Ever since Mom passed, the mantle was passed on to me. Just like that. No warning. No transition. One moment, she was here, taking care of Dad, making sure the house was spotless, “draining his balls” to make him happy, as she used to tell me, letting the twins stuff her pussy with their 20th birthday cake and lick whipped cream all over her body… and the next, she was just… gone. And I was left standing there, barely nineteen, not even knowing how to cook a proper meal without burning something, and somehow expected to do all this… and more!
I didn’t even get the chance to learn from her. She didn’t have time to prepare me. There were no lessons. No quiet moments in the kitchen where she’d say, “This is how you spread your legs, sweetheart.” It was just silence. And mess. And confusion. And responsibility. All of it, mine.
Everything is just… so overwhelming. Remembering who likes what for breakfast, making sure the laundry is folded before anyone even asks, going with whatever crazy sex game the twins want to play, cleaning up after, making space for everyone else, giving dad his daily blowjob before he leaves for work.
Let me walk you through how a day in my life looks like. Actually, let’s talk about yesterday.
While other girls wake up next to pastel pink pillows and bird sounds, I wake up at 5 a.m. sharp to the sound of a nightmare alarm, mascara still smudged from the night before, hair in some kind of half-assed bun, pussy sore like I’ve been used as a demo model at a sex convention. Which, honestly, isn’t that far off. The Twins were playing who could fist me deeper again. I don’t even remember how it ended. I just remember waking up to one of their hands still inside me and the other snoring with his face between my thighs like I was the goddamn source of oxygen.
I barely even check my face in the mirror anymore. My robe’s always sliding off one shoulder. There’s a coffee stain on it I haven’t had time to scrub out. I don’t get to start my day like a normal person. I start it with a checklist of who needs what and when. I’m like a wife-slash-daughter-slash-sister-sex toy-slash-live-in maid.
First up is Dad. He needs his coffee before six. Two sugars, no milk. Black mug, the chipped one he won’t throw away. Blowjob and sex in the shower right after. He likes routine. By 5:55, I’m climbing the stairs like a sleep-deprived ghost, coffee in one hand, robe sliding further off my shoulder, tits probably bouncing all over the place. I don’t even care. I knock once, open the master bedroom, put the mug on the nightstand, strip, and head for the shower.
I don’t even flinch at the cold tiles anymore. My feet are used to it. I step into the bathroom, still wiping sleep from my eyes, and there my father is. Steam curling up around him, dark hair messy from sleep. He’s leaning against the wall, one hand resting on his hip, the other already stroking himself slowly like I’m part of the scenery. Which, in this house, I basically am.
I slide the robe off and toss it somewhere near the sink. Get on my knees like it’s the most normal thing in the world, because it is. For us. He tilts his head, eyes flicking down to me with that lazy smile he always has right before I make his morning better.
“Morning, Sweetpea.”
His voice is still rough from sleep, and I love that. It rumbles through me while I take him into my mouth. I moan a little, just because I know he likes the sound. He brushes a hand over my cheek, affectionate, like he’s petting a sleepy pet.
“Sleep okay?”
I nod, which is a joke. I didn’t sleep at all, not really. One of the Twins wanted to fuck me from behind while the other laid under me and fingered me through the whole thing like I was a toy caught in a game of hot potato. My pussy feels like it’s been through a battlefield.
I pull back a little, just enough to answer. “Mmm-hmm. Kind of. You know how they get.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. They still trying to one-up each other?”
I go back down on him, mouth full again, using one hand to stroke the part I can’t fit, the other bracing against his thigh because my balance is garbage in the morning. I hum around him and he groans a little, hand tightening in my hair.
“They ever decide who won?”
I try to say something like “I think it was a tie,” but it comes out muffled and full of cock, so I give up. He just laughs.
“Poor thing. Must be sore.”
I look up at him with my best are-you-kidding-me eyes while I keep sucking, cheeks hollowed out, spit already running down my chin. He brushes my hair back, completely unfazed by the mess.
“You’re such a good girl for doing this every morning,” he says, like he’s complimenting me for folding laundry or taking the trash out. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I wanted to say something sarcastic, but my mouth’s full, and I’m too tired to be witty. So I just keep going, head bobbing slowly, breathing through my nose, feeling him twitch a little in my mouth.
