"Honey - can you flip off that oven?"
Her long golden hair bouncing off her exposed athletic shoulders, Sandra Fullton reached forward to lift the hissing kettle, while expertly continuing to turn a crackling panful of of fried eggs with the spatula in her other hand.
"Honey, did you hear me?" she called, slightly louder this time as she began to pour the boiling water onto some fresh coffee, amidst the sizzle and hum of the kitchen. "Jennifer??"
"Okay okay! I'm coming!"
Rising sulkily from the table, and bringing a corner of toast with her, Sandra's daughter sauntered over to the oven.
"What did you say mom, turn it down?"
"No, flip it off!"
Jen grinned. "What, like this?"
Sandra turned to see her daughter sticking a middle finger up at the oven, a sarcastic sneer on her beautiful face.
"Very mature sweetie. Now turn it off. You know much your brother hates burned brownies!"
Rolling her eyes, Jennifer spun the dial on the gleaming state-of-the-art oven to off.
"Can't upset his majesty," she muttered bitterly, reluctantly donning a pair of pink oven gloves and pulling the huge, steaming tray from the oven.
It was a weekday morning much like any other in the Fullton family household.
Boobs bobbing heavily in a stylish white sports bra, whose centralised straps met just below her throat and wrapped round the back of her neck, Sandra Fullton had completed her daily 6am yoga session and was now gliding around the kitchen, skilfully marshalling enough bubbling pots, sizzling pans and humming ovens to produce a breakfast fit to feed a small army, with intermittent and reluctant help from her attractive but obstructive 18 year old daughter Jennifer.
While the kitchen buzzed with industrious activity, the upstairs buzzed with the heavy snoring of the Fullton males. Lying on his back amidst silken sheets and expensive pillows, Andrew Fullton was snoring like a buzzsaw, trying to sleep off his hangover after a night of heavily debauched drinking with the regional government controller. Across a large landing, in a room adorned with life-size photos of semi-naked female athletes, his son and heir Cory Fullton was grunting his way awake in an equally luxurious bed, roused by the familiar morning sound of his belly rumbling.
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