling from exhaustion, and walk to my discarded clothes. I rifle through my jeans until I find my phone.

"Fine. Let's start the gallery," I say, stepping back to the foot of the bed. "Give me a morning-after commemorative photo, Jen. Arched back, fingers in a 'V' for victory. Look like you're begging for round two."

To my shock, she actually does it. She shifts, and it’s hauntingly professional—the way she arches her spine to highlight the curve of her breasts, her eyes going heavy and hooded as a practiced, sultry smile plays on her lips. She looks like a girl who just had the best night of her life and is hungry for more.

Flash.

The light strobes against the walls.

I walk back and sit on the edge of the mattress, angling the screen so she can see as I navigate a porn subreddit and start typing: 'High-end slut I broke last night. Before and After.' I two photos—one from the collection of nudes she sent me because I won my bet with Eric yesterday, of her kneeling on the bed, pristine, and the one I just took of her looking ruined, hair a mess and my cum coating her thighs.

"I’m hitting post, Jenny," I warn, my thumb hovering over the 'publish' button on the screen. "This is your last chance to tell me the bet doesn't matter. You can still stop me if you want to."

"I can't," she says. Her eyes are fixed on the screen, wide and glassy. "I want to, but I can't. You won the bet."

I tap the button. Once the bar completes, she let out a shaky breath. "My parents are going to kill me."

I burst out laughing. The sheer absurdity of it—the power I have over her—is intoxicating. "You really mean it. You're actually going to let me own you."

"God, you're an idiot. How many times do I have to say yes?"

"Then let's see how far the rabbit hole goes," I say, leaning in. "I’m going shopping today. Outfits, toys, things you’ve only seen in the back of a fetish catalog. Tonight, we’re shooting a movie. Nine PM to five AM. No breaks. I bet I can make you beg for more on camera before the sun comes up."

I grin, watching her pupils dilate. "If I win, the week-long deal is dead. Our arrangement lasts until I get bored of you. Which, let’s be honest, is probably never going to happen. If I lose... I won't post the movie. That’s it."

The are a joke. This isn't even a case of 'If I lose, I let you go,' anymore. It's a case of 'If I lose, we try again the day after. I have you for an entire week.' If Jenny was smart, she would decline and endure the next week. If she was even smarter, she'd realize bets didn't mean anything and tell me to get bent.

"You won't break me again," Jenny says, her eyes flashing with a sudden, **** fire. "I'll win this time."

"You have a gambling problem." I shake my head. "You couldn't hold out for two hours last night. Now you think you can handle eight? Against me and whatever toys I buy?"

"I don't share your disgusting fetishes, Jake. They’ll just turn me off. It’ll be easy."

"It's a good thing you're pretty, Jen. Thinking isn't your strong suit." I reach out, cupping her chin and crushing my mouth against hers. It’s not a soft kiss; it’s a claim. I bite her lip just hard enough to make her whimper before I pull away. "I want you to look good for me."

"What?"

"You asked what the point of your yoga and juice cleanse was. The point is, I want my property in peak condition. Keep the appointment. Do the cleanse. But if I text, you answer. If I call, you come running. I take priority over everything in your life now. Do you understand?"

Her eyes flash, a momentary spark of the old, untouchable Jenny returning. "You are seriously a bastard."

"And you’re seriously my ****," I counter, my thumb tracing the bruise I just left on her lip. "Actually, I think I want a change in vocabulary. For the rest of the week—and however long we extend this tonight—I want you to call me 'Master.'"

She looks like she wants to spit in my face, but in the end, all she ends up doing is snarling, "I hate you, master."

The way she spits the last word does nothing to deter the smile splitting my face. "You're going to hate me a lot more when you’re saying it from your knees for the next ten years. Now, do you have my number saved?"

Reluctantly, she shakes her head, her gaze dropping to the silk sheets.

"Save it. Right now. And make sure I’m not blocked or silenced." I watch her reach for her phone, her manicured fingers trembling slightly as she enters the digits. "I want you to go to your yoga. Drink your disgusting green juice. Do whatever it is you do to keep this body looking like a million dollars. But the second I text, you drop everything. I am your absolute priority. If you’re in the middle of a photo shoot and I tell you to come over and crawl under my desk, you do it. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," she says, her voice trembling with loathing.

"Crystal what?"

She grits her teeth so hard I hear the enamel click. "Crystal... Master."

