Chapter 29: The Sunday Ritual Begins
The silence after Lucia left had been a living thing, breathing in the corners of the house for a week. It wasn’t an empty silence. It was a saturated one, heavy with the ghost of shutter-clicks and the phantom scent of coconut curry and sex. Aidan moved through it like a man in a dream, going to work, coming home, kissing Catriona’s cheek, catching Jenny’s eye across a room. Everything was the same. Everything was different.
Now, Sunday morning sun buttered the living room floor. The coffee Catriona had brewed was rich and dark in its ceramic pot.
“Family Sunday,” Catriona announced, placing a plate of smoked salmon and blini on the reclaimed wood dining table. She wore a simple linen dress, her auburn hair loose. She looked like a magazine spread on effortless entertaining.
Jenny, in shorts and a tank top, brought over a bowl of fruit salad. “It looks amazing, Catriona.”
Lucia sat beside her, her posture rigid. She’d arrived twenty minutes earlier, summoned by a text from Catriona that said simply, ‘Brunch. Noon.’ She wore jeans and a plain t-shirt, armor against the expected.
“Dig in,” Catriona said, taking her seat at the head. “Before it gets cold.”
The first few minutes were a symphony of cutlery. Aidan spread crème fraîche, his movements automatic. He felt Catriona’s hand settle on his thigh under the table. Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate circle. He stiffened, then forced himself to relax.
“How’s the coursework, Lucia?” Catriona asked, sipping her orange juice.
“It’s fine. Heavy.”
“I bet. All those formulas. It’s so abstract.” Catriona’s gaze was steady, her smile benign. “Sometimes you need a hands-on lesson to make theory stick.”
Lucia’s fork stilled. Jenny shot a warning look at Catriona, who ignored it, her hand sliding higher on Aidan’s thigh.
“The body is an incredible machine, isn’t it, Aidan?” Catriona continued, her tone conversational. “All those nerve endings. All those precise, perfect responses.”
Aidan cleared his throat. “It is.”
“I was thinking about trust today,” she said, as if sharing a sudden insight about wall colors. “Real trust. It’s not just about believing someone won’t hurt you. It’s about believing they know you. That they understand what you need, even the things you’re too afraid to name.” Her fingers pressed insistently. “Don’t you think?”
Jenny put her fork down. “Catriona…”
“Finish up, everyone,” Catriona said brightly, withdrawing her hand and standing. “I’ve set up the next lesson in the living room.”
Aidan’s appetite vanished. He followed the women, his heart a dull thud against his ribs. The living room was aired out, clean, the rug vacuumed of all evidence. But on the low leather ottoman, a new collection of objects had been arranged with her designer’s eye: coils of deep crimson silk rope, a black velvet blindfold, a small bottle of oil.
Lucia made a small, choked sound. Jenny’s face went carefully blank.
“Today,” Catriona said, picking up the blindfold, “we explore trust.” She turned to Aidan. “Your trust in us. Theirs in you. Ours in each other.” She came to him, rising on her toes to loop the soft velvet over his eyes. The world vanished into plush, sun-warmed darkness. “You don’t get to see. You only get to feel. To listen. To taste.”
His other senses rushed in to fill the void. The smell of coffee and citrus cleaner. The sound of three women breathing. The textured weave of the rug under his bare feet.
“Jenny,” Catriona’s voice came, a calm conductor’s. “Start with his shirt.”
Hands—Jenny’s hands, he knew their slight strength—tugged his t-shirt over his head. The air cooled his skin. Then Catriona took his wrists, guiding his hands forward until his fingertips brushed warm, soft skin covered in thin cotton.
“This is Jenny,” Catriona whispered, close to his ear. Her breath was warm. “Say hello.”
His palms flattened on Jenny’s hips. He felt the gentle curve of her, the dip of her waist. Under his thumbs, the sharp points of her hipbones. She was still, letting him explore. He heard her swallow.
“Now,” Catriona murmured, and she guided his hands to the right, to another form. Smaller, tighter with tension. “This is Lucia.”
His touch met denim, then the faint swell of a waist under a t-shirt. Lucia flinched, then held still. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart through her ribs.
“Touch their faces,” Catriona instructed.
