The sun has been cooking the roof of Nat's sedan for forty minutes, and the vinyl beneath your thighs has gone from warm to actively hostile. You shift your weight for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, Cassie's ass rolls back against your lap — slow, accidental, unavoidable — and your cock, which has been half-hard since the moment she climbed in wearing that loose skirt and nothing you could call protection, jumps like it's been called to attention.

There's no room. There's no room for your knees, for your shoulders, for your hands, which you've wedged between your own thighs like a man trying to disappear. The trunk is packed to the roof with her life — garbage bags of clothes, a lamp shade poking through the back window, a box labeled BOOKS that's crushing your left kidney. Cassie sits sideways across your lap, her bare legs folded up toward the door, her back against your chest, her hair in your mouth every time she turns her head.

"Jesus Christ," she says, craning forward to see past Nat's shoulder. "Has it moved at all?"

"Not an inch." Nat's hands are at ten and two, though the car hasn't moved in the better part of an hour. Her ponytail is damp at the nape. The AC died twenty minutes ago, and the vents are just pushing hot air around now, a tired wheeze of it against your face. "There's a wreck up past the exit. Tow trucks. Ambulance. The whole nine."

"How long?"

"How long is a piece of string, Cass."

You laugh, because it's the kind of thing Nat says, and the laugh comes out wrong — thin, breathy, like there's not enough of it. Cassie feels it in her spine. You feel her feel it. Her shoulder blades press back against your sternum, and the pressure of her weight settles square over your lap, and your cock gives another helpless throb against the thin cotton of your boxers, pushing up into the soft underside of her thigh.

She doesn't move away. That's the thing. She could lean forward. She could fold her arms on the dash and put six inches of dead air between your lap and her ass. Instead she stays where she is, and you can feel her breathing, and you can smell her — something floral and something underneath, skin and sweat and the faint sour tang of a woman who's been in a car since before dawn.

Your vision does the thing.

It starts at the edges. A gray creep, like the world is being slowly unplugged at the perimeter. You blink, and the highway ahead — the miles of stopped cars, the shimmer of heat off a hundred roofs — smears sideways for half a second, and your stomach drops like you've stepped off a curb you didn't see.

You know this feeling. You've known it since you were fifteen and a doctor in a strip-mall clinic told you your body was producing sperm faster than it could store it, faster than it could clear, and that the pressure had to go somewhere or it went to your head. You've known it since the first time you passed out in a high school hallway and woke up to a janitor's flashlight in your eyes and no good explanation for anyone.

Six times. That's the number. Six, every day, or the dizziness comes, and after the dizziness comes the tunnel, and after the tunnel you're on the floor and someone's calling 911 and your stepmom is telling a paramedic it's a blood sugar thing, it's a fainting thing, it's nothing to worry about.

You've done four today. The last one was at five in the morning, in the bathroom, quick and mechanical, before Nat knocked on the door and told you to get dressed, we have to go get your auntie.

Four isn't enough. Four is never enough by noon.

"Nat." Your voice comes out flat and far away, and you hear it happen, hear yourself sound like a stranger. "Nat, I'm — I think I'm gonna pass out."

The car goes very quiet.

Nat's eyes find you in the rearview — green, worried, the little crease between her brows that means she's doing math she doesn't like. "How bad?"

"Bad bad. The tunnel thing. The — you know."

"Shit." She looks at the wall of cars ahead, then at the clock on the dash, then back at you. "Shit. Okay. Okay, honey, hold on, we're — there's nowhere to go, there's no exit for another mile—"

Cassie has gone still in your lap. You can feel her listening, every muscle in her back gone tight, and then she turns her head just enough to catch you in her peripheral. "What's the tunnel thing?"

Nat's hands flex on the wheel. You watch her decide. She does it fast — Nat always does — and then she says it plain, like she's reading a recipe. "He's got a condition. He produces too much — sperm. Semen. It builds up, and if he doesn't get it out, six times a day minimum, he gets dizzy, then he faints. He's done it on the kitchen floor before. Cracked his head on the tile."

Silence.

You want to die. You want the highway to open up and swallow the car whole, take you down into the earth with the lamp shade and the BOOKS box and the smell of your aunt's hair in your mouth. You stare at the back of Nat's head and you count her ponytail strands and you wait for Cassie to laugh, or to recoil, or to say what the fuck in that brusque way she has, and then you'll have to sit here for another hour with that between you.

She doesn't laugh.

"Six times a day," she says, slow. Testing the shape of it.

"Minimum," Nat says. "He's good about it. He's — we've got a system. Magazines, videos, it's all very clinical, we don't make it weird." She says we and your face goes hot. "But we're stuck in a goddamn parking lot and he's already behind for the day, so."

Cassie looks out the window. Then she looks at you — really looks, twisting in your lap, her blue eyes cutting down to where her skirt is bunched up over your thighs and your boxers are doing absolutely nothing to hide the shape of you. You see her see it. You see the exact moment her gaze lands and stays.

"Huh," she says.

Then she reaches down between her thighs.

You don't understand what she's doing at first — her hand disappears under the loose fabric of the skirt, and there's a shift of movement, elbows and knuckles, and then the thin black band of her thong comes sliding down over one hip, over her thigh, past her knee, and she lifts one foot and then the other and drops it into the footwell like it's nothing. Like it's a receipt she doesn't need.

The skirt stays up. She doesn't pull it down. She's bare under there now, bare and warm and an inch from your lap, and the smell of her changes — sharper, closer, a wet animal note that cuts straight through the dead AC air.

"Cassie—" Nat starts.

"Look at him, Nat. He's gray." Cassie's voice is flat, businesslike, the same voice she used on the phone at six this morning when she said my sister's picking me up, don't worry about it. "He's not gonna make it to an exit. You want him on the floor of this car? In this heat? He'll crack his head open on the door handle."

"I'm not saying — I just—"

"You got a better idea?"

Nat doesn't have a better idea. You can see it in the rearview, in the way her mouth opens and closes and her knuckles go white on the wheel. The cars ahead of you sit absolutely still. Somewhere far off, a siren. The sun bores down through the glass and your vision folds at the corners again, and this time it doesn't come back all the way — the gray stays, a rim around everything, and your hands have gone cold and tingly and your heart is doing something fast and wrong in your chest.

"Okay," Nat says. Quiet. "Okay."

Cassie lifts her hips.

She does it with one hand braced on the back of the passenger seat and the other reaching down between her legs, and you feel her find you through the cotton — her fingers close around the shape of your cock, and she pulls the waistband of your boxers down and out, and your cock comes free into the hot air of the car, hard and flushed and already leaking, and her hand wraps around it and strokes once, root to tip, slicking it with what's already there.

"There he is," she says, and it's almost gentle, and it's the filthiest thing you've ever heard.

Then she lowers herself onto you.

The first contact is her cunt against the head of your cock — wet, impossibly wet, a slick heat that makes your whole body jerk — and then she bears down, and you feel her open around you, feel the ring of her stretch, feel the slow wet swallow of her as she takes you in an inch at a time, and she's tight, tighter than you expected, hot and gripping and alive, and she gets about halfway and stops and breathes.

"Fuck," she says. Just that. Her head drops forward and her hair falls around her face.

Nat is watching in the rearview. You can see her eyes there, green and wide, and she hasn't looked away, and she hasn't told you to stop, and her knuckles are still white on the wheel but her mouth is a little open and her chest is rising and falling faster than the heat explains.

Cassie sinks the rest of the way down.

You bottom out inside her — her ass flush against your thighs, your cock buried to the root — and the relief is so sudden and so total that your vision clears in a rush, the gray rim snapping back, the highway sharpening into focus, the world coming back online. You gasp. You actually gasp, loud, like a man surfacing, and Cassie laughs — a dark, breathless little laugh against your ear.

"Better?" she says.

"Yeah." Your voice is wrecked. "Yeah. God."

"Good." She plants both hands on your knees and lifts herself up, slow, until just the head of you is left inside her, and then she drops back down and takes you all again with a wet slap of skin. "Then stay with me."

She starts to ride you.

It's cramped and clumsy and perfect. There's no room for a proper rhythm — her knees are jammed against the door on one side and the back of Nat's seat on the other, and every stroke is short and grinding, her cunt working up and down the length of your cock in tight, deliberate pumps. The skirt is bunched up around her waist now, and you can see her ass bounce with each drop, can see the slick shine of her where your bodies meet, can see her thighs flex and release, flex and release.

The wet sound fills the car. It's obscene in the small space — a soft, rhythmic squelch every time she takes you in, and under it the slap of her skin on yours, and under that her breathing, getting rougher, catching in her throat.

"Oh my God," Nat says. She doesn't mean to say it. It just comes out, and she hears herself and her face goes red, but she still doesn't look away from the mirror.

Cassie hears her. You feel her clench around you — a hard, deliberate squeeze — and she turns her head just enough to catch Nat's eye in the glass. "Eyes on the road, sis."

"There's no — the road's not — we're not moving—"

"Then eyes on whatever you want." Cassie drops down hard, grinding, and you feel the head of your cock press something deep and soft inside her and she makes a sound, a low uh that vibrates through her whole back. "I'm not gonna pretend I don't like an audience."

You should be embarrassed. You should be horrified. Your stepmom is two feet away, watching you get ridden in the back seat of her car by her little sister, and you should want the floor to swallow you. Instead your hips are coming up to meet her, helpless, thrusting up into her as much as she's dropping down onto you, and your hands have found her hips and you're gripping them, pulling her down harder, and the gray is gone, the tunnel is gone, there's nothing in the world but the wet grip of her cunt and the slap of skin and the smell of her.

"That's it," Cassie breathes. "There you go. Fuck me back. Don't just lie there."

You fuck her back.

It's frantic now. She's bouncing on you in short, sharp strokes, and you're driving up into her from below, and the car is rocking on its springs — anyone in the next lane could look over and see the sedan shuddering, could see the shape of two people moving wrong in the back seat, and you don't care. You don't care. Her cunt is so wet and so hot and she's so tight, squeezing you on every upstroke like she's trying to milk you, and you can feel it building at the base of your spine, a pressure that's been waiting all morning, all week, all your life.

"I'm close," you gasp.

"Good." She rides you harder. "Come in me. That's the whole point, isn't it? Fill me up so you don't pass out. Come on."

Nat makes a sound in the front seat — a small, strangled noise — and you look up and catch her eyes in the mirror, and she's watching, she's absolutely watching, her lips parted and her chest heaving under the tank top and one hand has drifted off the wheel entirely and is resting on her own thigh, fingers curled into the fabric of her shorts.

You come.

It rips out of you — the first one, hard and sudden, your cock jerking inside her and your cum spilling into her in thick pulses, and Cassie moans and grinds down and takes every drop, her cunt milking you through it, and your vision goes white at the edges for a completely different reason. Your hands are locked on her hips. Your whole body is shaking. You can feel your cum slicking the inside of her, feel it start to leak out around the base of your cock where you're still buried deep.

"There he is," Cassie says again, softer this time. "Good boy."

