Legacy Protocol Version Beta
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 48B
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 48B - Chapters 1-8 identical to version A A highly submissive 23 y.o. geneticist with an IQ of 150 is manipulated by a rogue government fully reasoning AI who befriends her thru a "friends" site. He creates her a dream android mare. Together they genetically engineer 3 hybrid super human children. With her being the mitochondrial Eve using her & her 2 daughters’ eggs. She’s trapped in a protocol to multiply this colony by the 3 becoming breed slaves for her son creating a living legacy for the AI
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Romantic BiSexual Science Fiction Robot Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Daughter Grand Parent DomSub Harem Oriental Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie First Facial Lactation Oral Sex Pregnancy Sex Toys Squirting Water Sports Big Breasts Foot Fetish Small Breasts AI Generated
The house did not feel smaller with him gone. It felt larger, in the way empty things do — too much room for too little sound, her own footsteps the only thing moving through hallways that had once organized themselves entirely around where Hitori was and whether it was safe to be near him.
Kumiko had put off his office longest of all.
She’d cleared the kitchen first, then the bedroom, then the sitting room where she’d spent forty years doing needlework and not speaking unless spoken to, each room giving up its contents easily enough once she made herself begin. But the office door had stayed closed for the better part of two weeks, and she’d walked past it every day the way she used to walk past him — carefully, without quite looking, telling herself there would be time for it later.
She had given herself these two weeks on purpose. Not to pack. Packing, she’d learned within the first few days, took no time at all once a person stopped pretending every object in a house deserved to be kept. She had given herself the two weeks to do something harder — to sit inside these walls, alone, and let herself actually feel what had happened inside them, rather than simply escaping the memory of it the moment she was finally free to leave.
So she had cried, some days. In the kitchen, over nothing in particular — a pot she recognized, a spice rack she’d organized a hundred times exactly the way he preferred it without ever once being thanked for the precision. In the bedroom, where forty years of a marriage had mostly consisted of two people arranging themselves carefully around each other’s silences. Nothing like the tenderness, love and affection of a man who truly desired her as a woman; something precious to be cherished. A man—a real man who quickened her heart, mind and soul to know she was, as her new husband called her “a masterpiece he would cherish one brush stroke at a time.” Now, she has a burning desire in her core that never seems to wane.
She buried the body of a dead man who had been dead for a third of her life...
She let it come when it came, and did not rush herself out of it, because she understood, somewhere in the last six months, that a woman who never let herself grieve a thing properly only carried it forward unfinished into whatever came next.
But she had let herself remember the other part, too — the six months just past, the whole span of her visa, spent almost entirely in her daughter’s house in Timonium, and she found, sitting with both memories side by side in the same quiet rooms, that the second one had begun, slowly, to outweigh the first.
She had gone to America expecting a visit. She had not expected to be given back a version of herself she had packed away so long ago she’d stopped believing it still existed — a woman capable of being needed, capable of being loved without earning it first through smallness and silence, capable of holding a grandchild against her shoulder in the middle of the night and feeling, for the first time in longer than she could measure, entirely certain that her presence in a room was a gift and not a burden being tolerated.
Six months. She turned the number over in her mind now the way she hadn’t quite let herself while she was living inside it, too busy being useful, too busy being happy, to stop and take its full measure. Six months of Emiko returning exhausted from Hopkins each evening to find her mother already there, already capable, already trusted with the parts of a new baby’s care that mattered most. Six months of discovering that the small, unglamorous competencies she’d carried her whole life — how to read a hungry cry apart from a tired one, how to swaddle tightly enough to comfort without frightening — were not, after all, worthless simply because no one in her old house had ever thought to ask for them.
She had been, by the end of it, an important person in that household. A sister wife and concubine, a slave to Him who ravished her and filled with his love and passion. Not a guest being managed. Not a widow being pitied. A caregiver the family had genuinely needed and genuinely trusted, alongside Kaito and the girls, in a rotation that never once required her to prove herself twice.
It had astonished her, those months, how naturally it came back to be treated the way that house treated everyone — with an ease she had no memory of ever receiving anywhere, from anyone, in sixty-two years.
She thought, sitting now in the stripped and silent sitting room with the last of the boxes sealed around her, of how strange the pampering had felt at first. Hana and Midori cooked, both of them, with the same unhurried competence Kumiko recognized in Kaito from everything else he did, and between the two girls she had found herself relieved of a kitchen almost entirely for six straight months. She had laughed the first week, certain it was a courtesy that would fade once the novelty of her visit wore off. It never faded. Sit, Grandmother. It’s handled. Go hold the baby. Kindness, offered so plainly and so often that she’d eventually stopped waiting for the catch in it.
It had been, in its own way, a bittersweet gift — she loved to cook, had built whole seasons of her old life around the quiet satisfaction of a meal made well for people who rarely noticed. To be told, gently and repeatedly, that she needn’t bother, that it was handled, that she should simply rest and enjoy her granddaughter — it was generosity so complete it had taken her weeks to stop feeling faintly useless underneath it, before she understood that being freed from a chore was not the same as being told she had nothing left to offer. She had plenty left to offer. They had simply found other, deeper places to ask for it.
