Chapter 17: To Love Them Both
The walk back to Julia’s house felt like moving through a different, colder atmosphere. The scent of Diana—lavender and sex—still clung to his skin, a ghost beneath the crisp night air. Her words, I love you, reverberated in his skull, a sacred, terrifying confession now locked in the vault of that office. He had asked for it. He had needed to hear it exist. Now he carried it, a stolen artifact that felt both precious and dangerously hot.
He let himself in through the kitchen door, the house silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. It was past ten. Julia would be asleep, or out. He checked his phone, the screen blazing in the dark kitchen.
One notification. A message from Emma, sent an hour ago. No text. Just an image.
He opened it.
It was a nude, shot in what he recognized as her bedroom. She was perched on the edge of her bed, the soft glow of her salt lamp casting a warm, pinkish light. She wasn’t posing overtly; she was looking down at the phone, a shy, tentative smile on her lips, her free arm loosely crossing her chest in a gesture that was more demure than covering. Her hair fell over one shoulder. The image was intimate, artful, and completely at odds with the Emma who called him ‘big brother’ and brought him cookies.
Beneath it, a follow-up text had arrived twenty minutes later. "Are you coming home? I’m lonely."
A hollow feeling spread in his gut, a numbness that began to swallow the fading warmth from Diana. This was a different kind of secret place. One he hadn’t agreed to enter. He typed a single word. "Now."
He took the stairs two at a time, the wood creaking under his weight. His bedroom door was slightly ajar, a slit of darkness. He pushed it open.
Emma was there, sitting cross-legged in the center of his black-sheeted bed. She wore a short, silk pink robe, tied loosely. She looked up, her blue eyes wide and uncertain. “Hey,” she whispered.
“Emma,” he said, his voice flat. He didn’t step fully inside.
“Close the door,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice.
He did, the click of the latch final. He leaned back against it, arms crossed. “What’s this?”
Before she could answer, the door to his en-suite bathroom opened. Violet stepped out.
She leaned against the doorframe, a mirror of his own casual stance, but charged with a confident electricity Emma lacked. She wore a matching robe in deep purple. Her blonde hair was down, messy in a deliberate way. A smirk played on her lips. “Took you long enough. We were starting to think you’d found better entertainment.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Noah asked, the numbness crackling into a low-grade anger. This felt like a violation of a different order.
“A peace offering,” Violet said, pushing off the doorframe. She walked toward him, her movements sleek. “Or a welcome home party. You’ve been so… distant lately. Sad puppy.” She stopped just in front of him, looking up. “We thought you could use some cheering up.”
“Mom—” he started.
“Is at a conference in Albany until Sunday,” Violet finished. “It’s just us. The girls.” Her smirk widened. “And you.”
From the bed, Emma stood. Her hands went to the tie of her robe. With a soft rustle, the silk fell open and slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood revealed in pale pink lingerie: a delicate lace bralette that barely contained her full breasts, and matching panties that hugged her hips. She blushed furiously but held her ground. “We talked about it,” she said, her voice small but clear. “A lot. We wanted to. Together.”
Violet, not taking her eyes off Noah, untied her own robe. It fell open. Her set was purple, cut higher on the hip, more severe in its design. It showcased her leaner frame, the toned stomach, the confident arch of her back. “You’ve been part of the family long enough,” Violet murmured, her hand coming up to rest on his chest. “Time for some real family bonding.”
Noah’s mind split. One part recoiled, screaming about boundaries, about Julia, about the fucking catastrophic complexity of this. The other part, the part that was still raw from Diana’s confession and aching with a loneliness that predated Jane, watched with a detached, hungry fascination. This was a different kind of wreckage. One where he didn’t have to be seen. He could just… be used.
He didn’t move. He didn’t touch Violet. He just watched.
Taking his silence as permission, Violet sank to her knees in front of him. Emma padded over silently from the bed and knelt beside her sister. They glanced at each other, a silent communication passing between them—rivalry momentarily set aside for a common goal.
With practiced synchrony, their hands went to his belt. Emma fumbled with the buckle, her fingers clumsy. Violet slapped her hands away gently. “I’ve got it, Em.” She made quick work of it, unbuttoned his jeans, and pulled down the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud.