"Good girl." I give her a firm shove, pushing her toward the edge of the mattress, and finish the move with a sharp, echoing slap across her bare backside. The skin reddens instantly, a perfect handprint marking my territory. "Now get moving, slut. I have beauty sleep to catch up on, and I need to be well-rested to pick out your new leashes."

"No amount of sleep can make you beautiful," she sneers, but she doesn't linger. She scrambles off the bed, her movements uncharacteristically hurried as she bolts toward the attached bathroom.

I lie back, sinking into the expensive pillows that still smell like her perfume and our sweat. The sound of the shower starting echoes through the room, and I close my eyes, a slow, predatory smile stretching across my face.

I’m exhausted, my muscles are screaming, and I’m pretty sure I’ve just ruined Jenny’s life, but as I drift off into a heavy, dreamless sleep, all I can think about is which metal bikini is going to look best on her tonight.

When I finally drag myself back to consciousness, the room is bathed in the harsh, unapologetic glare of noon.

11:45 AM.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train. My skin is tight, itching with the dried salt of last night’s exertion. I stumble into Jenny’s marble-clad bathroom—which still smells like expensive hibiscus soap and her lingering presence—and scrub myself raw. I pull on yesterday's wrinkled clothes, the fabric feeling like sandpaper against my sensitized skin. My mind is already miles away, mentally scrolling through a digital catalog of restraints and vibrators I'm going to use on Jenny tonight.

I head out, my gait slightly unsteady, ready to start my shopping spree. My plan hits a snag before I even reach the front door.

As I step into the basement common area, the air turns to liquid nitrogen. I freeze.

Eric is there, predictably perched on a stool facing the TV with a controller in hand. But he’s not alone. Sitting in an armchair nearby is his dad, Peter, and in the center of the sofa is his mom, Samantha.

Samantha is the second most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s a glimpse into Jenny’s future—the same emerald eyes and golden hair, but with a body that has ripened into something dangerously lush. Her summer dress is stretched tight over a chest significantly fuller than her daughter’s, and her hips flare out into a soft, inviting curve. Having just fucked Jenny senseless, my brain has no issue stripping that dress away and imagining her nude in the same poses Jenny struck for me earlier.

My pants tighten as a very obvious erection pops up.

Next to her sits Peter. He’s exactly what you’d expect the man who married Samantha and sired a supermodel to look like. Massive. Broad shoulders stretching a polo shirt, a jawline carved from granite, and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He looks like he spends his weekends wrestling bears for fun.

On the coffee table is a spread of artisanal pastries and coffee that smells like heaven. It’s a cozy, domestic scene—until I walk out of Jenny’s bedroom.

Eric doesn't even look up. "Sup, Jake. Took you long enough."

Samantha’s coffee cup stops mid-air. Her eyes go wide, her mouth parting in a silent ‘O’ of shock as she takes in my disheveled state and the door I just stepped through. But Peter? Peter starts to change color. A dangerous crimson creeps up his neck, flooding his face until his eyes look like they’re vibrating.

He turns slowly to Eric, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. "Eric. You told your mother and me that Jake was still sleeping."

"He was," Eric says, leaning into a turn on the screen. "In Jenny's room."

The silence that follows is like the vacuum of space. I think I might actually be having a heart attack. Peter stands up, and he just keeps going—he’s even taller than he looks sitting down.

"And why," Peter growls, each word a heavy footfall, "was he sleeping in your sister's room?"

"They were having sex," Eric says, his tone as flat as if he were reporting the weather.

I close my eyes, waiting for the impact. I imagine my head being driven through the drywall. Maybe this is what I deserve—karma for what I've done to Jenny. For what I had planned for her. Peter’s breathing is ragged now, a heavy, bull-like snort. I can feel the air pressure shifting as he prepares to lunge.

"He won the right to have sex with her in a bet," Eric tacks on, finally shifting his eyes from the TV.

The transformation is instantaneous. It’s like someone hit a reset switch. Peter’s face fades from crimson to a healthy tan in three seconds flat. He lets out a long, heavy sigh and sits back down, his massive frame relaxing into the leather. Samantha, who had looked like she was about to faint, lets out a soft, tinkling laugh and brushes a stray hair from her forehead.

"Well, Eric," Peter says, sounding resigned. "You really should have led with that."

I stand there, blinking. "Wait... what?"