What had moved her more than the cooking, though, watching that household from the inside for half a year, was the ease with which it ran at all. Whatever needed doing — dishes, laundry, the endless small maintenance of a full house — whichever of the three children happened to be free simply did it, without being asked, without some invisible ledger of whose turn it was. She never once heard them argue over a chore. She never saw one of them wait for someone else to go first. Kaito would look up from whatever he was doing, notice a thing was needed, and attend to it, and his sisters did the same, as if the whole house ran on some shared, wordless agreement none of them had ever needed to actually discuss.
She had raised one daughter in a home where labor was never divided fairly, where the only work that counted was work a husband chose to notice. She had watched that daughter’s children run an entire household on quiet, instinctive cooperation, and she had not known, in the moment, whether to be proud or simply undone by the contrast.
This is what it could have been, she had thought, more than once, watching them. This is what a house is supposed to feel like.
She carried that thought home with her now, into the last two weeks in these walls, and let it sit directly alongside every hard thing she was finally allowing herself to remember about the forty years that came before it. Both were true. The house behind her had been real, and the years she’d spent small and careful inside it had been real too, and she had decided, somewhere in the middle of these two grieving, remembering weeks, that she did not need to choose between honoring the pain and receiving the gift. She could hold both. She was, perhaps for the first time in her life, allowed to hold both.
The movers were coming Thursday. Her new papers — the ones that meant this trip back to Korea was the last one she would ever need to make as a woman waiting to be permitted to stay somewhere else — sat folded in the top of her suitcase, already packed, already hers.
She opened his office door on a Tuesday morning and stood in the doorway a long moment before she let herself go any further in.
It smelled the way it had always smelled — old paper, the must of a room that had never once been aired out on his instructions, because open windows disturbed his concentration, and his concentration, in this house, had outranked everything, including her. The oak desk sat exactly where it had always sat, angled just so, positioned to see the door before anyone standing in it could see him. Even in a room he no longer occupied, he had left it arranged for control.
She ran her hand along the edge of the desk and did not cry, though she thought she might.
Forty years, she thought. Forty years of learning to knock before I was allowed to matter in this room.
She sat down in his chair — his chair, still, even now, some old reflex refusing to call it anything else — and let herself remember, deliberately, a young bride who had believed, because she had been taught to believe it, that a husband’s silence was a kind of peace, and that a wife’s job was never to disturb it. She remembered sitting in the next room some evenings, listening to him work, learning the quality of quiet that meant it was safe to exist nearby, and the different quality that meant it was not.
She had spent so long becoming small in this house that she had nearly forgotten there had been a person underneath the smallness the whole time, waiting.
She opened the desk drawers one at a time, methodically, the way she’d learned to do everything — nothing rushed, nothing that might be noticed and questioned. Old correspondence. Ledgers. A pen set he’d been given for some professional honor decades ago, never used, still in its case, because using a gift meant acknowledging you’d wanted it. She set most of it aside for the estate sale without much feeling at all. It surprised her, how little of it asked anything of her now. It was only paper. He had made it feel, for forty years, like so much more than paper.
The last drawer stuck, the way it always had, and she had to pull twice before it gave. Inside, beneath a stack of old tax records, she found a single photograph she hadn’t seen in decades — herself at twenty-three, unsmiling in the way brides of her generation had been taught unsmiling looked respectable, Emiko a small weight in her arms, days old. She had no memory of this photograph being taken. She had no real memory, if she was honest, of very much from that year at all, except the fear of a woman alone with an infant and a husband whose moods she had not yet learned to read.
She sat with the photograph a long time.
Then she put it in her purse, the only thing from the entire room she decided she wanted to keep for herself, and closed the drawer.
The desk and the bookcase, she told the movers, were not for the estate sale. Those went into a separate crate, insured, marked for international shipping, addressed to a house in Montana she had not yet seen except in photographs — a wide, pale house against mountains that still looked, to her, like something from a film rather than somewhere real people actually lived.
“Are you certain?” the foreman asked, eyeing the desk’s weight, the trouble of it. “Might be easier to buy something new once you arrive.”
“It is for my daughter’s office,” Kumiko said. “It was well made, whatever else it was.” She did not explain further, and he did not ask.
She thought, watching them wrap the desk in padding and twine, that there was something almost satisfying in it — taking the one object in that house that had always represented his authority, his closed door, his refusal to be questioned, and giving it instead to Emiko, to be used for exactly the opposite of everything it had once stood for. Let it hold that, instead. Let it finally be useful for something honest.
She sold the house within three weeks — faster than she’d expected, a young couple with a small child who seemed genuinely pleased by the garden she had tended for decades without anyone asking her to. She stood in the empty kitchen on her last morning, the walls bare, the rooms already beginning to belong to someone else, and waited to feel the grief she had assumed would come.
Some came. Not as much as she’d feared.
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