Together, they tugged his jeans and boxers down his hips. He stepped out of them, kicked them aside. He was already half-hard, a reflexive response to the sheer surreal spectacle of it.
Violet whistled low. “See, Em? Told you he’d be impressive.”
Emma just stared, her pink lips parted. Violet, taking the lead, wrapped her hand around his shaft and gave him a few slow, firm strokes. He thickened fully in her grip. “Okay,” Violet said, almost to herself. “You take the top half. I’ll take the balls.”
Emma nodded, leaning forward eagerly. She opened her mouth and took just the head of his cock inside, her tongue swirling experimentally. She moaned as if tasting something delicious. At the same time, Violet ducked her head lower. She nuzzled his sac, then took one testicle gently into her mouth, her tongue cradling the weight.
The dual sensation was shocking, overwhelming. Heat and wetness from two different sources, two different pressures. Emma began to bob her head, taking him deeper with each pass, her enthusiasm outweighing her skill. She gagged slightly, pulled back, then dove in again, her saliva slicking his length. Violet alternated between his balls, sucking each one deeply before releasing it with a pop, her free hand massaging the base of his cock.
“Fuck,” Noah breathed, his head hitting the door with a soft thud. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, came up and tangled in their hair—silver strands mixing with blonde. He didn’t guide them; he just held on, anchoring himself to the storm of sensation.
Violet pulled off with a wet sound. “Switch,” she commanded.
Without hesitation, Emma moved lower, mimicking what Violet had done. She was more tentative, her licks and kisses softer, worshipful. Violet, now at the head, looked up at Noah with a glittering, challenging gaze. She didn’t just take him in her mouth. She enveloped him, her cheeks hollowing dramatically as she began to suck with a fierce, relentless rhythm. She used her hand in tandem, twisting on the upstroke, her thumb pressing insistently on the frenulum. She was a technician, efficient and brutal.
Emma, growing bolder, cupped his sac, rolling his balls in her palm as she licked the sensitive strip of skin behind them. The contrast was dizzying: Violet’s aggressive, expert suction and Emma’s tender, exploring adoration. The sisters were working in tandem, a well-rehearsed team dismantling him.
“Oh, god,” he grunted, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. Violet took it, deep-throating him effortlessly. She pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip.
“You like that, big brother?” Emma whispered, looking up from between his legs, her chin wet.
“He fucking loves it,” Violet answered for him, before swallowing him down again. Her pace became erratic, hungry. She was chasing her own dominance over the act, over him, over her sister. Emma, not to be outdone, pushed two of her fingers into her own mouth, wet them thoroughly, then reached behind him, probing until she found his entrance. She pressed one slick finger against it, a gentle, insistent pressure.
The shock of it—the invasion from an unexpected quarter—sent a jolt through him. His control shattered.
“I’m gonna—” he choked out.
Violet pulled off completely. “Do it,” she panted, her face flushed. She pointed his cock at her own face, stroking him furiously. “Come on my face. Let Emma watch.”
The command, the sheer depravity of it, tipped him over the edge. With a guttural cry that was torn from somewhere deep, his orgasm erupted. Thick, white pulses shot across Violet’s cheek, her chin, her neck. She kept stroking, milking him, her mouth open to catch what she could. Emma watched, mesmerized, her finger still pressed against him.
When it was over, he sagged against the door, spent, dripping onto the floor between them. Violet wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, then licked her fingers clean, her eyes never leaving his. Emma slowly withdrew her hand, looking dazed.
The room was silent except for their ragged breathing. The scent of sex, different from Diana’s, filled the air—muskier, laced with a floral perfume.
Violet stood first, wiping her mouth. She looked at Noah, her expression unreadable. “See?” she said, her voice hoarse. “No more sad puppy.”
She turned and walked back into the bathroom, closing the door. Emma scrambled to her feet, gave Noah one last, inscrutable look—a mix of triumph, shame, and desire—then gathered her robe and fled the room, leaving her pink silk puddled on his floor.
Noah slid down the door until he was sitting on the hardwood, naked, staring at the closed bathroom door. The numbness was complete now, a void where feeling should be. He had asked Diana for truth and received it like a sacrament. Here, he had asked for nothing, and had been given a different, emptier sacrament altogether.