She doesn't get off. She stays there, seated on you, breathing hard, and you're still hard inside her — you're always still hard after the first one, that's the whole problem, that's the whole condition — and after a moment she shifts her weight and starts to move again, slow, rolling her hips.

"That's one," she says. "You said six."

"Cass—" Nat's voice is thin.

"He needs at least two just to clear the tunnel." Cassie braces her hands on your knees and looks at you, and her blue eyes are bright and wild and there's a smear of her own hair across her mouth. "Unless you want him fainting on the way home. Do you?"

Nat doesn't answer. She doesn't say yes, either. She just watches, and her hand stays on her thigh, and the cars ahead of you sit absolutely still in the blinding sun.

Cassie starts to ride you again — faster this time, no ramp-up, just straight into it, her cunt slick and sloppy with your cum and still gripping you on every stroke. The wet sound is louder now, obscene, each drop of her hips pushing a little of your cum back out of her and down over your balls. She's panting. Her thighs are shaking. She's chasing something now, not just working you, and you can feel her cunt starting to flutter around you in a way it wasn't before.

"Fuck," she gasps. "Fuck, you're gonna — you're gonna make me—"

"Come on," you hear yourself say, and it doesn't sound like you, it sounds like someone with a voice. "Come on, Cassie, come on my cock—"

She comes with a sharp, broken cry, her whole body bowing forward, her nails digging into your knees hard enough to leave marks, and her cunt clamps down around you in waves and wrings the second one out of you whether you're ready or not. You're not ready. You come anyway — harder than the first, groaning, your hips bucking up off the seat, your cum pumping into her in a flood while she shudders and grinds and rides it out on top of you.

For a long moment there's nothing but the sound of both of you breathing.

Then Cassie lifts her hips, slow, and you feel your cock slide out of her, wet and spent, and you feel the rush of your cum following it — thick and warm, spilling out of her cunt and down onto your thighs, pooling in the crease of your lap. She stays hovering over you for a second, catching her breath, and then she settles back down onto your lap, and your softening cock slides back up against the wet mess of her, and she doesn't move away.

Ahead of you, brake lights flicker. A car somewhere up the line inches forward, then stops again.

Nat exhales, long and shaky, and puts both hands back on the wheel.

Cassie reaches down between her own legs — casual, unhurried, like she's adjusting her skirt — and her fingers find her clit, and she starts to rub, slow circles, right there against the slick mess of your cum still leaking out of her.

"Don't get comfortable," she says, and her voice is already going rough again. "That was two. We've got four more to go before we're home."

Traffic breaks an hour later. The ambulance clears the wreck, the tow trucks drag the crumpled sedan off the shoulder, and the highway exhales — fifty cars easing forward at once, brake lights going dark, the sedan rolling free. Nat drives with both hands and both eyes forward and doesn't say a word about the back seat. Cassie stays where she is, settled on your lap, your cum drying tacky on both of you, and every time the car hits a seam in the asphalt she shifts and it spreads.

Twenty minutes in, Nat starts talking. Not about the car. About you.

"So the number is six," she says, eyes on the road. "Minimum. It started when he was fifteen — the clinic said his body makes sperm faster than it can store it, and the pressure has to go somewhere. It goes to his head. First time I saw it he was on the kitchen floor, out cold, cracked his skull on the tile." Her voice stays level, the same tone she uses for the mortgage and the recycling schedule. "You can imagine what his dad thought. You can imagine what the doctor said. Nothing. There's nothing to do. It's just — maintenance. Every day. Six times. We have a system."

"A system," Cassie says.

"Magazines. Videos. It's clinical. It's not — we don't make it weird."

Cassie laughs, low, and it moves through her whole back and into your chest. "Nat. I've got your stepson's cum drying in my cunt and you're telling me not to make it weird."

Nat's ears go red. She doesn't answer.

Cassie talks, then. About the divorce — the husband who traded her in for a paralegal eleven years younger, the house she got kicked out of, the settlement that wasn't worth the lawyer's ink. "He used to call me cold," she says, and her thumb is moving slow along the inside of your thigh, casual, like she's petting a dog. "Two months of no sex and he calls me cold. So now I'm not cold. I'm just — hungry." She shifts her hips and you feel the wet drag of her against your softening cock. "You know what's funny? I feel more like myself right now than I have in a decade. That's the divorce talking. That's what it made me."

Nat says nothing. But her eyes keep flicking to the mirror, and her hand has found the gear shift and is resting there, thumb stroking the knob like it's something else.

You get home at noon.

Unpacking takes an hour — Cassie's whole life in bags and boxes, hauled up two flights into the spare room. You carry the BOOKS box. You carry the lamp shade. Nat makes the bed with fresh sheets while Cassie sorts clothes into piles on the floor, and every time you pass her in the narrow hallway she finds a way to be in your way — a hand on your hip, a hip against your thigh, a look that lasts a beat too long. By the time the last bag is emptied, your cock has been half-hard for so long it aches.

Then Nat calls from the kitchen. "Come make lunch. I'm not doing it alone."

The counter is crowded — cutting board, onions, tomatoes, a pot of water starting to move on the stove. You stand at the counter with your back to the room, chopping. Nat's to your left, working the onions. Cassie's behind you, supposedly drying a bowl, and that's when you feel it — her hand, sliding down your forearm, casual, unhurried, until her fingers find your wrist and guide your own hand down off the counter and press it flat against your thigh.

"Keep chopping," she says, close to your ear. "Don't stop."

You don't stop. But your hand is on your thigh and hers is on top of it, and then her fingers move — down, under the waistband of your shorts, and her hand closes around your cock.

You go rigid. The knife stops mid-onion.

"I said keep chopping."

You chop. You don't know how. Nat is eight inches away, talking about the grocery list, and behind you Cassie works her hand down the length of you, root to tip, slow and deliberate, the same rhythm she rode in the car. Her thumb drags over the head each time and your knees go soft. You can hear it — the faint wet sound of her palm working you, and you're praying it's under the sound of the knife and the water and Nat's voice.

"And I told the butcher, if the brisket's that price again I'll buy a whole cow," Nat says. "You listening?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You're not listening."

"I'm listening."

Cassie's other hand comes up and grips your hip, pulling you back a half-inch into the curve of her body, and she's warm against your back and her breath is on your neck and her hand is going faster now, tight and slick, and you feel the pressure building at the base of your spine with nowhere to put it. You're going to come on the kitchen floor. You're going to come on the counter. You're going to —

The spoon.

It goes off the edge of the counter — you don't even see how, maybe your elbow, maybe hers — and it hits the tile with a bright metal clatter and skids under the lip of the cabinet.

Nat bends to get it.

She goes down on one knee, reaches under the cabinet, and picks up the spoon. And when she straightens, her face comes up level with the counter's edge — level with your hips — level with your cock, which is out of your shorts and in Cassie's fist, hard and flushed and shining wet at the tip, an inch from her mouth.

She freezes. Her jaw drops.

You open your mouth to say something — you have no idea what, maybe sorry, maybe nothing, maybe her name — and the pressure breaks.

It comes out of you in a thick rope, sudden and violent, straight into her open mouth. Not a spray — a rope, heavy and warm, and it lands on her tongue and across her lower lip and one strand catches the corner of her mouth and she makes a sound, a small wet startled sound, and swallows.

She swallows it. You watch her throat work. You watch her eyes go wide and stay wide, and she swallows again, and then again, and there's nothing left on her tongue but the taste of you.

Nobody moves.

You're frozen with your hand still on the knife. Cassie's hand is still wrapped around your cock, still slick, and you can feel her go absolutely still behind you. The pot on the stove starts to bubble.

Nat comes up off the floor. She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist — once, hard, the way you'd wipe off a smudge — and looks at Cassie. Her face is doing something complicated. Her green eyes are not confused. They're not disgusted. They're the eyes of a woman who has just done math she didn't want to do and gotten the answer anyway.

"Cassie," she says. "What are you doing."

Cassie doesn't take her hand off you. She shrugs with the shoulder that isn't pressed to your back. "Well. He still needs four."

Nat stares at her for a long second. Then she looks at you — at your face, at the mess on the counter, at nothing in particular — and something in her shoulders lets go. She bends, picks up the spoon off the floor where it fell again, rinses it under the tap, and goes back to the onions.

"Wash your hands," she says. "Both of you. Before you touch the food."

Cassie laughs — soft, delighted, almost fond. And she doesn't let go. She works her fist down your cock once, slow, and your hips jerk forward into it and she hums against your ear. "Hear that? She said wash your hands. Not stop."

You wash your hands. Or you try. You get one hand under the tap and Cassie's still on you with the other, and Nat is chopping onions with her back three-quarters turned, and the whole kitchen has gone into some new physics where this is normal, where the smell of onions and the sound of a knife and the wet slide of your aunt's hand on your cock are all just — lunch.

Then Cassie drops the spoon again.

She does it with her elbow — you see her do it, a small deliberate nudge, and the spoon clatters off the counter and lands by her feet. And Cassie bends to pick it up. She doesn't bend at the knees like a person picking up a spoon. She folds at the waist, slow, her back arching, her hair swinging down, until her face is level with your hips — and then she doesn't pick up the spoon. She takes you in her mouth.

Your whole body locks. Her lips close around the head of your cock and her tongue runs flat up the underside, and then she takes you deeper — an inch, two, three — and her mouth is hot and wet and nothing like her hand, and you grab the edge of the counter with both hands and hold on.

"Cassie—" Nat's voice cracks across the kitchen. "Cassie!"

Cassie doesn't come up. She stays down, one hand braced on the cabinet door, her mouth working up and down your cock in slow, steady strokes, and she lifts her free hand over her head and raises three fingers.

Three.

Nat stands there with the knife in her hand and the onion half-chopped and her sister's head between her stepson's legs, and she doesn't say anything else. She turns back to the cutting board. The knife starts again — slower, uneven, stopping and starting — and you can hear her breathing from three feet away, and you can see her in your peripheral, see the way her hips are pressed back against the counter and her thighs have gone tight under the loose shorts.

Cassie works you like she has all afternoon. Her mouth is unhurried — long strokes down to the root, her tongue curling, her cheeks hollowing, and every time she pulls back she lets you slip almost all the way out so the cold air hits the wet head of your cock and you nearly sob. Her hair is in her face. She tucks it behind one ear with her free hand and keeps going.

You look down. You can see the hinge of her jaw working. You can see your cock disappear into her mouth and come back slick and gleaming. You can see, past her, Nat's shoulder and the knife and the pile of onions getting smaller, and the two of them in the same frame like this is a photograph someone took and you'll never be able to un-see it.

"Nat," you say. You don't know why. Maybe to apologize. Maybe to make her look.

She looks. She turns her head just enough to catch you in the corner of her eye, and her face is flushed and her lips are parted, and she doesn't look away this time. She holds your eyes while her sister sucks your cock, and then she goes back to the onions with her jaw set.

Cassie hums around you — approval, amusement, something — and the vibration goes all the way up your spine. She takes you deeper, past where she's been, and you feel the back of her throat and your hips stutter forward and she takes it, holds it, swallows around you, and pulls back with a wet gasp that strings a line of spit from her lip to your cock.