He obeyed, moving as if underwater. His fingers traced the familiar landscape of Jenny’s cheekbone, the full curve of her lower lip, which parted under his touch. Then Lucia’s finer features, the delicate line of her jaw, the flutter of her eyelashes against his knuckles. She was breathing fast through her nose.
“Kiss them,” Catriona said. It wasn’t a request.
Aidan bent his head, his lips finding Jenny’s first. She met him with a hungry familiarity, her tongue slipping into his mouth, a taste of mint and assurance. Then Catriona gently turned his head, and he found Lucia’s mouth. It was closed, trembling. He pressed softly, and after a second’s hesitation, she yielded, opening for him with a soft sigh that wasn’t fear, but surrender.
The blindfold made it profound, isolating. He was a vessel for sensation.
He felt Catriona move away, heard the soft click of the camera being powered on. “Jenny, the oil. His chest. His stomach.”
Cool liquid dripped onto his sternum. Then Jenny’s hands were spreading it, sliding over his pectorals, down the ridges of his abdomen. Her touch was worshipful, thorough. Lucia’s hands, smaller and more tentative, joined in, learning his topography.
“Good,” Catriona’s voice floated. “Now, Lucia. Kneel.”
Fabric rustled. He felt Lucia’s presence lower before him. Her hands, slick with oil, found his cock, which was already thick and heavy. Her touch was clumsy, overwhelmed. Jenny’s hand closed over hers, guiding her, showing her the pressure, the rhythm. Aidan groaned, his head falling back. The dual sensation—the student and the teacher working him—was untenably good.
“That’s it,” Jenny whispered to her sister, her voice low and practical. “Just like that. Use your whole hand.”
“Now, Jenny,” Catriona said. “Show her the rest.”
Jenny’s guiding hand left. Aidan felt Lucia’s mouth, hot and unsure, replace her hands. It was awkward, teeth grazing, then correcting. Then Jenny was there too, her tongue licking a broad, wet stripe from the base to the tip, showing Lucia the way. The two of them, together, in the dark world of his blindfold. The image alone, summoned by sound and touch, nearly undid him.
“Enough,” Catriona said, her voice edged with her own arousal. “Aidan, lie back.”
He lowered himself to the rug. The velvet blindfold was damp with his own sweat at the temples.
“Lucia, darling,” Catriona said, her tone softening into something genuinely maternal. “You remember the position. Straddle him. Go on.”
He felt her knees bracket his hips, felt the trembling heat of her as she hovered over him. Her hands braced on his chest.
“Guide him in, Jenny,” Catriona instructed.
A slick, sure hand—Jenny’s—took his cock and positioned him. Then Lucia was lowering herself, an excruciating, tight, slow descent that forced a ragged shout from his throat. She was so tight, still new to this, and the blindfold made the sensation of her engulfing him feel world-ending.
When she was fully seated, she gasped, a sharp, broken sound. She didn’t move.
“Jenny,” Catriona said, and her voice was right beside them now. The camera clicked. “Make it easier for her.”
Aidan felt Jenny settle beside his hip. Then her mouth was on him again, not on the shaft Lucia was stretched around, but lower, at the very base, where he was most sensitive. She licked and sucked the root of him, and the shocking, dual-points of sensation—the impossible tightness sheathing him and the wet, rhythmic suction below—shattered any last pretense of control.
Lucia began to rock, finding a rhythm, spurred by his groans and Jenny’s ministrations.
Catriona’s voice was a whisper now, a thread of sound woven through their panting. “This is trust, Aidan. This is your family. This is what you wanted. Let go.”
And he did. The orgasm ripped through him, a seismic surrender that had him arching off the rug, his cry raw and unbottled. He pulsed deep inside Lucia, who cried out as well, her body clenching around him in startled, answering waves.
The camera clicked, and clicked, and clicked.
In the profound stillness that followed, broken only by their shattered breathing, Aidan understood the terrible truth. This wasn't a surprise anymore. It was an expectation. A tradition being built, one silk rope and velvet blindfold at a time. The fantasy had solidified into a schedule. And the hunger it fed was now a permanent, gnawing tenant in his gut.
And the hunger it fed was now a permanent, gnawing tenant in his gut.
