Chapter 40: The Sister's Invitation
The morning light in the kitchen was unforgiving. It poured over the marble island, illuminating every crumb, every fingerprint on a glass, every unspoken thought hanging in the air. Aidan nursed a strong black coffee, the heat of the mug doing little to ground him. The memory of the previous night was a live wire in his chest—Lucia’s wide eyes, Catriona’s tasting finger, the seismic shift in the dark.
Jenny moved quietly, loading the dishwasher from last night’s dinner. She wore soft cotton shorts and a tank top, her hair in a messy bun. She glanced at him, a flicker of knowing in her dark eyes, then away. She knew. Of course she knew. The house had ears, and walls that thrummed.
Lucia entered last, shuffling in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. She looked younger in the daylight, fragile. Her eyes were downcast, finding sudden profound interest in the pattern of the floor tiles. She went straight for the orange juice, her movements careful, as if she were sore.
Catriona was the last to join, a vision of composed domesticity in a cream silk blouse and linen trousers. She carried a plate of toasted sourdough and set it in the center of the island with a soft click. “Morning, all,” she said, her voice bright, ordinary. It was the ordinariness that felt most surreal.
“Morning,” Aidan managed. Jenny murmured a greeting. Lucia just nodded, clutching her juice glass.
Catriona buttered a piece of toast, her movements precise. “I’ve been thinking,” she began, as if about to discuss a new paint swatch or a furniture delivery schedule. “About routine. And about education.”
Aidan’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.
“Lucia, sweetheart,” Catriona continued, smiling warmly at the girl. “Your studies are important. But there are other… practical curricula. Life skills. Since you’re staying with us, I think it’s only right you fully integrate into the household rhythm.”
Lucia looked up, confused. “I… I can help more with the cleaning. Jenny’s shown me—”
“Oh, it’s more specific than that,” Catriona interrupted, her tone light, conversational. “Jenny has her morning session with Aidan. To clear his head for the day. It’s become quite an important part of the household schedule. I’d like you to join her.”
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Jenny’s hands stilled on a plate. Lucia’s face flushed a deep, immediate scarlet.
Aidan found his voice, though it sounded strange to his own ears. “Cat…”
She turned her green eyes on him, and the command in them was absolute, softened only by the placid smile. “It’s efficient. And it’s good for sisterly bonding, don’t you think, Jenny? You can guide her. Show her the techniques that work best for him.”
Jenny swallowed. She looked from Catriona’s expectant face to her sister’s stunned one. A complex war of emotions passed over her features—protectiveness, resignation, a dark thread of shared complicity. Finally, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
“Excellent,” Catriona said, as if settling a brunch menu. “No time like the present. Aidan, the study is a bit… sticky. Let’s use the living room. The morning light is better in there anyway.”
She led the procession. Aidan felt like he was floating outside his body, following his wife into the bright, airy living room. She gestured to the large, deep sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He sat, the soft leather cool through his thin pajama pants. Jenny and Lucia stood before him like uncertain acolytes. Catriona did not sit. She positioned herself near the window, leaning against the sill, a curator in her own gallery.
“Lucia, you remember the basics from last night,” Catriona said, her voice dropping into that low, instructive purr. “Jenny will start. Watch her. Learn the rhythm.”
Jenny, with a practiced ease that still sent a jolt through Aidan, knelt on the plush rug. She didn’t look at him, her focus inward, professional almost. She tugged gently at the waistband of his pajamas. He lifted his hips to help, the air of the room cool on his exposed skin.
Lucia watched, her breath shallow, her knuckles white where she gripped her own elbows.
Jenny began. There was no hesitation, no exploratory phase. She knew him. Her mouth was a warm, wet certainty, her tongue applying pressure exactly where he liked it, her hand working in a coordinated twist at the base. It was pure, skilled decadence. Aidan’s head fell back against the sofa cushion, a groan trapped in his throat. The shamelessness of it, in this sunlit room, with his wife watching and her virgin sister studying, was a dizzying cocktail.