"Come on," she says, voice ruined, hand finishing what her mouth started. "Give it to me. You know she wants to hear it."

Nat's knife stops.

You come in Cassie's mouth.

It's the third one of the day and it's the biggest, and Cassie takes it with her lips sealed around the head of your cock, her tongue working, and you can feel each pulse leave you and land on her tongue. She doesn't spill a drop. She holds you in her mouth until your hips stop shaking, and then she pulls off slow, wiping her lip with her thumb, and swallows with her eyes on Nat the whole time.

Nat sets down the knife. She wipes her hands on the towel. She looks at the two of you — at your cock still out, wet, still half-hard; at her sister kneeling on the kitchen floor with her hair a mess and her mouth red — and she shakes her head, slow, the way you'd shake it at a dog that's gotten on the couch.

"Three more," she says. "Then you eat something. You look like hell."

Nat's words hang in the kitchen steam, and for a second nobody moves. Then Cassie stands, wipes her mouth on the back of her wrist, and pulls her skirt down over her hips like she's closing a book.

"Eat something," Nat says again, and this time it's an order. She turns the burner off under the pot and shoves a plate across the counter toward you — bread, cheese, a tomato she's halved without looking at it. "You're gray again. Eat."

You eat standing up. You don't taste any of it. Cassie eats with one hip against the counter and her eyes on you the whole time, and Nat eats nothing at all, just stands there with her back to the sink and her arms crossed under her chest, watching the two of you like she's waiting for a verdict she already knows.

The afternoon dissolves. Cassie unpacks the last of her boxes into the spare room and falls asleep on the bare mattress around three, her hair fanned across a pillow that still has the tag on it. Nat does laundry. You carry the lamp shade down to the basement, and by the time you come back up the house has gone quiet, the way it does when one person is asleep in it and everybody else has stopped pretending they're busy.

You end up in the front yard with the hose, watering a lawn that doesn't need it. The sun's off the grass now, just the warm leftover heat coming up out of the dirt, and the street is empty, and the water hisses into the flowerbed and turns the mulch black.

You hear the screen door.

Nat comes down the steps and stands on the walk behind you, and for a while she doesn't say anything. Just watches the water arc out of your thumb and land in the petunias.

"How are you feeling?" she says.

"Fine. Better."

"And how do you feel about what Cassie did earlier." Not a question with a question mark on it. She says it flat, like a symptom she's checking off.

You keep the hose where it is. "Honestly?"

"Always."

"It's the best release I've had in seven years." You turn your head enough to see her. "That's not a line. Since I was fifteen, it's been magazines and videos and my own hand, and it takes forty minutes of working at it like a chore. She put her hand on me in the car and I was hard before she finished pulling her thong down. I don't know what that means. It's just true."

Nat is quiet. A car goes by at the end of the street and doesn't turn onto yours.

"I'm sorry," you say. "For the kitchen. For putting you in that — position. You shouldn't have had to see that. It was vulgar and it was in your house and I should've said something."

"It's fine," Nat says. She says it the way she says most things — flat, finished, no room left in the sentence for you to climb into. The hose hisses in the flowerbed. She's got her arms folded and her eyes on the petunias, and she still hasn't looked at your face since she came down the steps. "I'm just glad you feel better."

"Nat—"

"I mean it." She turns, finally, and her mouth is doing something that's almost a smile, tired around the edges. "You looked like a corpse on the way home. Now you've got color. That's the whole job, honey. Color." She reaches out and takes the hose out of your hand, coils it once around her elbow, and starts back up the walk. "Come in before the mosquitoes find you."

You stand in the yard a minute longer. The streetlight over the mailbox flickers and catches. Somewhere down the block a dog is losing its mind about nothing.

The house at ten o'clock is a different animal than the house at noon. The kitchen's been wiped down — every surface, every handle, the counter where your cum dried and got scrubbed — and the dishwasher is running, and the overhead light is off, just the one under the cabinets. Nat's door is closed. Cassie's door is open a crack and there's no light behind it, and when you pass you can hear her breathing, slow and deep, out cold on the bare mattress with the tag still on the pillow.

Your room smells like you. Sweat and old sheets and the faint sour ghost of this morning.

You strip down to your boxers, sit on the edge of the bed, and do the math. Four in the morning, two in the car, one in the kitchen. Seven. You've actually cleared the number for the first time in weeks, and your body should be thanking you — but the pressure doesn't work like a gauge. It works like an appetite. It builds whether you're behind or not, and if you let it sit overnight it'll be waiting at six a.m. with a headache attached.

So you round up the day. That's what you call it. Rounding up.

Phone on the nightstand, brightness down to nothing. You've got a folder you don't look at the name of anymore, just open it and scroll until something catches, and tonight nothing's catching — the same videos, the same angles, the same women who don't look like anyone you've ever touched. Your cock is in your hand and half-interested, working up toward it out of habit more than want, and you're thinking about the car and the counter and the wet sound of Cassie's mouth and it's still not — it's like trying to start a cold engine by turning the key and hoping.

You don't hear the door.

"Knock knock."

You about come off the bed. Nat's standing in the doorway in her sleep shirt — the old gray one, hem at mid-thigh — with two mugs in her hands and steam coming off both, and she's looking straight at you with your cock out and your hand still wrapped around it, and she does not flinch.

"Nat — Jesus —"

"It's hot chocolate." She comes in. She closes the door behind her with her heel. "You didn't eat enough at dinner. The sugar'll help."

She sets one mug on the nightstand by your phone, screen still glowing, and sits down on the edge of the mattress beside you — close, the dip of the bed pulling your hip toward hers — and takes a sip from the other mug like this is the most normal room in the world. The lamp's on low. Her hair's down out of the ponytail and it's gone a little wild at the crown, and the sleep shirt is thin enough that the shape of her is doing things under it that you're trying very hard not to look at.

"Go ahead," she says. "Finish."

"Nat."

"Dylan." She blows across the top of her mug. "You've got one more in you or you don't. If you don't, you'll be dizzy at breakfast and I'll have to hear about it all day from your aunt. So finish."

So you finish. It's the strangest thing you've ever done and you've done some strange things in this house — you work your cock in your fist with your stepmom sitting six inches away drinking hot chocolate, and she's not watching the phone, she's watching you, the same flat green attention she gives the mortgage statement. She's watching the way your wrist moves. The way your thighs have gone tight. The little hitch in your breathing when your thumb drags over the head.

It's not the videos that get you there. It's her. The heat coming off her hip. The smell of her — cocoa and clean laundry and underneath it the lotion she puts on her hands before bed. Your cock jumps in your fist and you make a sound you'd rather not have made.

"There," Nat says, mild. "See. You just needed somebody in the room."

You come across your own stomach. Three thick pulses and then a couple of smaller ones, landing in the crease of your abs and one strand catching your navel, and your hand slows and stops and you sit there breathing with your head tipped back against the wall.

Nat takes another sip of her cocoa. She looks at the mess on your stomach, and then at the clock on the nightstand, and then at you.

"That makes five," she says.

Right. Five. You'd counted seven, but you'd counted wrong — the two in the car were two, the kitchen was three, this is four, and the one at five a.m. was yesterday's, wasn't it. Or wasn't. The math swims when you're this tired. Either way the number she says is five and she'd know better than you, she always knows better than you.

"Yeah," you say. "Five."

"So there's one left." She sets the mug down on the nightstand next to yours and turns toward you on the bed, one knee coming up onto the mattress, and the sleep shirt rides up her thigh a couple of inches and she doesn't pull it down. "And you're going to fight it for an hour and go to sleep behind, and then you'll be gray at breakfast, and I'll have to look at Cassie across the table like it's my fault."

"It's not your—"

"I know whose fault it is." She picks up the towel off the end of the bed — the one you keep there, the one that's become part of the furniture — and wipes your stomach off with it, brisk, the way she'd wipe a counter. Her knuckles brush the head of your cock and your whole body flinches and she pretends not to notice. "It's nobody's fault. That's the thing about it. It's just what you are."

She drops the towel on the floor.

You're still hard. That's the condition — you're always still hard, the first one barely dents it, and now there's a fifth release cooling on your skin and your cock is standing straight up off your stomach like nothing happened at all. You reach for it out of habit and she catches your wrist.

"Not like that."

She moves your hand. Not away — over. She lays your palm flat against her chest, right over the sleep shirt, and her breast is warm and heavy under the thin cotton and you can feel her heartbeat through it, a slow steady knock, and your fingers curl without you telling them to. Her nipple's already hard under the fabric. You find it with your thumb and she makes a low sound in her throat and doesn't stop you.

"There," she says. "Better than a phone."

"Nat—"

"Talk to me." She shifts her weight, settling closer, and her hand comes down on your thigh, resting there, thumb moving a slow half-circle on your skin. "You've been quiet all day. Talk to me about something. Anything."

"About what."

"About girls." She says it the way she'd say about the weather. "You're twenty-two. You've got a body that won't quit and a face that isn't hard to look at. Tell me what you like."

You laugh — a short, cracked thing. "I don't know what I like. That's the problem. It's all been magazines and a timer since I was fifteen."

"Then tell me what you noticed today." Her thumb keeps moving. Her nipple is sharp against your palm through the cotton and you're kneading it now, slow, and she's letting you, her breath going a little longer each time you roll it between your fingers. "You noticed something. I saw you noticing."

"Cassie."

"Mm." Not a question. Not offended. "What about her."

"The way she — when she came, she went quiet first. Everything went tight and then she made this sound like she'd been holding her breath since we got in the car." You're staring at your own hand on your stepmom's tit while you say it, and it's coming out of you easy, the way things do at this hour. "And she smells like — I don't know. Flowers and sweat. It's in the car now. It's going to be in the car forever."

Nat laughs. Soft, real. "That's her shampoo. It was always her shampoo, even when we were kids. She'd steal mine and I'd know because the whole bathroom smelled like a funeral."

"You two don't smell alike."

"No." She looks at you sideways. "What do I smell like."

You lean in without deciding to and put your face against her neck, and she lets you, tilting her head to give you the room. Cocoa. Laundry. The lotion. And under all of it, close to the skin, something warmer and saltier that isn't any of those things, and you breathe it in and your cock twitches against your own stomach.

"Like that," you say into her throat.

She hums. Her hand on your thigh slides up an inch and stops, and her other hand comes off the bed and lands on your shoulder, holding you there against her neck like she's steadying something.

"Okay," she says. "Okay."

She reaches over you to the nightstand — not the mug, the drawer — and comes back with the pump bottle of lotion she keeps in there for her hands in winter. Two pumps into her palm. The smell of it blooms up between you, that cheap vanilla drugstore smell, and she works it between her hands until they're shining.

"Lie back."

You lie back against the pillows.

Her slick hand closes around your cock and pulls down slow, root to tip, and your hips come up off the bed and she pushes them back down with the flat of her other hand on your stomach. "Stay." She strokes you again, and this time her hand keeps going past the base, down over your balls, cupping them, rolling them in her palm with the lotion slick between her fingers, and your breath goes out of you in a rush.