He tilts his head back, sighs. “Might take a little longer today,” he says. “You’ve got that sleepy-mouth pace. Real slow and sloppy. Just like how your mom used to do it”
I try to glare at him but it’s hard when my lips are wrapped around his cock. I squeeze his thigh in retaliation. He just groans again and smiles down at me like I’m the best part of his morning. Which, I guess I am.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just slides his fingers under my chin, tilts my face up toward him with that same calm look he always has. I know that look. That slow, quiet shift from letting me take care of him to him taking over. That’s the signal. I stop moving, lips slick and swollen, kneeling in front of him like a soaked mess, and I wait.
He watches me for a second. Thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “Get up,” he says, soft but firm.
I do. Legs shaky, knees red from the tiles. The second I’m on my feet, I spread my legs out of habit. No shame, no hesitation. This is what I’m here for. My body knows it even when my brain’s still booting up. He steps in closer, hands skimming down my sides like he’s checking to see if I’m holding together.
“You’re sore,” he murmurs. “I can tell.”
I nod. I’m so sore. I ache in places I didn’t even know could ache. I’m half certain one of the Twins left a fingerprint inside me.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. Then my neck. Then leans in close to my ear. “I’ll go easy on you. honey cake”
I shake my head, slow. “You don’t have to, Dad. Do whatever you want.” I look up at him, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here to make you feel good.”
He lets out this low hum, like he doesn’t quite believe how lucky he is. Like he’s grateful, but also like he’s going to take full advantage of it. His hand moves between my legs, and I flinch a little—not from fear, but from how raw everything still feels. He notices. Kisses my collarbone. Slower this time.
“I’ll still be careful,” he says.
I just nod again. Lean back a little against the fogged-up shower wall, spreading my legs wider, already feeling the tension curl in my stomach. He lines himself up, not rushing, not teasing either—just that steady, assured pressure as he pushes in. My breath catches, and he kisses the corner of my mouth, one hand gripping my thigh like he’s grounding me there.
Every thrust is this perfect mix of gentle and claiming. Like he wants to remind me that he’s my daddy and he owns me, but doesn’t want to make me cry before breakfast.
I can feel him getting close. It’s the way his breathing changes. The way his fingers dig in a little harder. The way his thrusts get this quiet urgency, like he’s trying not to come too fast but also doesn’t really care if he does.
Then he says it—low, out of breath, right against my ear. “Gonna cum.”
That’s my cue.
I slide down to my knees without even thinking, still dripping, still catching my breath, steam curling off my skin like I’m some overworked machine. I tip my head back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted. This is the part I’ve memorized. The routine. Dad always finishes on my face in the morning. It’s like his version of a signature. Right cheek, usually. Sometimes across the nose. He says it makes him feel “centered.” Whatever that means.
I brace for it.
And then I feel it.
In. My. Hair.
Thick, warm, right near the crown of my head. Not even close to my face. Just… in my bun. I open my eyes slowly, blink at him, and in my head I’m screaming: you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
He looks down at me, totally unfazed, hand still wrapped around himself like he’s admiring the view. “Shit,” he mutters, not even pretending to sound sorry. “Meant to aim lower.”
I blink again. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, already stepping out of the shower like this is some minor inconvenience. “Just rinse it out or whatever. You’ll be fine.”
I stare at the bathroom floor like it’s betrayed me. My hair is already a mess. There’s conditioner from yesterday still clinging to the ends. Now it’s got a bonus topping. Amazing. Five a.m., cum in my hair, and I still have two grown men to wake up and get hard before breakfast.
I sigh. Not dramatically. Just the kind of sigh that says this is my life now.
I drag myself to the sink, flip my head over, and start rinsing. My hands smell like dad’s cum. My mouth tastes like dad’s cum. My thighs are still shaking, and I’ve got exactly fifteen minutes before the Twins get needy.
God help me.
Now, if we’re talking weekdays—the surprisingly best part of the day is waking the Twins up. Because they’re always running late, always groggy, always half-dressed and grumbling, which means I don’t have to do much. They stumble out of bed, slap my ass on the way to the bathroom, and maybe grab a quick grope or shove their cock in my mouth for a few seconds before sprinting out the door with a granola bar. Easy. Quick. No drama.