Peter looks at me, his expression serious but the homicidal intent gone. "A bet’s a bet, Jake. In this family, our word is our bond. If you won the wager, you won the wager. I apologize for the flare-up. It was... unseemly."

I turn my gaze to Samantha. She gives me a smile so kind it almost makes me feel bad for what I have planned for her daughter. "Don't be shy, dear," she says, her voice like honey. "There’s plenty of coffee. You must be famished after such a... busy night."

I'm paralyzed. My brain scrambles to make sense of this. The only logical conclusion is that I’ve stumbled into some bizarre cult of honor that treats wagers like religious contracts.

"So... you're okay with this?" I ask. "I just walked out of your daughter's bedroom after spending the night fucking her. If I’d been her boyfriend, you’d have buried me in the yard. But because I won a bet, you’re offering me a danish, not the least bit upset?"

Peter leans forward, the leather of his chair creaking like a ship’s hull under his massive frame. "Of course I'm upset." he rumbles, his eyes flaring with a brief, terrifying heat that reminds me he could still snap my neck. "I’m a father, Jake. No father is okay with a boy plowing his baby girl under his own roof. If you have a daughter one day, you’ll understand. You’ll want to bury the first boy who looks at her wrong."

He takes a calm, deliberate sip of black coffee. "But a bet is a contract. In this house, your word is the only thing that separates you from the animals. Jenny chose to gamble. She lost. If I interfered, I’d be teaching her that her word is worthless. I won’t raise a liar."

Samantha nods gracefully, reaching out to pat Peter’s enormous hand. "It’s a matter of character, Jake. We value integrity above all else."

I can’t help but smile. They’re confirming my wildest suspicions—this entire family is enslaved to a nonsensical, ironclad commitment to their wagers. A few hours ago, I might have felt a twinge of guilt for taking advantage of their insanity, but I've already ruined Jenny's life. It’s far too late to play the nice guy now.

"I should probably let you know that I’m going to be coming around a lot this week," I say, walking over to them with newfound confidence. I drop onto the sofa right next to Samantha. She flinches, but doesn't move away. "Jenny lost another bet this morning. I have her for a full week. Total ownership."

Peter’s lips press into a hard, thin line. "That’s... quite a loss. But if those are the , they will be honored. Our daughter will fulfill her end of the bargain."

"Good to know. I also wanted to give you a heads-up: if you see me setting up camera equipment, don't worry about it."

"Camera equipment?" Peter asks, his brow furrowing.

"I won more than just the right to have sex with her," I say, pulling out my phone. I tap the Reddit notifications and slide the device across the table toward him. "Take a look. It’s already trending."

I watch the color drain from his face before that dangerous, angry red floods back into his cheeks. Samantha leans in, her eyes widening as she covers her mouth with a trembling hand.

"Dude..." Eric finally speaks, eyes glued to the screen. "You actually posted them?"

"I have the right to record and post everything I do to her," I explain, scrolling through the depraved comments piling up. "I was actually heading out to buy supplies for tonight’s shoot. Chains, whips, maybe some electric play devices. The works."

"That’s not right, man," Eric says, finally looking up with a grimace. "This is fucked up."

"Relax," I say. "She'll learn to love it. We have a new bet: if I can get her to beg for more on camera tonight, I keep her until I’m bored of her. Could be years. Decades."

Peter is gripping the edge of the coffee table so hard the wood begins to groan. His biceps are corded with tension, and for a split second, I wonder if I’ve finally found the line. Before he can decide whether to kill me, I pivot.

"You clearly don't like the situation. How about we make a bet to change things? If you win, I take down the post immediately and agree not to record another thing for the rest of the week." I look down at my phone. "There are a dozen comments here asking for her name, but no one has linked her to her modeling portfolio yet. It's not too late. If I take down the post, her reputation might stay intact."

"And if you win?" Peter growls.

"Then Samantha s her daughter as my personal property for the duration of the sentence." I pause, letting my eyes openly wander over Samantha’s lush curves. "She becomes my second slut. Jenny’s co-star until the week is up... or if Jenny loses tonight, until I’m bored of them both."

"We have to do it," Samantha says, distressed. "Peter, if we can save Jenny's future, I'm willing to put myself on the line. It’s what a mother does."

Peter’s chest heaves. He looks at his wife, then at me. Finally, he nods. "We’ll do it."