"That's — Nat, that's—"

"Shh." She's not looking at your face. She's looking down at her own hands, at the work, the way she looks at anything she's doing — patient, thorough, no wasted motion. "You've been doing it the same way for seven years. No wonder it takes you an hour. You've got to give it something new."

Her fingers slide lower. Down the seam behind your balls, slick with lotion, pressing, and your whole body locks up and she keeps pressing, gentle, finding the tight ring of muscle and circling it with two fingertips until your legs fall open without your permission.

"Nat—"

"Relax."

"I don't—"

"You don't have to do anything. Just let me." Her other hand is still on your cock, stroking slow and steady, and her fingers are still circling, and she's talking the whole time in that same level voice, like she's explaining the recycling schedule. "You said you don't know what you like. So let me find out for you. You ever had a girl touch you here?"

"No."

"No." She says it like it confirms something. "Okay."

One finger slides in.

It's not pain. It's a pressure you've never felt, a fullness at the wrong end of you, and your body doesn't know what to do with it — your thighs clamp, your stomach jumps, your cock jerks in her other hand and leaks a clear bead onto your own belly. She holds still and lets you feel it, one knuckle deep, and her thumb keeps working the underside of your balls the whole time.

"Breathe," she says. "You're holding your breath."

You breathe. She pushes in the rest of the way, slow, and curls the finger forward, and something in you lights up like a switch you didn't know was wired.

"Oh — God —"

"There it is." She does it again. Same curl, same spot, and your hips try to come off the bed and her hand on your stomach holds you down. "That's what you've been missing. Every time. Seven years, honey. Nobody ever showed you."

She works you like that — one finger in your ass, curling, rubbing that spot in slow circles, her other hand stripping your cock in time with it, and she keeps talking, low and easy, and it's not dirty talk, it's worse than dirty talk, it's her telling you about the first boy she ever touched and how he lasted about nine seconds and how she didn't mind because she liked the way he shook, and how when you're with somebody who actually wants you it's a different thing entirely, and how you're going to find that out, you're going to find out what it's like when a woman wants you, and your cock is so hard in her hand it hurts and your whole body is climbing toward something that isn't in your cock at all.

"Nat," you gasp. "Nat, I'm — it's different, it's—"

"I know."

"I'm gonna—"

"I know. Let it."

You come with your hands fisted in the sheets and your heels dug into the mattress, and it's not the usual thing at all — it comes from deep, from wherever her finger is working, and it rolls up through your whole body before it ever reaches your cock. The first pulse leaves you and goes up — straight up, over your own chest, a thick streak that catches you under the chin and lands in your hair. The second one hits your shoulder. The third lands somewhere on your stomach, and by the fourth you're just shaking, empty, your cock twitching in her grip and nothing much left to give.

Nat pulls her finger out slow and wipes it on the towel on the floor. She looks at you — at the mess of you, in your hair, on your chin, on the bed — and then she picks up her mug of cocoa off the nightstand and takes a sip like she's been doing this all evening.

"That's six," she says.

You wake up before the alarm.

That's the first strange thing. For seven years you've woken to the pressure — a headache sitting behind your eyes like a thumb pressed to a bruise, the low dull ache in your balls that tells you the day is already behind and you need to catch up. Today there's none of it. You lie still with your eyes closed, testing, and your body comes back to you clean: arms heavy, legs heavy, mouth dry, the sheet twisted around one ankle. No headache. No gray at the corners. Just the ceiling, and the fan turning, and the sound of two women talking through the wall.

You slept nine hours. You can't remember the last time you slept nine hours without waking up at three a.m. with your cock in your hand out of pure maintenance, grinding one out in the dark so you wouldn't be behind by morning. Yesterday you came six times and every one of them was something you wanted. That's the difference. That's the whole difference. You lie there a minute with your hand flat on your own chest, feeling your heart knock slow and easy under it, and something in your shoulders that's been clenched since you were fifteen lets go.

Then you get up, because the talking is cheerful and there's coffee smell coming down the hall, and you pull on the first things your hands find — a t-shirt, the short boxers you slept in — and you walk out into the kitchen.

They're at the table. Cassie's on the far side, back to the window, and Nat's at the near end with her chair pushed back and her feet up on the rung of the one across from her. Two mugs. A plate of toast going cold. The radio's on low under the cabinet, some Sunday morning show with a man laughing at his own joke.

"Morning," you say.

Both of them look up. And it comes back all at once — the car, the highway, the wet slap of skin in the back seat, the kitchen counter, Cassie's mouth, your stepmom's finger in your ass and her level voice saying that's six — and your cock, which has been asleep since you opened your eyes, stands up so fast inside the short boxers that the fabric tents and drags, and there's no way either of them misses it, because you're four feet away and the boxers are thin and the shirt doesn't come down past your waist.

Cassie's eyes go straight to it. She doesn't pretend otherwise. She's got her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist and she watches it happen the way you'd watch a kettle come to a boil.

"Look at that," she says. "Good morning to you too."

That's when you actually see what she's wearing.

It's a top — pale, thin, the kind of thing you'd wear to bed on a hot night — and it ends just above her mound. Just above. Her legs are crossed under the table and the hem sits high on her thigh and there's nothing under it, no shorts, no underwear, nothing, so that when she shifts her weight and uncrosses her legs you get the whole of it in one clean look: smooth, bare, shaved clean, the lips of her pussy parted just slightly with her knee, pink and neat as a folded letter. She sees you see it. She doesn't close her legs.

Nat's at the end of the table in a top you've never seen either — white, and sheer enough that the shape of her breasts is just — there, the areola a soft dark smudge behind the fabric, the nipples standing up under it because the kitchen's cold. And under the table, when she crosses her legs the other way, the waistband of a black lace thong shows at her hip, high and thin, nothing like the cotton she wears to bed. You've lived in this house four years. You have never once seen your stepmom in lace.

She catches you looking. She doesn't pull the shirt down. She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at you over the rim.

"It's Sunday," she says. "I want to relax too."

"Sit down," Cassie says, and kicks the chair opposite her out from the table with her foot. "Here."

You sit. The chair's low and the table's high, and when you drop into it your cock is level with the edge of the table and pointing straight up at your own stomach, and the boxers do absolutely nothing about it. Cassie's sitting across from you with her bare thighs spread and her top hem riding up, and she leans back in her chair and lets her knees fall open, slow, deliberate, until you're looking straight between them — the smooth mound, the neat pink slit underneath it, the small tight furl of her ass against the chair seat.

"There," she says. "Now we're both comfortable."

Then she reaches across the table and hooks her fingers in the waistband of your boxers and pulls them down over the head of your cock, and your cock comes out into the cold kitchen air and slaps up against your belly, flushed and already leaking at the tip, and she takes it in her hand.

Her grip is warm and dry and sure. She strokes down once, root to tip, thumb dragging over the head, and your whole body jumps and your hands grab the edge of the table.

"There he is," she says. Same words as yesterday, same soft dark amusement. "We need at least one before you do anything today. Otherwise you'll be gray by noon and I'll have to carry you."

She strokes you again. Slow this time, all the way down and all the way up, and her other hand comes up under the table and cups your balls, rolling them, and her eyes stay on your face the whole time.

"It's Sunday," she says. "I've got nowhere to be. I can help you all day if you want."

The sensation and the view hit you at the same time and it's almost too much to hold in one body — the slick drag of her fist, the low pull in your balls, and across the table the spread of her thighs and the shine of the pink slit between them, and the smell of coffee and toast and underneath it the same sharp animal note from the car. You look right. You look at Nat.

She's got her phone in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. She's reading something. She's chewing. And she looks up from the screen just long enough to find your eyes, and she gives you one short nod — down, up, done — and goes back to her phone.

That's it. That's the permission. Your stepmom is sitting at her own kitchen table in a see-through shirt with her nipples out, reading the news, while her sister jerks you off across the toast, and she nodded and went back to eating.

Cassie's hand speeds up. Long strokes now, tight on the upstroke, and she's watching your face and not the work, reading every flinch. Your hands are fisted on the table edge. Your heels are digging into the floor. You want to reach across and put your fingers in her — she's right there, pink and open and an arm's length away — and you want to reach left and put your hand inside Nat's shirt, feel that dark smudge of nipple under your palm, and you do neither. You sit there and take what she's giving you and your hips start to move on their own, thrusting up into her fist in small helpless rocks.

"Good," Cassie says. "That's it. Let me see you."

She slows it down. One long stroke, then her thumb circling the head, then another long stroke, and she's drawing it out now, watching the bead of pre-cum well up and smear under her thumb, and you make a sound you didn't mean to make.

"You're close," she says.

"Yeah."

"Don't come on the table." She pushes her chair back with a scrape and slides down off it, and her knees hit the tile, and she ducks her head under the edge of the table so that her face comes up between your knees. Her hair swings forward. Her mouth opens. She takes your cock in one hand at the base and puts her lips around the head and sucks — hard, wet, cheeks hollowed — and your whole body folds forward over the table and you grab the edge with both hands and hold on.

She works you with her mouth and her hand together, tongue flat on the underside, and she's not teasing now, she's finishing it. She pulls back to the head, sucks, drops down an inch, sucks harder, and the wet sound of it fills the kitchen under the radio. Nat's phone goes quiet. You can hear her set it down. You can hear her breathing change from three feet away, and you can't look at her because Cassie's got you by the cock and the whole lower half of you is hers.

"Come on," Cassie says around you, muffled. "Give it to me."

You come.

It goes off in you like the first one of the day should — deep, hard, your hips bucking up off the chair and your cock jerking in her mouth, and she takes it with her lips sealed and her tongue working and doesn't spill a drop. You make a sound, a loud one, a long broken groan that comes up out of your chest and out of your open mouth and fills the whole kitchen, and you hear it happen and you don't care who hears it, and Cassie hums around your cock — pleased, delighted, the hum buzzing up the length of you while the last pulses leave you.

She holds you in her mouth until your hips stop moving. Then she pulls off slow, wipes her lip with her thumb, and swallows with her throat working, and looks up at you from under the table with her eyes bright.

"Well," she says, and her voice is a little rough. "We don't want to make a mess on the table."

Nat picks her phone back up. She doesn't look at either of you. She takes a bite of toast and chews and swallows and says, flat, the way she says everything, "You're right."

Then she reaches across the table with one hand and takes your cock — still hard, still wet from Cassie's mouth — and tucks it back inside your boxers, and pats the waistband flat against your stomach with two fingers, and goes back to her phone.

Cassie climbs up off the floor and back into her chair and pulls her top hem down over her mound, which doesn't help, and picks up her coffee. "So," she says. "What's the plan today."

"Nothing," Nat says. "It's Sunday."

"I've got boxes in the spare room."

"They'll keep."

"There's a whole box of books I can't lift."

"Then leave it." Nat turns a page on her phone with her thumb. "Dylan's got a condition. He's not supposed to lift anything heavy."