In the quiet, he understood. This was the wreckage, too. And he was no longer just seeing it. He was living in it.
He was living in it. The sound of the sink running in his bathroom finally stopped. The door opened and Violet emerged, her face clean, her purple robe retied neatly. She didn’t look at him as she passed, a ghost moving through the space they’d just defiled. The door to his bedroom clicked shut behind her. Her footsteps faded down the hall. A distant door closed.
Silence.
It was a thick, cottony silence that seemed to absorb the scent of sex and shame. Noah didn’t move from his spot on the floor. The cold hardwood bit into his thighs. His own drying spend was sticky on his stomach. The image of Diana, her professorial composure shattered as she whispered her truth, flashed behind his eyes. It was immediately overlain by the sight of Violet’s challenging smirk, Emma’s wide, eager eyes. A collision of sacred and profane that left him feeling scoured out, hollow.
His phone, discarded near his jeans, lit up with a soft buzz.
He stared at it. The screen glowed in the dark room.
Another message from Emma.
He didn’t want to look. His body felt heavy, leaden. But the pull was autonomic. He reached for it.
"Please come to my room."
Four words. No photo this time. Just a plea.
A bitter laugh caught in his throat. What more could they possibly want? What more could they take? He felt like a battery they’d drained, tossed aside. Yet, the command in the text was clear. It was an order disguised as a request, and some broken part of him was still wired to obey.
He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He didn’t shower. He didn’t wipe himself clean. He pulled on his boxers and a pair of sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. He wanted to wear the violation. He wanted to carry the evidence of their family bonding into her sanctum.
The hallway was dark. Violet’s door was shut, a sliver of light underneath. He moved past it to the last door on the left. It was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.
Emma’s room was a landscape of softness. White fairy lights, plush stuffed animals on a neatly made bed, a vanity cluttered with pastel cosmetics. She sat in the center of the bed, wearing a simple white sleep shirt. Her pink lingerie was gone. She looked young, and impossibly sad.
She looked up as he entered, her eyes scanning him. They didn’t go to his face. They travelled down his bare chest, to the waistband of his sweats, searching for a sign, a reaction.
“You’re not… you didn’t like it,” she said. Her voice was tiny, a child’s confession.
Noah leaned against the doorframe, not entering fully. “What was there to like, Emma?”
“I don’t know.” She wrung her hands in her lap. “Violet said… she said you needed to forget whatever bitch was making you mope. She said we could make you forget.” She looked up, tears welling. “But you’re not forgetting. You look worse.”
He said nothing. The truth was a stone in his mouth.
She slid off the bed and padded toward him on bare feet. She stopped close, looking up. “Let me try. Just me. Not her way. Your way.” Her hand lifted, trembling, and her fingertips brushed the faint, sticky residue on his lower abdomen. She didn’t flinch. “Tell me what you want. Please, Noah. Let me do it right.”
There was no challenge in her now. No rivalry. Just a desperate, aching need to please, to fix the hollow thing they’d helped create. It was more unsettling than Violet’s aggression.
“Why?” The word scraped out of him.
“Because you’re my big brother,” she whispered, as if it explained everything. “And I hate seeing you empty.”
Her words, so utterly misguided, unlocked something dark and yielding in him. If this was the family he was stuck in, he would take his tribute. Not their way. His.
“On your knees,” he said. The voice wasn’t entirely his own. It was flat, devoid of the heat he’d had with Diana. This was cold instruction.
Emma dropped immediately, her knees hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud. She looked up, expectant, waiting.
“Thank you,” she breathed, as if he’d granted her a gift.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down, along with his boxers. He wasn’t hard. He was soft, spent, a symbol of his exhaustion. He watched her face as she looked at him.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t wait for an invitation. She leaned forward and took his soft cock into her mouth.
It was an act of pure, subservient worship. She held him there, her lips forming a gentle seal, her tongue lapping softly at his flaccid flesh. She hummed, the vibration a faint buzz against his skin. Her hands came up to cradle his thighs, her touch reverent. “Thank you,” she mumbled again, her mouth full of him. “Thank you for letting me.”
