He stepped back. Not far — a half-pace, enough to let his cock come free of her mouth with a wet sound that filled the dining room like something knocked over. It stood out from his body slick and dark, catching the low light, and he looked down at the two of them the way a man looks at a table he has just cleared.

Olivia stayed where she was. Knees on the floor, hands still clasped behind her back, her chin lifted because she would not lower it. Her mouth was red and wet and she did not wipe it. Across the table, Ava had turned her face to the side against the runner, one cheek pressed flat to the wood, and she was breathing through her mouth in short pulls, her eyes fixed on nothing.

The room smelled like the scotch Hank had never lifted and the salt of what they had already done. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked. It was the only thing in the room not under his control.

"Both of you," Joe said. "On your backs. At the edge."

Olivia's head came up. "The edge of what."

He pointed at the table without looking at it, the way you point at a dog's bed. "Heads here." He tapped the corner of the table with two fingers. "Hanging off."

She understood before he finished. He watched it land — the small flare at her nostrils, the way her jaw set hard enough to show the tendon. Heads hanging off the edge meant throats open to the ceiling. Meant no way to close her mouth or turn her face. Meant she would be looking at him upside down, her own blood running the wrong way into her skull, while he did whatever he liked to her from above.

"You can say no," Joe said. He said it the way he said everything, flat, and they both knew what it was worth. Hank made a sound at the sideboard — a small, swallowed noise, half a word — and did not finish it.

Olivia rose. She rose the way she did everything now, without hurry, as if the pace were the last thing she owned. She climbed onto the table on her knees first, then turned and lay back along the runner, and when her head came over the edge the silver in her hair spilled loose and hung, and her throat was a long pale line under her jaw. She kept her eyes on the ceiling. She did not look at Hank. That was the one mercy she had left to give him and she gave it by not looking.

Ava had not moved.

"Ava." Joe did not raise his voice. He never raised his voice. "Get up on the table."

"I don't—" She stopped. Swallowed. Her hands were flat on the wood and she pushed herself up slowly, and he watched the way her arms shook doing it, the way she kept her face turned from her mother as she crawled back up the length of the runner and lay down beside her, head to the edge, hair fanning out over the lip of the table and hanging.

Two women on their backs. Two throats offered to the ceiling. He stood at the corner between their heads and looked down, and from where he stood he could see both their faces inverted, brows and lashes and open mouths, the whole architecture of them reversed.

"Open," he said.

Olivia opened her mouth. Ava did it a half-second later, and her breath came out of her in a shudder, and he could see her tongue and the dark at the back of her throat, and he could see, too, the way her eyes stayed open and fixed on him, upside down, furious and wet.

He knelt. One knee on the floor, one hand steadying himself on the table's edge, and he took his cock in his other hand and laid it along Olivia's lower lip first — just laid it there, the wet head dragging across her mouth — and held it while she waited with her mouth open and her throat working and nothing coming. She made a low sound. Not a word. He let her wait.

Then he pushed in.

The angle was everything. Her head hanging back meant her throat was a straight line under his cock, no bend, no place to hide it, and he went down into her slow and deep until his balls rested against her nose and her whole body had gone rigid on the table — her hands coming up off the wood to grip the table's edge, her hips lifting off the runner, her throat convulsing around him. She gagged. The sound was wet and small and it filled the room.

He held there. Counted. Not to be cruel — to be accurate. He wanted to know exactly how long she could take it, and he wanted her to know he knew.

His free hand found Ava.

She jerked when his fingers landed on her, but she didn't close her legs. She couldn't — she was lying flat, knees up, and there was nowhere to go. He dragged two fingers up the seam of her and she was wet. Sopping. It had been there since the table, since before the table maybe, and it had nothing to do with wanting him and everything to do with a body that read the room without asking her permission. She made a sound around her open mouth that was half a sob.

"You're soaked," Joe said.

"Don't—"

He pushed two fingers into her and curled them, and her sentence came apart. Her hips came off the table. Her cunt clamped down on his fingers and she made a noise that was nothing like the ones she'd made before — higher, hurt, honest — and he felt her clench around him in a slow pulse, once, twice, while above her head he drove deeper into her mother's throat and listened to Olivia gag around him.

He worked them both. His hips rolling down into Olivia's mouth in a slow, even rhythm, his fingers curling inside Ava in a rhythm that didn't match — faster, meaner, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit each time he pushed in. Ava's hands had found the runner and she was gripping it, twisting it, and she was making small sounds with every stroke that she couldn't stop and couldn't hide.

Olivia's eyes had gone unfocused. Upside down, her lashes wet, spit running from the corner of her mouth up her cheek toward her hair, she was watching him with a hatred so pure it was almost a kind of attention, and he looked right back at her while he fucked her throat.