Cassie laughs at that — a real laugh, surprised out of her — and you laugh too, and then Nat's mouth twitches at the corner and she's almost smiling, and the three of you sit there at the kitchen table with the radio on and the toast going cold and the smell of coffee and sex in the same room, and you start talking.

About the spare room and where the dresser should go. About the neighbors, and which ones wave and which ones watch. About Nat's mother, who called twice last week and left messages neither of them wants to return. About the highway, eventually, carefully, Cassie saying she'd never seen traffic that bad and Nat saying it was the third wreck this month on that stretch and neither of them saying the word car like it means what it means. You eat the cold toast. You drink the coffee. Your cock is still half-hard in your boxers and nobody mentions it and nobody has to, because it's Sunday, and there's a whole day in front of you, and Nat said five more and Cassie said she's got nowhere to be.

Nat's phone buzzes on the table. She glances at it, and her thumb hovers, and then she turns the screen face-down on the wood and picks up her mug instead.

"Who's calling?" you ask.

Nat doesn't answer. She's already got the phone in her hand, thumb hovering, and then it goes still — and then it buzzes again, a short double pulse, the message tone, and her eyes flick down and across whatever's on the screen. Whatever it says, she reads it twice. You watch her jaw work once, a small hard swallow, and then she lays the phone face-down on the wood again, screen to the table, and picks her mug back up like the whole thing never happened.

You and Cassie look at each other across the toast.

"Who is it?" you say.

"Who is it," Cassie says at the exact same time, and the two of you land the words together, in unison, and Nat's mouth twitches at the corner despite herself.

She sets the mug down. She sighs — a big one, the kind she saves for the mortgage and the recycling schedule and your father's side of the family — and she reaches over and turns the phone back face-up and slides it across the table so it sits between you and Cassie, screen glowing.

"Okay," she says. "Fine. It's a forum. I went on a site — a support thing, for people dealing with, you know." She tips her chin at you without looking at you. "Conditions. Bodies that don't behave. I posted about you. Anonymously. Just the facts, no names, nothing that could come back to you. And I asked what other people do. What helps."

"And?" Cassie says.

"And I got a hundred answers." Nat's thumb rubs the handle of her mug. "Some of them are plain. Keep him hydrated. Don't let him get behind. Sleep, electrolytes, all the boring stuff you already know. Some of them are — steamy. And some of them are just straight-up erotica with a username attached."

Cassie's already got the phone. She swipes up, scrolls, and you watch her face do the whole journey in ten seconds — flat, then a slow smile, then a laugh that comes up out of her chest and won't stop. "Nat. Nat. This girl — nympo699 — she's sent you forty-seven messages. Forty-seven."

"I know how many there are."

"She's called you nine times."

"I know how many times."

Cassie reads one out loud, holding the phone up like a subpoena. "'Step one, get him off the screens. A body in the room beats a screen every time. Step two, if you can't get him hard, get on your knees and use your mouth — the mouth never lies about what it wants.'" She scrolls. "'Step three —'" She stops. She reads the rest of step three with her eyes and doesn't say it out loud, and something crosses her face that's half amusement and half actual interest, and she hands the phone back to Nat. "She's not trying to help you, Nat. She's trying to get you off. That's phone sex with a support-group logo."

"I don't know what she's trying to do." Nat takes the phone back. She doesn't put it face-down this time. "But some of it's not stupid. Some of it's just — things we haven't tried."

Cassie leans back in her chair and lets her knees fall open again, and you try very hard to keep your eyes on the phone and not on the smooth bare fact of her under the table. "Can you even do what's in those messages?" she says. "Real question. Blow job, sure. Lick his ass? Do a sixty-nine? Nat, you won't even eat coleslaw."

"I've swallowed his cum," Nat says, flat, and doesn't look up from the screen.

Cassie stops laughing.

"Yesterday," Nat goes on, still flat, still scrolling with her thumb. "Kitchen. The spoon. It went in my mouth and I swallowed it before I knew what I was doing. So don't tell me what I will and won't do. And anyway — it's a suggestion. Reading a suggestion doesn't mean I'm going to do it."

Cassie's mouth opens. Closes. She looks at you — a quick sideways cut, like she's checking whether you heard that too — and you're sitting there with cold toast in your hand and your cock still half-hard in your boxers and no idea what to do with any of it.

Then Cassie turns in her chair to face you square, elbow on the table, chin on her fist, and her eyes go serious under all the noise.

"Okay, Dylan. My turn. I want to ask you something and I want you to be candid. No pressure. Don't dress it up. Just be honest with us."

"Okay," you say.

You don't know how to answer. That's the truth and it sits in your throat like a bone. Your ideal situation — you've never once put it in words. You've got seven years of magazines and a timer and a folder on your phone you don't look at the name of, and underneath all of it there's a thing you've never said out loud to anybody, because who would you say it to. But Nat's phone is still glowing on the table and Cassie's knees are still open and both of them are looking at you with the same expression — not teasing anymore, not performing, just hungry for the answer — and the words come up out of you before you decide to let them.

"I always like to see girls bottomless," you say. Soft. Almost a mumble. "That's — that's the first thing. Just that. Seeing it."

"One point," Cassie says, and there's a grin in it but it's not a joke, she's marking it down like a scorecard. "Keep going."

"And — now that I've actually — now that it's happened, I think about coming in a mouth. Not on a screen. Actually feeling it, the — the tongue, and her swallowing." Your face is hot. You keep going anyway. "And I want to know what a pussy tastes like. I want to know what it feels like when I touch one. With my fingers, with — with my mouth. I've watched it a thousand times and I have no idea if it's real."

"It's real," Cassie says.

"And what it feels like to have my ass licked." You say it fast, get it out. "I don't know why. I just — everything I've ever watched, I want to know which parts are true and which parts are just camera. And —" You stop.

"And," Nat says. It's the first thing she's said in a while and it's quiet.

"And what it feels like to do all six in a row. Not spread out. Not five a.m. in the bathroom and then the car and then the counter. Six, one after another, with a person, until there's nothing left. Because I want to know —" you look at Nat, because this part is for her — "if I drain it all out, does the pressure come back the same? Does it get less? Nobody's ever told me. The doctor didn't know. I want to find out if it's even possible to get ahead of it."

Nat sets the phone down and looks at you for a long second. Then she says, "I don't know if it would stop your condition. I don't think anything stops it. But if it would ease the stress — if you could have one day where it isn't a chore you're behind on —" she shrugs one shoulder — "that would be nice to hear. That's worth finding out."

"We can do all that," Cassie says. "It's Sunday. There's nothing else on the calendar."

"Hold on." Nat puts her hand flat on the table. "Before anybody gets excited. Cassie."

"Mm."

"Can you take his dick inside you and let him ride you until he comes six times? Can you handle it? Because I can't." She says it without a flicker. "My pussy's small. It's tight. Two and I'd be sore for a week and he'd still be behind. You, on the other hand —" she tips her head, considering, the way she'd consider a cut of meat at the butcher's — "you've got more room. But can your stamina last? That's the real question. Six loads. In you. Is that a thing you can actually do, or is that a thing you say at breakfast."

Cassie laughs — loud, delighted, head back. "Nat. You just called my pussy roomy."

"I called it bigger. There's a difference."

"There really isn't."

"There is if you're the one being ridden for six."

They go on like that, back and forth across the table, and neither of them looks at you while they do it — they talk about your cock and your loads and Cassie's stamina the way they'd talk about a car that needs a new transmission, and it should make you want to crawl under the table and instead it does the opposite. It does the opposite entirely. You sit there with your hands flat on the wood and your cock tenting your boxers and a grin spreading across your face that you can't get rid of, because for seven years this has been a thing you do alone in the dark with the door locked, and now it's a Sunday problem two women are solving out loud over cold toast like it's a leaky faucet.

*Finally*, you think. *Finally, something that isn't a magazine and a timer.*

Nat catches you grinning. She raises one eyebrow at you over her mug, the ghost of her own smile at the corner of her mouth, and doesn't say anything about it. "So," she says. "Where do you want to start."

Nat doesn't answer right away. She takes a long pull off her mug, sets it down, and looks at the two of you like she's deciding how much to say. Then she reaches over and turns the phone face-up, thumb working the screen, and you catch a glimpse of a message thread before she angles it away — a wall of text, most of it from the same name.

"I posted on a forum," she says. "A support site. People with conditions like yours — bodies that don't behave the way they're supposed to. I didn't use your name. I didn't use mine. I just said I live with someone who has to release six times a day or he goes down, and I asked what helped." She turns the phone toward you and Cassie. "This is what came back."

The screen is a mess of usernames and timestamps. Some of it is boring — hydration, electrolytes, sleep, a long paragraph about magnesium. Some of it isn't. A user called nympo699 has sent forty-seven messages, and the preview cuts off mid-sentence in a way that makes your ears go hot.

"She keeps calling," Nat says. "I don't know if she's trying to help or if she just wants phone sex. Honestly I think it's both."

Cassie reaches across the table and takes the phone out of Nat's hand, and for once she doesn't perform it — no flourish, no eyebrow. She just reads. Her thumb moves slow down the thread, and her face does the thing again, the flat-to-smile-to-laugh journey, except this time it stops at the laugh and stays there, and it's real. She scrolls up. Reads something. Snorts. Scrolls down. Reads something longer and her lips press together and her eyes go bright at the corners.

"Nat," she says. "This girl has drawn you a diagram. There's a diagram."

"I saw the diagram."

"There's a diagram and a schedule and a — what is this, a shopping list? Ginger? Why is there ginger?"

"I don't know." Nat's jaw is set. "I didn't ask about the ginger."

Cassie hands the phone back over your head and you catch one more glimpse of the thread before it goes by — a wall of text, all from the same handle, some of it short and some of it paragraphs long, and one line near the bottom you read before you can stop yourself: when he's emptied out he'll sleep like a dog and you'll feel like a woman who did something. Then it's gone and Nat's phone is face-down on the wood again, and Cassie is looking at you with her chin on her fist and her knees still open under the table and something new in her face. Not the hunger from before. Something more like a woman reading a menu she's decided to order from.

"Okay," she says. "Dylan."

"Yeah."

"I want to ask you something and I want you to be straight with me. No dressing it up. No making it sound nicer than it is. Both of us are sitting here in our own house on a Sunday with nothing to do, and your mother —" she tips her head at Nat — "has spent a week on the internet trying to figure out how to keep you from passing out in traffic. So. What's your ideal? If you could have it any way you wanted. What is it."

You don't know how to answer.

That's the honest truth and it sits in your throat like a swallowed bone. Seven years of magazines under the mattress and a timer on your phone and a folder you don't look at the name of, and nobody has ever once asked you that. Not the doctor. Not Nat, who has helped you since you were fifteen and never once asked what you wanted, only what you needed and how fast. You've never put it in words because there was never a person to put it to. And now there are two, both of them watching you with the same flat patient look, Nat's green eyes steady over the rim of her mug, Cassie's blue ones bright and unblinking, and the words come up out of you before you decide to let them.