“See how she uses her hand in conjunction?” Catriona narrated softly to Lucia. “It compensates. Takes the strain off her jaw. Watch the pace. Steady. It’s not a race.”
After a minute, Catriona lifted a finger. “Switch.”
Jenny pulled away with a soft, wet sound, leaving Aidan throbbing and exposed. She looked up at Lucia, her eyes unreadable. “Your turn. Just do what I did. Don’t think too much.”
Lucia lowered herself shakily to her knees, displacing her sister. Her first touch was a nervous brush of her lips, a ghost of the previous night’s exploration. “More confidence, darling,” Catriona encouraged from the window. “He’s not made of glass. Take him in. Just the head to start.”
Lucia obeyed, opening her mouth. Her inexperience was palpable—a clumsy eagerness, a slight graze of teeth that made Aidan flinch. But the sheer taboo of it, this innocent girl attempting to replicate her sister’s expertise under their collective gaze, was incendiary.
“Good,” Jenny whispered from beside her, a technical advisor. “Softer with your tongue. Yeah, like that.”
“Now you, Jenny,” Catriona directed. “Alongside her. Show her the tandem technique. Aidan loves that.”
Jenny moved closer. She didn’t resume where she left off. Instead, she leaned in and began to lick and kiss along the shaft, from base to tip, while Lucia focused on the head. The sensation of two mouths, two sets of lips, two tongues tracing different paths on his skin, was utterly obliterating. Aidan’s hands fisted in the couch fabric. The visual was surreal: the two dark heads bowed before him, moving in a hesitant, then increasingly synchronized, rhythm.
“Beautiful,” Catriona breathed. He heard a faint, mechanical click. He pried his eyes open. She had her phone out, held steadily, the camera lens pointed directly at them. She wasn’t hiding it. “Now switch positions. Lucia, you take the base. Jenny, the tip. I want you both to taste him when he finishes.”
The sisters rearranged themselves without a word, a silent, erotic relay. Their noses brushed against each other, their shared breaths hot on his skin. The intimacy between them now, this shared service, was almost as potent as the physical act.
Aidan was losing cohesion. The coil in his gut was a white-hot knot. “Cat… I’m…”
“I know,” she said, her voice thick with her own arousal. She lowered the phone, her other hand clutching the windowsill. “Now. Together.”
It was the permission, the sheer command in her voice, that shattered him. The release was a roaring, obliterating wave. He cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, as he spilled into the wet, welcoming heat of their joined mouths.
He sagged back, spent, watching through half-lidded eyes as the two sisters pulled back, both of them swallowing, both of their chins glistening in the harsh, beautiful morning light. They looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them—a strange, dark sisterhood forged in salt and saliva.
Catriona lowered her phone. She walked over, her heels quiet on the rug. She cupped Lucia’s flushed cheek, then Jenny’s. “Excellent first lesson,” she said, her voice returning to that bright, breakfast-table tone. “We’ll make it a regular part of the morning. Now, Jenny, you have a lab at eleven, don’t you? Lucia, your textbooks are on the desk in your room. Aidan,” she said, finally looking at him, her eyes gleaming with undisguised possession and creative satisfaction. “You have that conference call with Zurich. I suggest a cold shower first.”
She turned and walked out of the living room, leaving the three of them in the silent, sun-drenched aftermath. The new routine had been set, not in the shadowy study, but here in the heart of the home, photographed and curated. The lines weren’t just blurred anymore. They had been completely redrawn, in indelible ink, by Catriona’s steady hand.
They had been completely redrawn, in indelible ink, by Catriona’s steady hand.
The charged quiet in the living room stretched, elastic and fragile. Jenny was the first to move, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. She stood, her knees popping softly. “Well,” she said, the word a placeholder for everything else. She offered a hand to help Lucia up.
Lucia took it, wobbling slightly. She avoided looking at Aidan, still exposed on the sofa. “I should… um, study,” she mumbled, but her voice was thin, strained.