"Not so fast," I interject. "What about you and Eric? It's a bit lopsided if Samantha is the only one risking anything." I look at the two men. "If I win, Eric, you’re the cameraman. No protesting, no judging. You follow me around silently and record everything I do to your mother and sister." I think back to yesterday, when I was worried about tainting our friendship by even looking at Jenny. How fast things change. "And you, Peter? You’re my hype man. You cheer me on. You fetch me water, pillows, or whatever else I need to keep fucking my girls. If you’re a good boy, I might even let you sit in the corner and watch while you jerk off."

"Fine," Peter spits, the word sounding like a curse. "How do we do this?"

"A coin toss started this. Let’s let one finish it." I pull out my lucky quarter—the one I’m fairly certain is weighted toward tails—and toss it to Eric. "Best two out of three. I’m tails, you’re heads."

Eric catches it, his knuckles white. He flips. The silver disc blurs in the morning light, hitting the table with a heavy thud. It spins for a heartbeat and flops over.

Tails.

"Match point," I taunt. My blood is singing.

"Again!" Peter roars. "Come on, Eric! Two heads in a row!"

Eric flips again. My eyes track the coin as it tumbles. It hits, bounces once, and settles flat.

Tails.

The room goes dead silent. I watch the raw dread on Peter’s face and the hollow confusion in Eric’s eyes. Then, the 'reset' hits. Eric’s expression goes blank and obedient. Peter’s face breaks into a wide, booming smile, all hostility vanishing as he stands up and slaps me on the back with enough **** to nearly dislocate my shoulder.

"That's my boy!" he bellows, his laughter filling the basement. "I knew you had it in you, Jake! A winner's a winner!"

Only Samantha’s expression remains honest. She looks at me with a resigned, haunting dread, her world crumbling as she realizes she’s just been gambled away.

"Thank you, Peter," I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline. "Since the bet is settled, do you mind if I sample the winnings?"

"Mind?" Peter’s laugh shakes the air. "Not at all! A man’s got to enjoy his prizes! Go on, she’s all yours. Show us why you're the champion!"

I don't wait for a second invitation. I hook my arm around Samantha's waist, digging into the soft curve of her hip, and yank her flush against me. She’s so much softer than Jenny, smelling of expensive floral perfume and the sweet pastries on the table. With my free hand, I slide my zipper down. The sound of the teeth parting is loud in the sudden silence.

Samantha lets out a sharp gasp, her body tensing as she feels my heat through her dress. She looks at Peter, her eyes wide and pleading, but he just beams at us, leaning forward like he’s watching a championship game.

"Eric, phone out," I command. "I want a 'before' picture to commemorate the start of Samantha’s new life. We need to document this for Jenny's sake."

Eric doesn't hesitate. He stands, his face a mask of robotic compliance, and brings the camera up.

I pull her head into the crook of my neck, tangling my fingers in her golden hair. "Smile for the camera, Samantha. Like we’re a happy couple."

She shudders, her breath hitching, but she does it. She forces her lips into a tremulous, beautiful smile. Flash. Eric immortalizes the moment I claimed his mother.

"Perfect," I mutter, keeping my grip tight on her waist. "Eric, you have free reign. Get the angles. Document everything. I want a full gallery of your mother’s first hour of service."

I turn back to Samantha. I start small, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek. She closes her eyes, a single tear escaping, but I catch it with my tongue. I move to her lips, tasting coffee and sugar. Her lips are full and soft, and despite her trembling, she doesn't pull away.

My hands begin to roam, mapping the territory. I slide my palms up her sides, feeling the flare of her ribs before cupping those massive breasts. They are so much heavier than Jenny’s.

"I've wanted to do this for years, Samantha," I whisper against her mouth. "Every time you made us lunch, I was imagining how your tits felt."

"You... you used to be such a good boy, Jake," she murmurs as my thumbs rub circles over her hardening nipples through the thin fabric.

"I’m not a boy anymore. And I'm definitely not good."

I stand up, pulling her with me, then sit back down, hauling her onto my lap so she’s straddling me. Her summer dress bunches up, exposing the creamy skin of her thighs. I hike the fabric to her waist, revealing lace-trimmed silk panties.

Crack!

I bring my open palm down hard on her right buttock. Her flesh ripples beautifully.

Crack!

Left side. I watch the pale skin jiggle under the ****, a deep rosy pink blooming across the white lace.