He lay there, blindfolded, slick with oil and sweat, listening to the staggered breaths around him. Lucia’s weight shifted, lifting off him with a soft, wet sound. The velvet against his eyes was oppressive. He reached up to pull it off.
“Leave it,” Catriona said, her voice calm. “Just for a moment more. Breathe into it.”
He dropped his hand back to the rug, complying. He heard movement, the rustle of clothing, Jenny’s gentle whisper, “Here, use this,” likely handing Lucia a towel. The domesticity of the cleanup, occurring in the wake of that, was the most surreal part.
The blindfold was finally lifted. Catriona’s face, composed and curiously tender, swam into view. She brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Powerful, isn’t it? Letting someone else steer.”
Aidan sat up, his body humming. Lucia was wrapped in a throw blanket, curled in an armchair. Jenny, now wearing one of his discarded shirts, was bringing her a glass of water. The camera sat on the ottoman, a silent witness.
“You okay, Lu?” Jenny asked, perching on the chair’s arm.
Lucia nodded, sipping the water. Her eyes, huge and dark, found Aidan’s across the room. They weren’t scared. They were resolved. A week of that heavy silence had crystallized into something solid within her.
“That was…” Lucia began, then cleared her throat. “Last time, it was a shock. A beautiful, messy shock. This time… I could think. I could feel everything.” She looked at Catriona, then back to Aidan. “I don’t want it to be a Sunday thing.”
The room stilled. Jenny’s hand paused on her sister’s shoulder.
“What do you want, Lucia?” Catriona asked, her tone inviting confession.
Lucia’s gaze never wavered from Aidan. “I want what Jenny has.” The words were clear, direct, devoid of the shyness she’d arrived with. “I want to be here. In this house. I want to learn my way around that kitchen. I want to study at that table.” She took a steadying breath. “And I want him. Not as a guest. Not as a weekend treat. I want his gigantic, girthy cock creampieing my tight Latina pussy every single day. Not just once a week.”
The crude, clinical desire, stated so plainly in her soft voice, hit the air like a physical blow. Aidan felt a jolt, part arousal, part sheer terror. Jenny’s fingers tightened on the blanket.
Catriona, however, looked fascinated. She tilted her head, as if considering a new fabric swatch. “Every day is a significant commitment, Lucia. It’s laundry and grocery runs and someone drinking the last of the good orange juice. It’s seeing the unsexy bits.”
“I know,” Lucia said. “I saw Jenny’s unsexy bits for eighteen years before I came here. I’m not romanticizing it. I’m choosing it.”
Jenny finally spoke, her voice low. “Lu, this is a lot. This is my life.”
“And I want a piece of it,” Lucia shot back, turning to her sister. “You got to discover this all by yourself for a year. You had him to yourself. I’m not asking you to leave. I’m asking to stay.” She looked at Catriona, then Aidan. “I’m good for it. I’ll pull my weight. I’ll clean. I’ll cook. I’ll study quietly. I just… I need to be where the heat is.”
Aidan found his voice, rough from disuse. “Cat.”
Catriona walked over to the window, drawing the sheer curtain aside. The afternoon light cut across her profile. “The guest room does have better light for studying,” she mused, almost to herself. She turned, a slow, measuring pivot. “It would simplify the scheduling.” A practical assessment. “And there’s a certain… symmetry to it. Two sisters. A complete set.”
Jenny made a frustrated sound. “We’re not collectible figurines, Catriona.”
“Aren’t you?” Catriona replied lightly, but her eyes were serious. “You are my beautiful, living sculptures. And my husband’s. This would just mean the gallery is permanent.” She addressed Aidan. “It’s your house, too. Your cock, as Lucia so vividly put it. What’s your verdict?”
They all looked at him. The engineer was presented with a problem: an unstable system seeking a new equilibrium. The variables were desire, logistics, and a terrifying, expanding concept of home. The man just felt the gnawing hunger twist, demanding to be fed.
He looked at Lucia, her brave, desperate face. He saw Jenny’s conflicted eyes, the protectiveness warring with a nascent, possessive streak. He met his wife’s gaze, green and approving, already designing the new reality.
“The guest room closet needs organizing,” Aidan said, his voice quiet. The words felt like stepping off a cliff.