"Good," he said. "Keep your eyes on me."

He pulled out of her mouth and she gasped air in through her throat, a raw, scraping sound, and before she'd finished it he had moved — one knee, two, a half-turn on the floor — and pushed into Ava's mouth instead.

She wasn't ready. She hadn't had the practice her mother had, and he went in too deep too fast and she gagged hard, her whole body bucking, her hands coming up to his thighs and then — he felt it — not pushing, just holding, fingers spread on his skin, taking it. He looked down along her inverted face and saw the tears squeezing out at the corners of her eyes and running up into her hair, and he saw her throat working, and he did not let up.

And his other hand found Olivia.

She was slick too. He'd known she would be — she'd been wet since the table, since before she'd stripped, and her body had been lying to her face all night. He pushed two fingers into her and she made a sound around nothing, a thin noise, and her hips lifted off the runner. He found her clit with his thumb and circled it, slow, while he fucked her daughter's mouth above her, and Olivia's hands came up and gripped the table's edge on either side of her own head and her back arched off the wood.

"Don't," she said. It came out wrecked. "Don't you—"

"Don't what."

She didn't answer. She couldn't — he'd curled his fingers up into her and her whole body had answered for her, a long shudder that ran from her throat to her knees, and her cunt clenched around his fingers and her clit jumped under his thumb and she made a sound she would hate herself for later.

He switched back.

Out of Ava's mouth, into Olivia's, deep and hard, and this time she took it — she took it, throat open, no gag, her eyes on his the whole way down, and he understood that she had decided something, somewhere in the last minute, and the decision was to stop fighting the body and start fighting him with it. He felt her tongue move against the underside of his cock and his hips stuttered. Just once. She felt it. He saw it in her eyes — upside down, wet, and for one second, satisfied.

"There it is," he said.

He gave her back her daughter's cunt. His fingers went into Ava again — three now, and she took them, she was so wet they went in without resistance, and she sobbed around nothing and her hips rolled up to meet his hand like she'd been doing it her whole life. He fucked Olivia's throat and finger-fucked Ava's pussy and the wet sounds of it were the only thing in the room, and Hank stood at the sideboard with his hands at his sides.

Ava came first.

He felt it before he heard it — her cunt clamping down on his fingers in hard, rhythmic pulses, her whole body pulling tight, her heels skidding on the table. She made a sound around her open mouth that was high and broken and she tried to close her legs and couldn't and came anyway, all over his hand, and he kept his fingers moving through it, slow, drawing it out, until she was shaking and oversensitive and trying to pull away from his hand and couldn't get far.

"There," he said. "That wasn't so hard."

He pulled out of Olivia's mouth. Stood up off his knee. His cock was slick from both of them and standing straight off his body, and he stood at the corner of the table and looked down at the two of them inverted and wrecked and open beneath him, and he reached down and took a fistful of each woman's hair.

Olivia's silver-streaked and Ava's long dark waves, one in each hand, and he pulled them up off the table's edge and turned them toward each other, and their faces came together over the polished wood — cheek to cheek first, and then he turned his wrists and mashed them mouth to mouth, Ava's chin against Olivia's, their lips crushed against each other, their eyes wide and up.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them kissed. They just held there, mouths pressed, eyes rolling up to him, and he looked down at the two of them tangled in his hands and stroked himself.

Fast. His hand working his cock in short, hard pulls, his breath coming ragged through his nose, and he watched Olivia's eyes and Ava's eyes and the way their cheeks were pressed so hard he'd left marks. Olivia's mouth was open against her daughter's mouth. Ava's breath was coming in short wet pulls against her mother's lips. And he watched Olivia understand — watched her see what was about to happen and know there was nothing left to do about it — and something in her face went still and let it come.

He came.

The first rope hit them both — caught Ava across the cheek and Olivia across the bridge of the nose, thick and hot, and he kept stroking and the second one landed across Ava's closed eye and her forehead, and the third across Olivia's mouth and chin, and he kept going, emptying himself across both their upturned faces until they were covered, until Ava's lashes were glued shut and Olivia's mouth was full of it and it was running up their cheeks into their hair and dripping off their chins onto the wood.

He let go of their hair.

Their heads sank back down to the table's edge and neither of them wiped their faces. Ava's eyes were still closed — sealed shut — and she was making a small sound, and Olivia's eyes were open and she was looking at him through a mask of his cum, blinking it out of her lashes, and she did not say a word.

"Now get on your knees," Joe said.

They did. Both of them, off the table, down onto the floor at the corner, faces slick and dripping, cum running down their chins and off the ends of their hair, and they knelt there side by side and looked up at him with their mouths open and their eyes streaming and waited.