“You okay, Luce?” Jenny asked, brushing a strand of hair from her sister’s forehead. The maternal gesture, here and now, was incongruous.
“Just… a little sore,” Lucia whispered, her cheeks flaming anew. “From last night. It’s… fine.”
Aidan, hearing this, slowly pulled his pajamas up. The engineer in him, the problem-solver, surfaced through the post-coital haze. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Soreness is normal,” he said, his voice gentler than it had been all morning. “But it doesn’t have to be miserable. There are… therapeutic remedies.”
Lucia finally glanced at him, curiosity flickering through her embarrassment. “Like what?”
Aidan stood, feeling the return of a different kind of energy, a focused purpose. He approached her, placing a careful hand on her shoulder. “Increased blood flow. Endorphins. The only thing that truly minimises that kind of soreness is more orgasms.” He said it plainly, a clinical fact offered in a hushed tone. “Come with me.”
He led her by the hand from the living room, past the gleaming kitchen, and down the hall toward the guest room that was now hers. Jenny, forgotten for a moment, simply stared. Then, driven by a compulsion she couldn’t name, she followed at a distance, hovering silently in the doorway.
Aidan closed the door softly, leaving it open a crack. The room was painted a soft grey, afternoon sun pooling on the neutral rug. He sat Lucia on the edge of the bed. “This isn’t like before,” he said, his fingers tracing her jaw. “This isn’t about me, or your sister, or Catriona. This is just for you. To feel good. Okay?”
Lucia nodded, her dark eyes wide and trusting.
What followed was a masterclass in attentive sensuality. Aidan began by kissing her slowly, dissolving the last of her shyness with a patience she hadn’t seen in him. He peeled her clothes away not with hungry urgency, but with a reverent slowness that made her skin hum. When she was bare, he laid her back against the pillows and simply looked at her, his gaze warming her more than the sun.
“Just feel,” he murmured, before lowering his mouth between her legs.
Jenny watched from the crack in the door, her hand pressed to her mouth. She had experienced Aidan’s hunger, his powerful need. This was something else entirely. His focus was absolute, a surgeon of pleasure. He used his tongue with a devastating precision, learning her rhythms within moments, his hands gentle on her inner thighs. Lucia’s first orgasm came quickly, a sharp, surprised cry that melted into a shuddering sigh.
Aidan didn’t stop. He coaxed a second, and then a third, each wave building upon the last, each one longer and deeper than the one before. Lucia’s sounds lost all shape, becoming a continuous, breathy chant of yes and please and oh god. Her hands twisted in his salt-and-pepper hair, not guiding, just holding on.
Only then, when she was limp and glistening and crying out with every touch, did he finally slide into her. He moved with an exquisite, measured control, each thrust deep and slow, designed to stroke the heart of every climax that had just passed. He was everywhere, his mouth on her neck, his hands cradling her hips, his eyes locked on hers.
“How many?” he whispered against her skin, his own voice ragged with restraint.
“I… I lost count,” she sobbed, her body arching.
“Good.”
Jenny watched, mesmerized and oddly shaken. She saw her little sister unravel into a state of pure, sensate being, witnessed a bliss so profound it looked like agony. Hours seemed to condense in that sunlit room. Aidan’s endurance was superhuman, a feat of physical generosity. He brought Lucia to the edge again and again, retreating, changing angles, whispering praise, until her voice was hoarse and her body was a map of trembling sensitivity.
The afternoon light slanted into long evening shadows. Lucia, utterly spent, could only whimper as Aidan finally allowed his own control to fracture. With a groan that seemed to come from his very bones, he poured himself into her, the culmination of hours of dedicated focus. He collapsed beside her, pulling her shaking form against his chest.
In the hallway, Jenny finally stepped back from the door, her own breath uneven. She leaned against the cool wall, trying to process the intensity of what she’d just witnessed. It wasn’t jealousy that coiled in her stomach. It was awe, and a dawning, unsettling understanding of the depth of her husband’s—no, Catriona’s husband’s—capacity. The game had changed again. The rules were still being written.