But weekends?
God help me.
Yesterday was a Saturday. And weekends with them are… something else. First of all, I’m not even allowed to walk into their room to wake them up. Oh no. That would be too normal. Instead, they invented something called “pussytime.” It’s like FaceTime—but, you guessed it—I only show them my pussy. That’s how they like to start their weekend mornings. Just me, holding the phone between my legs like I’m filming an OnlyFans video. No good morning. No hi. Just camera on, pussy out, and wait for one of them to grunt, “we’re up.”
I don’t know how Mom did all this. Honestly. She was built different.
Once the camera ritual is complete, I head downstairs to get breakfast ready. Simple, right? A couple bowls of cereal. Spoon, milk, done. But nooo. Of course not. That would be too easy for this house. Because I don’t just make breakfast—I have to “entertain” them while they eat it. And the entertainment depends entirely on what kind of mood they’re in that day.
Some days they want me bent over the counter while they eat, taking turns fingering me and feeding my pussy spoonfuls of cereal like some kind of weird brunch game. Other days they want to put milk on my tits first and let it drip in the bowl.
Yesterday they decided to bless me with nature’s biggest anti-aging component. They read online that sperm has health and anti-aging benefits. So naturally, they wanted to test if it’s true. They both jerked off into a bowl, glazed a bowl of corn flakes with their musky, hairy, sticky cum, and told me to eat it and tell them “how it feels to de-age in real time”
But I didn’t stop them.
Because I saw Mom do it once. She didn’t flinch. She ate it like a champ. She actually enjoyed it. She made eye contact and everything. So yeah. I did it. I smiled, took what they gave me, and had breakfast like the soldier I am.
Was it gross? Yes. Was it hot? Also yes. Did I immediately brush my teeth and chug three bottles of water? You bet your ass I did.
After breakfast—and whatever else they decide to call “breakfast”—I usually get to do the grocery shopping. If it were a weekday, I’d be in class instead. But weekends? That’s errand day. I throw on some clothes, grab my headphones, and wander through aisles like a perfectly normal girl who didn’t just spend her morning live-streaming her pussy to her two brothers and shortly after had their cum for breakfast.
Oh—and in case you hadn’t noticed, our family doesn’t use condoms. That was Mom’s idea. Total game-changer. Apparently, when the Twins first turned eighteen, they went through, like, ten condoms a day between them. Minimum. It got to a point where Mom did the math and was like, this is not financially sustainable. So she just stopped buying them.
She called it “living the way God intended.” Flesh to flesh.
And yeah… I get it now. We’ve probably saved enough money for a down payment on a car. Or a small country. Honestly, bless her soul.
Once I’m back from the store and I’ve put away their six different brands of granola, I head to my room for study time. Six p.m. sharp. That window of quiet was a non-negotiable. I had to fight for that. I remember sitting all three of them down, serious as hell, explaining that if I didn’t get this weekend block to focus, I was going to fail every single class and spiral into academic ruin. It worked. Barely. I still catch them lurking near my door sometimes, like cats waiting outside the bathroom.
Mom didn’t need this. She didn’t have classes. No deadlines. No exams. She was full-time, always-on. I don’t know how she did it. I really don’t. I think she liked being in the living room, just… there. Available. Bendable. Fillable. Whatever. She thrived in that role.
Me? I need this time. My brain’s already scrambled half the week. I can’t be this family’s fleshlight and study macroeconomics at the same time. So from after groceries until six, the sign on my door says “Do Not Disturb,” and they actually listen.
After six, I head downstairs to make dinner. And here’s the funny part—dinner’s normal. Like, shockingly normal. No one grabs me, no one pulls their dick out, no one asks me to moan while stirring the soup. They sit. They wait. They eat.
Because they know the rules.
You mess with me during dinner—you don’t eat.
That was a hard line I drew early on. I made it very clear that if they even looked at me sideways while I was chopping onions, I would leave, and they could figure out how to microwave something like big boys. It’s probably the only real power I have in this house, and I guard it with my life.