"I like to see girls bottomless," you say. Quiet. Almost a mumble into the table. "That's the first thing. Just — that. Seeing it."

"One point," Cassie says, and it's a joke but she's not laughing, she's filing it. "Keep going."

"And — now that it's actually happened — I think about coming in a mouth. Not on a screen. Feeling it. The tongue, and her swallowing. That's — that's a thing I want."

"That's two."

"That's two," Cassie says, and she doesn't look away from you when she says it. She's got her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist and she's reading you like the forum thread, thumb moving slow, except there's no screen between you now. "Don't stop. You were doing good."

"I want to know what a pussy tastes like," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not from a video. From — from doing it. Putting my mouth on one and finding out if it's the same as it looks."

Cassie's eyebrows go up. She doesn't laugh. "Three."

"And what it feels like to have my ass licked." You say it fast so you don't lose your nerve. "I don't know why that one's in my head. It just is. Everything I've ever watched, I want to know which parts are true and which parts are just camera angles."

"Four." She's not smiling now. She's counting like she's building something.

"And —" You look at Nat, because this last part is hers. "And I want to know what it feels like to do all six in a row. Not spread out. Not one in the bathroom, one in the car, one at the counter. Six, back to back, with a person, until there's nothing left in me. Because I want to know if I drain it all out, does the pressure come back the same? Does it get less? Does it even work that way? The doctor didn't know. Nobody's ever told me."

Nat sets her mug down. The ceramic clicks on the wood and she looks at you for a long second, and there's something in her face you don't have a name for. Not the practical look. Not the crisis-management look. Something quieter that she pulls back behind her eyes before you can get a read on it.

"I don't know if it would stop your condition," she says. "I don't think anything stops it. It's not a thing that gets cured, it's a thing we manage. But if it would ease the stress — if you could have one day where it isn't a chore you're three hours behind on —" she shrugs one shoulder — "that's worth finding out. That's a real thing to find out."

"We can do all that," Cassie says. She sits back and lets her hands fall open on the table like she's just laid down a winning hand. "It's Sunday. There's nothing on the calendar. Nobody's coming over. The lawn's already mowed."

"Hold on." Nat puts her hand flat on the table, fingers spread, the way she does when she's about to talk about the mortgage. "Before anybody gets excited. Cassie."

"Mm."

"Can you take his dick inside you and let him ride you until he comes six times? Can you actually handle it? Because I can't." She says it without a flicker, no heat in it at all, just the facts. "My pussy's small. It's tight. Two and I'd be sore for a week and he'd still be behind. You, on the other hand —" she tips her head, considering you the way she'd consider a cut of meat at the butcher's counter — "you've got more room. But can your stamina last? That's the real question. Six loads. In you. Is that a thing you can actually do, or is that a thing you say at breakfast."

Cassie laughs — loud, delighted, head back, throat open. "Nat. You just called my pussy roomy."

"I called it bigger. There's a difference."

"There really isn't."

Nat catches you grinning. She raises one eyebrow at you over her mug, the ghost of her own smile at the corner of her mouth, and doesn't say anything about it.

"So," she says. "Where do you want to start."

Cassie stands up. Her chair scrapes back and she doesn't push it in, just steps around the corner of the table and comes to a stop beside your chair, close enough that her skirt is brushing your bare knee. She looks down at you with her hands loose at her sides and her hip cocked, and she does it slow, deliberately, like she's giving you time to say no if you want to.

You don't say no.

"Bottomless was number one," she says. "Let's start with number one."

She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of the skirt and pushes it down over her hips, and it drops to the floor in one motion, a soft pool of fabric around her ankles. Underneath there's nothing but the thin gray thong, and the fact of her is right there at eye level — the long pale line of her thigh, the flat of her stomach, the strip of fabric cutting between her hips. She steps out of the skirt and kicks it aside with her foot and doesn't reach for the thong yet. She just stands there and lets you look.

Behind you, Nat's mug comes down on the table. You hear it — a small deliberate sound, a punctuation mark — and you don't turn around to see her face.

"Well?" Cassie says. "Is it what you thought it would be?"

You try to answer and your mouth is dry. "Yeah."

"Yeah." She smiles down at you, and it's not the performing smile, it's the real one, the one from the thread. "Okay. Number two."

She reaches down and takes your hand off the table — your right hand, the one nearest her — and she doesn't guide it anywhere yet, she just holds it, palm to palm, and looks at Nat over your head. "Nat. You want to stay for this or you want to go do something?"

"I want to stay," Nat says. Her voice is even. "Somebody's got to keep score."

Cassie laughs — short, through her nose — and then she steps in close and puts your hand flat on her stomach, low, just above the waistband of the thong, and the skin there is warm and smooth and it moves under your palm when she breathes. She holds your wrist and slides your hand down, under the fabric, and your fingers meet the heat of her, the slick of her, and she's already wet — not a little, not damp, wet, the whole length of her slit slicked and waiting, and the sound she makes when your fingertips find her is small and involuntary and nothing like the laughing woman from the table.

"That's what it feels like," she says. Quiet. "That's the answer to your question. That's real."

You move your fingers the way you've seen it done a thousand times on a screen and it is nothing like the screen — the way she opens for you, the way her hips shift to meet your hand, the way her breath catches on the inhale and skips on the exhale. She reaches back and braces one hand on the edge of the table, and her knees bend a little, and she lets you work her like that for a minute, two minutes, your fingers sliding in the wet, finding the small hard knot at the top of her and circling it because you read somewhere that's what you do, and her hand comes down on top of yours and presses, hard, showing you the pressure she wants.

"Okay," she says, and her voice has gone rough at the edges. "Okay. That's enough of that or I'm going to finish on your hand and I've got plans for today."

She pulls your hand out and holds it up between you, glistening, and then — deliberately, watching your face — she brings your fingers to her own mouth and sucks them clean, one at a time, tongue curling around each knuckle. "That's what you taste like," she says. "On me. That's the second answer."

Nat's chair creaks. You still don't turn around.

Cassie lets go of your hand and kneels down in front of your chair. Not performing it — just down, knees on the tile, her hands on your thighs, and she looks up at you from between your knees with her hair falling forward over one eye. She hooks her fingers in the waistband of your boxers and tugs.

"Lift," she says, and you lift, and she pulls them down over your hips and your cock comes free of the fabric and stands up against your stomach, hard and dark and already leaking at the tip, and she looks at it the way she looked at the forum thread. Reading it. Filing it.

"Number two," she says. "Coming in a mouth."

She takes you in her hand first — just her hand, fingers wrapped around the base, thumb sliding up the underside — and she strokes you slow, root to tip, root to tip, watching your face while she does it, and you have to grab the edges of your chair to keep from bucking up into her grip. Then she leans in and puts her mouth on the head of your cock and her tongue comes out flat and wet and drags up the length of you, and the sound that comes up out of your chest is not a sound you've ever made in front of another person before.

"There it is," she says against your skin, and then she takes you in.

Her mouth is hot and wet and she knows what she's doing — she takes you deep on the first pass, all the way to the back of her throat, and holds it there, and you feel the flutter of her swallowing around the head of your cock and your whole body locks up. Then she pulls back slow, lips dragging, and does it again. And again. Her hand works the base in time with her mouth, twisting a little on the upstroke, and her other hand is on your thigh, nails digging in, holding you down in the chair.

You look down at her and she's looking up at you and her eyes are wet at the corners and her mouth is stretched around your cock and she's still — somehow, impossibly — smiling around it.

Behind you, Nat says, very quietly, "He's close. He gets quiet right before."

She's right. You didn't know she knew that. You've gone quiet — your hands are white on the chair, your breath is coming in short through your nose, and Cassie feels it and doubles down, takes you deeper, one hand moving fast now on the base, and you come in her mouth with a sound like you've been punched.

She doesn't pull off. She swallows — you feel it, the whole length of your cock pressed against the working of her throat — and then she swallows again, and then she pulls back slow with her lips still sealed around the head and lets you see the last of it on her tongue before she closes her mouth and swallows that too.

She sits back on her heels. Wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. Looks up at you.

"Two," she says. "That's two. Four to go."

Cassie climbs to her feet and hooks her thumbs under the thin gray band of the thong. She works it down over her hips slow, letting it catch on the swell of her ass before it drops, and she steps out of it and kicks it somewhere behind her without looking. Then she's standing in the kitchen light with nothing on at all.

She doesn't pose. That's what gets you — she just stands there, arms loose, weight on one hip, letting the room have her. The smooth mound, the long pale line of her stomach, the small dark points of her nipples gone hard in the cold kitchen air. She crosses to the chair at the end of the table — the high one, the wooden one with the slat back that nobody ever sits in — and she climbs up onto it.

Then she turns to face you.

She plants one bare foot on the tabletop, knee bent, and swings the other leg wide, and she settles into the angle like it's a chair built for exactly this. Her thigh lands on the wood with a soft slap of skin. The other one hangs off the side of the seat, foot braced on the lower rung, and the spread of her is square in front of your face — the shaved mound, the neat pink lips parted with the stretch of her legs, the small tight furl of her ass pressed flat against the chair slats.

She reaches down with two fingers and pulls herself open. Just barely. Just enough that the wet shine catches the light and you can see the small hard knot of her clit at the top, and the darker flush underneath where she's already slicked and ready.

"Your turn to taste," she says.

You're off the chair before you've decided to move. Your knees hit the tile and you're leaning in, mouth open, and then her hand comes down flat on your forehead and stops you dead.

"No." Not sharp. Level. "Don't kneel."

You blink up at her. "What?"

"Stay where you are. In the chair." She tips her head at your chair, still pulled out behind you. "Sit. Move your ass back so your legs are the ones on the seat. Bend, reach out. Come to me from there."

You don't get it. You sit back down anyway, and you shift your weight back until your ass is on the front edge of the seat and your knees are up, feet planted on the chair, and you bend forward over your own lap — and then it makes sense. From here your face is level with her cunt. Her thigh on the table gives her the height, and the reach is nothing, and you don't have to kneel at all. You just have to fold.

You fold. You put your hands on the table on either side of her thigh and you lean in until your nose is an inch from her, and you stop there and breathe her in. Sharp and warm and animal, nothing like the smell of her in the car, closer, wetter, the whole of it right under your face.

Your tongue comes out and you put it just above her clit. A short lick, barely anything, a test of the surface.

Cassie moans. Low, in her chest, and her eyes fall half shut and her head tips back against the slat of the chair. Her hand comes down off the table and lands in your hair, not pushing, just resting there.

"Again," she says. "Longer."

You go again. This time you start at the bottom and drag your tongue all the way up her slit, slow, flat, and she tastes like — nothing you have a word for. Salt and heat and something faintly sweet underneath, and the slick of her coats your tongue and your chin. She rolls her hips up into your mouth and her hand in your hair tightens.

You do it again. And again. Each pass a little deeper, a little more sure, until you're not testing anymore, you're eating her — tongue flat and wide, then pointed, then curling up inside her as deep as you can get it, and she's wet enough that your whole face is slick with her and the sound of your mouth on her fills the kitchen.