"God, Peter, are you seeing this?" I dig my fingers into the yielding meat of her ass. It’s like kneading dough. "Who do you think has the better ass? Samantha or Jenny?"

"Variety is the spice of life, Jake!" Peter bellows, his grin almost manic. He’s leaning in now, watching wife’s flesh ripple with rapt attention. "Jenny’s got that tight little thing, but Samantha? She’s got that classic, heavy curve. You’re a lucky man, getting to have them both!"

"Not everywhere," I retort, looking at Samantha's heaving chest. "You want to know the one category where Samantha beats your daughter hands-down? Where there isn't even a competition?"

"Which category is that, Jake?" Peter asks, his voice vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Her tits," I growl.

I reach for a strawberry-topped pastry on the table. Samantha watches with wide, glassy eyes. I crush the pastry directly over her cleavage. White icing splatters across the emerald fabric, and thick red jam oozes down into the valley between her breasts. She lets out a soft whimper of distress, but stays centered on my lap.

"Look at that, Eric! Get in close!" Peter commands. "See how it runs? High-quality jam, Jake! Only the best for my wife!"

Eric steps in, the lens inches from his mother's chest. He’s silent, his hand steady as a rock.

I grab the neckline of her dress and yank. The fabric groans and gives way, exposing her breasts. They spill out, heavy and pale, the jam glistening against her skin like fresh blood.

"God, they're perfect," I mutter. "Your tits are going to feel amazing wrapped around my cock, Samantha. We'll have to do that later on. Right now, I have something else planned."

I guide my erection out of my pants. It’s throbbing. I grab Samantha’s hips, sinking my fingers into her waist, and lift her slightly.

"Ride me," I command. "Show your son how well you can take a cock."

Samantha lowers herself onto me, her face a mask of flushed shame. She’s tighter than I expected, warm and incredibly soft. As she slides down my length, she lets out a long, shuddering moan. Then she begins to move, her hips rolling in a slow, **** rhythm.

"That's my girl!" Peter cheers, clapping his hands. "Look at that form! I've trained her for you, Jake! She's also an expert at doggy-style, missionary, and mating press!"

I snicker as I lick a glob of jam off her left breast, swirling my tongue around her nipple until it’s a hard peak.

Her husband's words seem to break something inside her. Her movements become more frantic, her breathing turning into jagged sobs as she bounces on me. Her heavy breasts swing with every motion, the jam smearing across my own chest, bonding us together in a sticky mess.

"Faster, Samantha!" Peter cheers, leaning so close I can feel his heat. "Give him the championship finish! Don't let the family down!"

I grab her breasts, squeezing them together until the cleavage is a tight, jam-filled vise. I bury my face back in, groaning as the pressure builds. The cloying scent of sugar, the heat of her body, and the surreal cheering of her husband are too much.

"I'm close," I hiss.

"Take it all, Sam! Every drop!" Peter bellows.

I thrust upward, meeting her downward plunge. I roar as I hit the finish, shooting my baby batter into her as her internal muscles clench around me in a ****, rhythmic pulse.

"Good show, Jake! Absolutely world-class!" Peter stands up and slaps my shoulder—a heavy, stinging blow of approval. "You really showed her who’s boss. I’m proud of you, son."

He turns to Eric. "You get all that?"

"Every second," Eric says, lowering the phone. "You want me to this to Reddit?"

"Not yet," I say. "Just keep them saved. We’re only going to the best ones." I reach out to wipe a smudge of jam from Samantha’s lip. She looks at me with resigned dread, her world completely upended by a piece of silver.

I look at Peter, then at the woman on my lap. "I’m going to need that coffee now, Peter. And maybe a shower. Samantha, you're ing me. Afterward, Peter, you’re going to drive me to the shop on 5th. I’m going to need a car now that I'm buying enough toys for your wife and daughter. That's also going to be expense, so if you could give me your card, I'd appreciate that."

"It would be my pleasure, Jake." He’s already whistling as he heads to the kitchen.

I stand up, keeping Samantha tucked under my arm like a trophy. She walks with me, her head bowed, her ruined dress clinging to her skin. I’m exhausted, I’m covered in jam, and I’ve officially turned my best friend and his entire family into my playthings.

As we head toward the bathroom, I can’t help but think that this is the best morning of my life. I can't wait to see the look on Jenny's face when she sees what her mother is suffering because she tried to save her.