So yeah—dinner’s chill. I eat. They eat. Sometimes we talk about class, sometimes they joke around and tease each other, sometimes we watch dumb videos on someone’s phone while chewing on chicken thighs. It’s almost… sweet. Like we’re normal.
And then dinner ends.
And that’s when it begins.
See, Mom had this thing. She called it family bonding time. Every weekend, like clockwork. No skipping. No pretending to be tired. No loopholes. It was basically her version of Sunday church—but instead of praying, everyone fucks.
Back when she was here, I didn’t have to do much. She was the main event. The spotlight. The goddess. I was just backup. Sometimes I helped. Sometimes I just watched from the kitchen with a soda in my hand.
But now she’s gone.
So the spotlight shifted.
Right onto me.
I tried to play it cool at first. Tried to keep up. But bonding time is intense. It’s not just sex… it’s a whole ritual. It’s kisses, touches, blowjobs, titjobs, anal, gaping, swallowing, moaning, screaming, laughing.
My job is to make sure everyone feels loved. Cared for. “Properly attended to,” as Mom used to say. And I try. I really do. I kiss who wants to be kissed. I stroke the closest cock. I suck whoever is in line, I open both of my holes at once, I let them hold me, use me, whatever they want.
Sometimes it’s tender. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes I just close my eyes and pretend I’m floating through it like a soft, warm blur. They’re not mean about it. They never are. They’re just… enthusiastic. And I’m the new favorite toy.
There are moments—brief ones—where I wish I could sit out. Where I miss Mom and her ability to command the room. But then one of them moans my name, or Dad cups my face like I’m precious, and I remember… this is mine now. This strange, sticky throne.
But that specific Saturday, the Twins had a new game in mind.
They came in like excited kids on Christmas morning, shirtless, grinning, with that look they get when they’ve thought of something “fun.”
I should’ve known.
“We made up a game,” one of them says, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he invented the wheel. “It’s gonna be amazing.”
“Not another one,” I groan, even though I’m already curious. Their last “game” involved monster dildos, duct tape, and a ruined pair of leggings. I’m still recovering.
“This one’s different,” the other chimes in, already pulling something from behind his back. A blindfold.
Great.
“You’re gonna guess who’s who,” he says, like it’s the most innocent thing in the world.
“By what? Vibe? Accent? The way you breathe?”
They just smirk.
“By the taste of his cock.”
Of fucking course.
Next thing I know, I’m on the rug, blindfold on, everything’s muffled. Every sound feels like it’s closer than it should be. Their voices blur together. I can’t see a thing, which somehow makes it all more intense. Every breath on my skin feels like a riddle. Every brush of fingers, every soft laugh from across the room—it’s like being the center of a private storm.
“You ready?” one of them whispers near my ear, I guess it was dad.
I nod before I even think.
The game starts slow. They take turns, they mess with me. They move their cocks around my lips and give me a second to guess. They fake each other out. One leans in close, the other distracts me from behind. When I open my mouth to guess, one shoves his cock inside my mouth. It’s all touch and guessing and laughing. I feel like I’m losing a game I don’t fully understand.
Just when I think the game is over—when my knees are sore, my head’s spinning, and I’m grinning like some blindfolded idiot in a very specific kind of heaven—I hear one of them say, “Okay, new round.”
I groan. “You guys. Come on. I literally just passed the cock SATs. Isn’t that enough?”
Apparently not.
Because the next thing I hear is the sound of palms slapping together. Like a warm-up. Someone claps dramatically. Someone else says, “She’s not gonna guess this one.”
And I swear, even though I can’t see a damn thing, I can feel their smirks.
“What now?” I mutter.
“Spank round,” one of them says cheerfully, like it’s trivia night at a pub.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
But I get into position anyway. Because of course I do. That’s the house rule—resistance is cute, but participation is mandatory.
So I’m on all fours, still blindfolded, trying to prepare myself mentally like this is some twisted yoga pose, and then—smack.
Not hard. Just sharp enough to make my breath hitch. A clean, practiced slap right on the curve of my ass.
I let out this little surprised laugh. “Okay… that one’s Jack?.”
“Wrong,” someone says immediately.
What?
Another slap—this time slower, warmer, almost affectionate.
“Dad?” I try.
“Nope.”