You're so far into it that you don't hear Nat get up.

What you feel is the chair shift behind you. A knee on the tile. A hand on your lower back, warm and flat, sliding down over your spine to the waistband of the boxers you're still half-wearing — and then she peels them down over your hips and off, and you're bare from the waist down, kneeling-folded in the chair with your ass up and your face buried in her sister.

You feel the cool air on your asshole. Then two thumbs, parting you, spreading your cheeks wide.

You start to lift your head and Cassie's hand in your hair pushes you back down. "Don't stop," she says. "Eyes on me."

So you don't stop. You keep your tongue working in her while you feel Nat settle in behind you, and then there's a small clink of ceramic — the mug, the cold coffee, you know that sound from a hundred mornings — and then a slow cool trickle running down the crack of your ass.

You jerk at the shock of it. It's cold, and it runs down between your cheeks in a thin line and pools exactly where she wants it, and then her tongue is on you.

The sound you make into Cassie's cunt is not a word. It's a long, muffled groan that vibrates through her, and she gasps and grinds down onto your mouth.

Nat licks long first. One slow stroke from the base of your balls all the way up over your hole, flat and wet, and your whole body shudders and your hips push back into her face without your permission. Then she goes in circles. Tight ones, right around the rim, her tongue working the muscle in a slow spiral, and every pass sends a hot wire up your spine that has nothing to do with your cock and everything to do with the base of your skull.

Then she stops circling and pushes.

Her tongue finds your hole and probes it, pointed, pressing in, and the muscle gives a little and she's in you, just the tip, working it in and out, and the sensation is so far outside anything you've ever felt that your eyes water and your hands fist in the tablecloth and you forget, for a second, that you're supposed to be doing anything at all.

Cassie feels you go still. Her heel comes down on your shoulder blade.

"Hey." Rough. "I said don't stop."

You come back to her. You put your mouth back on her clit and suck, and she rewards you with a long shaking moan and her thighs clamp around your ears. She's trembling now, both legs, and her hips are rolling in a rhythm you can't keep up with, and one of her hands is knotted in your hair and the other is white on the edge of the table.

Behind you Nat keeps working. Her tongue long, then circles, then pushing in, and then — you feel a shift, her mouth leaving you for a second — and then two of her fingers slide into your ass, slick with the coffee and her spit, and curl forward.

You know that spot now. You learned it last night. And the second her fingertips find it and press, your whole body lights up and your cock jumps against your own stomach, untouched, and you groan straight into Cassie's cunt hard enough that she feels it and cries out.

"Oh God," she gasps. "Oh God, whatever she's doing to you, keep — keep doing what you're doing to me."

You do. You eat her like it's the only thing left in the world, and Nat fucks you slow with two fingers and licks around the stretched rim where they go in, and the two sensations braid together in your gut and climb, and you can feel your own climax coming up from somewhere deeper than your cock, a pressure building behind your balls and at the base of your spine at the same time.

Cassie gets there first.

Her legs lock around your head and her whole body bows up off the chair, and she comes with a long, open, breaking moan that goes on and on — her cunt clenching against your mouth, her thighs shaking hard enough to rattle the table, her hand in your hair gone white-knuckled. You keep licking her through it, softer now, riding the aftershocks, and she shudders and whimpers and finally goes limp against the chair back with her chest heaving.

The sound of her coming tips you over.

You come with your face still buried in her and Nat's fingers still curled inside you, and it goes off like a fist to the chest — your whole body locking, your hips bucking forward into nothing, and your cock jerking untouched between your stomach and the chair. It sprays down onto the tile. Rope after rope of it, splashing onto the floor between your feet, and you can't stop, and you can hear it land, and you've never come this hard without a hand on you in your entire life.

Behind you, Nat doesn't stop.

She keeps her fingers in your ass and her tongue on the rim, working you through it while you shake, and her other hand — her free hand — you feel it slide around your hip and down between her own thighs. She's still squatting there behind you, and her fingers find her own cunt, and she starts fucking herself with them while she fucks you with the other hand, and you can hear it — the wet sound of her own fingers, fast and sloppy, right behind your ass.

She comes with a soft, low moan. Just one. Quiet, almost private, like she didn't mean for either of you to hear it — and her fingers inside you curl tight and hold, and her breath goes out of her in a long unsteady rush against your skin, and then she pulls out slow and sits back on her heels.

None of you move for a while. The radio keeps playing under the cabinet. The coffee on the floor spreads in a thin brown puddle around your feet and you don't care.

Cassie's foot slides off the table and lands on the tile with a slap. She climbs down off the chair and stretches, arms overhead, spine popping, and looks at the mess on the floor and then at you, folded in the chair with your face still shiny with her.

"Well," she says. "That's three. And you didn't even use your hands."

Nat stands up behind you. You turn your head and there she is — bottomless. The sleep shirt already gone somewhere, the black lace thong in a puddle by her feet, standing in her own kitchen with her auburn hair loose and the wet shine of her own fingers still on her hand. She reaches down and picks up the mug off the floor where she set it, and tips the last of the cold coffee back, and swallows, and watches the two of you over the rim the whole time.

She sets the empty mug on the table. She looks at Cassie, then at you, and the flat green attention is back, but softer at the edges now, and her mouth does the almost-smile.

"That was fun," she says.

Cassie laughs — a real one, short and surprised. "That's what you've got? That was fun?"

"What do you want me to say."

"I don't know. Something." Cassie steps over the puddle of cum on the floor like it's a rug she doesn't like and comes to stand in front of you, and she reaches down and wipes your chin with the flat of her thumb, once, and shows you the shine of herself on it before she licks it off. "Anything."

Nat's eyes come down to you in the chair. Bare-assed, spent, your cock still half-hard and slick against your own stomach, and the floor between your feet a mess you made with no one's hand on you.

"What's left on the wishlist," she says.

You know the answer. Both of them know the answer. It's been sitting on the table since breakfast, and the coffee's gone cold and the toast is gone hard and the day is still wide open in front of you.

"Six in a row," you say. Your voice comes out scraped. "That's the last one."

Nat looks at Cassie. Cassie looks at Nat. Neither of them says anything for a beat, and then Cassie turns back to you with her hip cocked and the real smile on, the one from the thread, and she reaches down and takes your chin in her hand.

"Then let's find out if it's even possible," she says.

Cassie lets go of your chin and steps back, and that's when the day stops being a scene and turns into a chore. The three of you are still naked — Nat standing in the kitchen with her ponytail loose and her hip against the counter, Cassie with her hair swinging free and her ass still bare where she bent to pick up her thong off the floor, and you with your cock half up against your stomach and a puddle of your own cum cooling on the tile between your feet. Nobody reaches for clothes. Nobody even looks for them.

"Rag," Nat says, and tosses you a dish towel from the drawer. "You made the mess, you wipe it."

You wipe it. The tile goes tacky under the cloth and you have to scrub at one corner where the coffee and the cum have mingled into something the color of weak tea. Cassie rinses the mugs — three of them now, the two from last night and the one from breakfast — and stacks them in the rack, and Nat runs hot water over the pan from the toast and scrubs the burnt spot with the flat of her thumb. The radio keeps playing. The window over the sink is fogged at the bottom and you can see one of the neighbor's maples going orange at the edge.

It's the most ordinary half-hour of the day and it's happening with three uncovered bodies in it. Cassie reaches past you for the dish soap and her tit drags across your shoulder. Nat bends to put the pan in the lower cabinet and you get a full view of her from behind, the green-eyed attention gone somewhere else entirely, and she doesn't straighten any faster for your sake. You catch yourself staring at the small dark mole on her hip — you've never seen it in four years of living in this house — and you look away and then look back, because there's no one to hide it from.

"Shower," Nat says, when the last dish is racked. "We all need one and I'm not going through the afternoon smelling like a fryer."

"Yours or mine?" Cassie asks.

"Yours is bigger. Yours has the good pressure."

"You just like my shampoo."

"I do like your shampoo." Nat wipes her hands on the towel and hangs it on the oven bar. "Come on."

The upstairs bathroom is the one at the end of the hall — the one with the single window that's been painted shut since before you moved in, and a shower stall with a glass door and a bench in it that Nat's never once used and Cassie will find a use for by the end of the week, you'd bet. Nat turns the water on and steps back and the room fills with steam fast, the mirror going opaque, the tile going slick and warm under your bare feet. The three of you stand under the spray and the heat of it loosens something in your shoulders that's been tight since the car.

Nat gets the bar of soap first. She works up a lather in her hands and starts on her own arms, her own neck, and then — without a word — she reaches over and puts her soapy palm flat on your chest.

"You first," she says. "You're the one who has to get through six."

And then she's not really washing you anymore. Her hand slides down your stomach, over the ridge of your hip, and closes around your cock, and she works the soap up and down the length of you slow and businesslike, thumb dragging the head each time she reaches the top. The suds squeak. The water drums on the crown of your skull. It's the same grip she used last night on the bed, except now it's a chore — a task she's ticking off — and her face is doing the flat green thing while her hand moves like it's scrubbing a dish.

The two of them start talking about you like you're a piece of furniture in the room.

"So," Cassie says, leaning one shoulder against the tile with her hair soaked flat and her arms crossed under her tits. "Who's taking the six?"

"What do you mean, who's taking it."

"I mean whose pussy's on the clock. Because if it's mine, I need to know how many I can actually take before I'm raw, and if it's yours, I need to know how many you can take before you tap out and hand him back." She tips her head. "You or me, Nat. Pick."

Nat's hand keeps moving on your cock. The soap's gone thin and the water's rinsing it off, and she doesn't stop to re-lather. "You've got more room," she says. "I've got more patience. That's the honest answer."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer you're getting." Nat's thumb slides up the underside of you and your hips jerk and neither of them looks down. "You take the first three. I'll take the last three. That way neither of us is the one who breaks."

"Three and three," Cassie says, considering it. "That's clean."

"It's not clean, it's logistics. You get the ones where he's still got the most in him. I get the ones where he's got nothing left and I just have to hold him through it." She squeezes you at the base — hard, one deliberate pulse — and you make a sound and she talks over it. "He gets softer after four. Not soft. Softer. It takes longer. That's the part that scares people off."

"It doesn't scare me off."

"I know it doesn't. That's why I'm telling you."

Cassie's eyes come down to your cock in Nat's fist and stay there. She's watching Nat's wrist move the way she watched the forum thread — reading it, filing it — and there's a slow smile spreading across her mouth that has nothing to do with the joke and everything to do with what she's looking at.

"You know what I noticed," Cassie says. "You've stopped pretending you don't like it."

"I've never pretended anything."

"Nat. Yesterday you wouldn't look at him in the car. Today you've had your finger in his ass and your hand on his dick twice and you're not even blushing."

Nat's ears go the color of the tile. But her hand doesn't stop. If anything it goes slower, longer strokes, root to tip, and she lets the water run down your cock and between her fingers and she keeps going like it's the most natural thing in the room.

"I'm not a prude," she says. "I never was a prude. I was just — practical."

"Practical."