She worked with a patience Violet lacked. She nursed him gently, coaxing, her mouth a warm, wet haven of unquestioning devotion. She sucked lightly, her tongue tracing every vein, worshipping his softness as if it were a sacred relic. She whispered around him, a liturgy of gratitude. “Thank you for being here. Thank you for letting me taste you. You’re so perfect. Thank you.”
Her words, her total submission, began to have an effect. A sluggish, reluctant heat began to stir. He thickened slowly in the cavern of her grateful mouth. She felt it and increased her efforts, her sucking becoming more purposeful, her head beginning to bob in a gentle rhythm.
“That’s it,” she cooed, pulling off for a second, a string of saliva connecting her lip to his now-half-hard length. “Thank you for getting hard for me. I don’t deserve it.” She dove back down, taking him deeper.
Her complete self-abasement was a fuel Violet’s dominance wasn’t. It sparked a different kind of fire—one of absolute control. He looked down at the top of her head, her hair swaying, and felt nothing but a cool, distant mastery. He tangled his hand in her hair, not gently. He fisted it, controlling her pace.
“You wanted to throat me,” he stated, not asking.
She pulled off, gasping. “Yes. Please. Let me try.”
He guided her head back down. “Then do it. No gagging. Take it all.”
She nodded, her eyes wide and earnest. She opened her mouth wide, tilting her head, and let him push himself forward. He fed his cock into her mouth, past her tongue, into the tight clutch of her throat. She gagged instantly, her body convulsing, but she didn’t pull back. She forced herself to relax, tears springing to her eyes as he slid deeper, until his pubic bone was pressed against her nose.
She held it. Her throat fluttered wildly around him. He held her there, watching the tears track down her flushed cheeks.
“Good girl,” he said, the praise devoid of warmth.
A muffled sob of gratitude vibrated through his cock. He pulled her back until just the tip remained, then shoved her down again, setting a brutal, rhythmic pace. She took it, each slam triggering a choke, her nails digging into his thighs. Spit and tears dripped from her chin, slicking his balls.
“Thank you,” she gurgled every time he allowed her a gasp of air. “Thank you, Noah. Thank you for using my throat.”
He fucked her face with a detached, mechanical intensity. This wasn’t pleasure. It was an affirmation of power. He was the wreckage, and she was willingly choking on the debris. He thought of Diana’s intelligent eyes, of the shared secret that felt like a heartbeat. This was the opposite. This was silence. This was nullity.
When he felt his orgasm building again—a sour, pulled-from-the-depths tension—he yanked her off by her hair. She collapsed forward, coughing, drooling onto the carpet.
“Turn around,” he said. “Bend over the bed.”
She scrambled to obey, wiping her mouth. She got on her knees at the side of the bed and folded her torso over the duvet, presenting herself to him. She pushed her sleep shirt up to her waist. She was bare underneath.
He stepped behind her, his cock slick from her throat. He positioned himself at her entrance. He didn’t touch her elsewhere. He didn’t kiss her shoulder. He just pushed.
He entered her in one rough, unyielding thrust. She was tight, and dry despite her earlier efforts. She cried out, a sharp sound of pain that she quickly stifled.
“Thank you,” she hissed into the duvet, her voice strangled. “Fuck, thank you.”
He set a pace that was all punishment, each drive of his hips slamming her small frame into the edge of the mattress. The bed rattled against the wall. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine painfully. He pounded into her, the sound of skin on skin raw and violent in the pink-lit room.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his voice a cold rasp.
“Yes! God, yes! Thank you for fucking me! Thank you for your cock!” she screamed, the words muffled by the bedding.
He was close. The sensation was purely physical, a mechanical release. He hammered into her, his balls slapping against her, his vision narrowing to the point where he was joined to her. With a final, deep plunge, he came, spilling into her with a low groan. It felt less like a climax and more like a disposal.
He held himself there for a moment, emptying, then pulled out. He stepped back, looking at her bent, trembling form. A trickle of his release seeped from her.
She slowly pushed herself up. She turned, her face a mess of tears, makeup, and saliva. She smiled, a beatific, broken thing. She crawled toward him on the bed and pressed her face against his thigh.
“Thank you,” she whispered again, kissing his skin. “You filled me up. Thank you.”