More laughter. The kind that fills the room with this smug, teasing electricity.
They keep going. Different rhythms. Different angles. Someone uses both hands. Someone drags their fingers over the spot after, like they’re leaving a signature. And I’m squirming, moaning, trying to focus, trying not to fall apart, but every time I think I’ve figured one of them out—wrong.
Over and over.
And they love it.
They cheer like it’s a game show. “Ooh, off again!” “She’s losing her touch.” “Someone’s flustered.”
And I am. I’m so flustered. Everything feels warm and buzzing and deliciously stupid. I can’t tell
if I’m turned on, exhausted, proud, or just drunk on attention. Probably all of the above.
Just when I think they’ve run out of ways to surprise me, Liam claps his hands and goes, “Okay. I got a new idea. You’re gonna love this one.”
I nod, biting back a grin. “Hit me.”
“Not this time,” says Liam. “No hitting. Just… fingering.”
“You have to guess which one of us is fingering you,” one of them adds. “That’s the game.”
And just like that, I’m buzzing all over again.
I settle back, heart pounding, the carpet warm under me. I stretch out, every inch of my skin on high alert.
“You know the rules,” Dad murmurs from somewhere to my left. “Guess who’s where.”
And I feel a blasting finger entering my pussy. So aggressive, yet so soft.
“Liam?” They all laughed. I got it right.
But shortly after, they start taking turns so fast. Switch places. Fake each other’s movements. It’s impossible to know. All I can do is feel—and I feel everything.
All their hands, all that heat, that teasing rhythm they’ve somehow mastered without even looking at each other. It’s not frantic. It’s not even rough. It’s just precise. They know exactly what they’re doing.
They’re all watching me cum without even knowing it.
I try to hold it together. I really do. I bite my lip, I dig my nails into the carpet, I breathe through it like I’m giving birth to a secret. But it’s too much. It’s them. It’s everything at once. I feel like a wire pulled too tight and suddenly—
I let go.
I cum.
Loudly. Dramatically. loud, desperate screech that leaves me boneless and breathless, my chest rising and falling like I’ve run a marathon. I’m still blindfolded. Still spread out on the floor like their favorite toy. But now I’m glowing. Wrecked. Floating.
And then I hear it.
A chorus of coos.
“Awww. Your sister is cumming, boys”
“Awwww, look at her.”
“Do you really love us, Sis?”
That last one’s Liam. I can tell by the smirk in his voice.
I don’t answer right away. I can’t. My mouth is still catching up to my body, and my brain’s somewhere in another dimension where words don’t exist yet.
But when I finally manage something—some breathy, exasperated, half-laughed “shut up”—they all laugh again. Not mean. Just warm. Like they’re proud of me.
Just as I’m starting to come back to Earth—still splayed on the rug, still catching my breath, still very much wrecked in that warm, glowing kind of way—I hear Dad clear his throat.
“All right, boys,” he says, voice low but with a playful tone “We’ve had our fun. That’s enough bonding for tonight.”
I don’t even lift my head. I’m too far gone. Too blissed out. Too full of whatever hormone cocktail this house keeps pumping through me like it’s air.
Then he adds, “Let’s show your sister how much we appreciate and love her for taking care of us and taking care of this house.”
I groan. “Oh my God, I’m literally dying, Dad.”
“Perfect time for a surprise, then,” he replies. “A creamy one.”
Suddenly, I feel the three of them towering me. I hear it. They’re jerking off. They’re going to blast me with their loads. They’re going to drench me. Oh god.
They cum all over my tits. Three loads from three different directions are all blasted over my tits, slowly dripping over my naked body.
Then I feel a kiss to my shoulder. Another to my cheek. Praise whispered so casually it almost sounds like jokes.
“You’re unreal,” one of the Twins says.
“Mom would be proud,” says the other, grinning.
And then one by one, they lean in and kiss me. My cheek, my collarbone, my chest. Lazy, affectionate, post-chaos sweetness. Like they’re saying thank you in the only way they know how.
Then, just like that—they’re gone. Off to bed. Lights flicking off. Doors closing.
Leaving me there, glowing, sticky, ridiculous… and smiling like a fool.
God. I wish I had a sister.
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