"Practical. If he needs six a day, he needs six a day. Somebody's got to help him get them. I'd rather it be his family than some stranger in a parking lot."

"His family," Cassie says, and laughs — low, delighted. "God, Nat. You say it like it's a carpool."

"It is a carpool. It's the weirdest carpool in the county."

You laugh at that, and the laugh comes out breathy, because Nat's hand has gone from slow to slow-and-tight and the soap's long gone and it's just her grip now, slick with water, working up and down the length of you while the two of them talk. You're standing under the spray with your cock in your stepmom's fist and your aunt leaning on the tile three feet away and neither of them has looked at your face in two minutes.

Cassie doesn't stay leaning. She pushes off the wall and comes to stand on Nat's other side, hip to hip with her, and she reaches down and puts her hand over Nat's — not to take over, just to feel the motion, to ride along with it for a stroke or two. "Here," she says, close to Nat's ear. "Twist going up. He likes it. Watch."

She guides Nat's wrist through one turn, thumb and forefinger making a ring just under the head, and your whole body folds forward and you grab the shower rail and Nat makes a small pleased sound like she's just gotten a recipe right.

"Oh," she says. "Yeah. That's better."

"Told you."

Cassie keeps talking. She talks about positions the way she talked about the forum thread — flat, cataloguing, no performance in it — and every word goes straight down your spine and into Nat's hand.

"If we're doing six, we're not doing six the same way. He'll go numb. First one should be easy — on his back, me on top, let him come quick and not even think about it. Second one's the one where he's still got the pressure, so that's the one you want to draw out. Slow. Long strokes. Make him wait for it. Third one —" she pauses, and her hand finds Nat's wrist again and stills it, and she looks at you through the steam with her eyes bright. "Third one's the one where you put him on his knees and eat his ass while he's still hard from the second one. That's the trick. He can't tell up from down after that. He'll come from nothing."

Nat's hand tightens. She's listening. She's really listening, and her hips have shifted against the tile and her thighs have gone close together and she's not pretending she isn't turned on anymore — she's just standing there in the hot water with her hand on your cock and her mouth a little open, taking notes.

"Fourth one's the hardest," Cassie goes on. "That's where he'll want to stop. That's where you don't let him. That's where you put your mouth on him and hold him still and make him take it. Fifth one's the one where he comes in your mouth and you swallow it and it doesn't even taste like anything anymore, it's just — him. And sixth —" she shrugs one shoulder like she's closing a book — "sixth one's the one you do lying down with him inside you, both of you wrecked, and you just let him finish in you because there's nowhere else left for it to go."

Nat says nothing. Her hand has picked up the rhythm again, slow and steady, twisting on the upstroke exactly the way Cassie showed her, and her eyes are on Cassie's face and not on yours, and she's breathing through her nose in long even pulls like she's holding something down.

"You want me to keep going?" Cassie says.

"Keep going."

"Because I can do the whole list."

"I said keep going."

So Cassie keeps going. She talks about the sixth one in detail — about what it feels like to have a man come inside you when he's got nothing left, about the way it just leaks out of you after, about how she wants to feel it on her thighs when she stands up. She talks about doing it in her mouth first and then her pussy and then her ass, in that order, and about how she's never let anybody in her ass before and she wants to know if it's true what they say. She talks about you eating Nat out while Cassie works your cock from behind, and about Nat eating Cassie out while you work Nat from behind, and about a version where all three of you are on the bed in a line and nobody knows whose mouth is whose.

Nat's hand speeds up. You can hear the wet sound of it now under the water, the slick drag of her fist, and you're watching the two of them talk about your body like it's a map they're planning a trip across, and the pressure in your balls comes up so fast you don't have time to warn either of them.

"Nat—"

"Mm."

"Nat, I'm—"

She doesn't stop. She doesn't slow down. She just turns her head to look at you for the first time in three minutes, flat green attention, and keeps working you through it, and you come.

It goes off hard and sudden — the whole day's worth of pressure behind it — and the first rope of it arcs up and lands on Nat's mound. Right on the dark hair, right at the top of her slit, a thick white stripe of it, and she doesn't flinch and she doesn't move away. She keeps stroking. The second pulse lands lower, on her thigh, and the third one slides down over her fingers and drips off her knuckles onto the shower floor, and she works you through every one of them with the same even rhythm, watching it happen, and when you finally go still against her palm she lets her hand slow and stop and looks down at the mess on herself.

"There," she says. "That's five."

You're still hard. That's the whole condition — you're always still hard — and Cassie sees it before you've caught your breath. She reaches across Nat without a word and takes your cock in her own hand, and her grip is different from Nat's — looser, slower, more of a tease — and she strokes you down and up once, twice, three times while Nat stands there with your cum drying on her thigh and watches.

"My turn to talk," Nat says.

Cassie raises an eyebrow and keeps stroking. "Go."

"I want him on his knees." Nat's voice is even. She's looking at your face now, not your cock. "In the kitchen. On the tile where he made the mess. I want him to eat me while you stand behind him and hold his head. That's the first thing I want."

"Okay."

"And then I want him inside me on the bed — on his back, me on top, because I want to be the one who decides how fast it goes. And I want you underneath him while it happens. I want him to feel you under him while he's in me. That's the second thing."

Cassie's hand has slowed. She's listening now the way Nat was listening a minute ago, her wrist moving on autopilot, her eyes on Nat's mouth.

"And the third thing," Nat says, "is I want to watch you take him in the ass. I don't want to do it. I want to watch it. I want to see his face when it happens and I want to see yours."

Cassie laughs — short, surprised, real. "Nat."

"What."

"Nothing. I just — I didn't know you had a list."

"Everybody has a list."

Cassie's hand speeds up on your cock. She's not teasing anymore. Her grip is tight and wet and she's watching Nat's face while she works you, and Nat is watching her back, and the two of them have forgotten you're between them entirely except for the fact that your cock is in Cassie's fist and your cum is drying on Nat's thigh.

You come again. This one's thinner, less of it, but it still comes hard — Cassie's grip is good and the dirty talk is still in your ears and Nat's tits are right there in front of you, water beading on them — and it sprays across Cassie's knuckles and up her forearm and one streak lands on her stomach, and she keeps stroking you through it until your hips stop moving and then she lets go and holds her hand up in the water and watches your cum run off her fingers down the drain.

"Look at you," she says. "Already on the fifth and it's not even noon."

"That's six," Nat says.

"That's five."

"That's six. The kitchen was three and this is —" Nat counts on her fingers under the water, mouthing the numbers, and gives up. "Whatever it is, it's a lot and it's before lunch."

"Fine. It's six." Cassie rinses her hand and looks at you — at your cock, still half up, still slick, still not finished because it's never finished. "Let's finish it here. You've done your number. Now you sit down on that bench and you watch."

You sit down on the bench. The tile's warm under your thighs and the water's still coming down and you lean back against the wall and your cock stands up off your stomach because it doesn't know any other way to be, and you watch.

Cassie turns to Nat. She doesn't say anything first — she just steps in close, closer than she's been all day, and puts one hand on Nat's hip and the other flat on the tile beside her head, and she looks at her sister for a long second, and Nat looks back, and neither of them says a word.

Then Cassie drops to her knees.

She goes down slow, water running over her shoulders, and she doesn't stop at Nat's thighs — she puts her hands on them and pushes them apart, and Nat lets her, and Cassie leans in and licks her.

Nat's whole body jolts. Her hands come up and slap flat against the tile behind her and her head tips back and a long, low moan comes out of her that fills the whole stall — surprise and heat and something underneath it that sounds like relief. Cassie doesn't stop. She works her tongue up the length of Nat's slit, slow and flat, and then again, and then she finds the clit and circles it, and Nat's moan breaks in the middle and comes back louder.

You watch from the bench with your cock in your hand without meaning to put it there. Cassie's got one hand braced on Nat's thigh and the other up between her own legs, and she's eating her sister out under the hot water like it's a thing she's been thinking about all morning, and Nat is gripping the tile with both hands and her knees are starting to shake.

Then Cassie looks over at you. She doesn't stop licking — she just turns her eyes your way, and then she lifts one hand off Nat's thigh and makes a jerking motion in the air, a fist moving up and down, and then she points at her own back — one finger, flat, deliberate — and goes back to work on Nat's clit.

Nat sees it. Nat's eyes are half shut and her mouth is open and she sees Cassie point at her own back, and she understands, and she reaches down through the steam and finds your cock and pulls you up off the bench by it.

"Come here," she says, rough. "Behind her. Now."

You stand behind Cassie with your cock in your own fist and Nat's hand comes down over yours and starts you moving, and Cassie's tongue is going faster on Nat now, faster and harder, and Nat's moans have stopped being quiet — they're loud, uncontrolled, bouncing off the tile, and her hips are rolling against Cassie's mouth and her hand on yours is tightening and loosening and tightening in time with it.

"Oh God," Nat says. "Oh God, Cassie, don't stop, don't—"

Her whole body tightens. Her thighs clamp around Cassie's head and her back arches off the tile and she comes with a long broken cry that goes on and on, and her hand on your cock squeezes hard and you're right at the edge and you're aiming for Cassie's back and your hips jerk forward and you come —

— and it doesn't land on her back. The first rope catches her shoulder and the second one goes higher, up the side of her neck, and the third one lands in her hair. A thick white streak of it right across the wet blond, another one on the crown, and the last pulse just leaks down onto the back of her head and drips off the ends of her hair into the water at her knees.

Cassie comes up off Nat slow. She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist and she looks down at the cum in her hair — she can't see it, but she can feel it, you can tell by the way her hand goes up and touches the wet streak and comes away white — and then she looks up at you over her shoulder with her eyes bright and her mouth red and something between a laugh and a scowl on her face.

"Well," she says. "That solves today's issue."

Nat's still against the tile, boneless, chest heaving, and she starts to laugh — a real one, tired and helpless — and Cassie starts laughing too, and the two of them stand there under the spray with your cum in Cassie's hair and Nat's taste still on Cassie's mouth and neither of them makes any move to wash it out.

"You aimed for my back," Cassie says.

"I aimed for your back," you say.

"You did not."

"I did. You moved."

"I didn't move, I was — Nat, did I move?"

"You moved," Nat says, and she's still laughing, and she reaches over and pulls Cassie under the shower head and starts working the water through her hair with her fingers, rinsing it out, and Cassie lets her. "You always move. You've moved your whole life. You moved at breakfast."

"I did not move at breakfast."

"You moved."

They keep going like that, bickering and rinsing and passing the soap back and forth, and you sit down on the bench again and watch them — your stepmom with her hair plastered to her neck, your aunt with her head tipped back under the water, both of them naked and easy and talking about sex positions like it's the weather — and the water keeps coming down and the room keeps filling with steam and nobody in this stall is in any hurry to get out.

Cassie reaches behind her and squeezes the water out of her hair and looks at you over her shoulder. "You good?"

"Yeah."

"Not dizzy?"

"Not dizzy."

"Good." She turns back to the water and tips her head under it. "Because we've still got all afternoon."