Work Him To The Bone

Charlotte's been running herself ragged getting the place spotless for Reagan's visit. Two years apart is way too long, plus Reagan hasn't even met Oliver yet. Reagan shows up beaming, hugs her stepsister like crazy, and clocks Oliver with that hungry look of hers. They shove her onto the couch. The second they get a moment alone Reagan starts whispering things about Oliver. "That boy's built like a stud and he's just sitting on his hands? Put him to work." Charlotte laughs it off—Oliver barely empties his own bowl—but the next minute Reagan's ordering him to make her a sandwich. He jumps. Charlotte bites her lip. Maybe her sister is onto something. A couple hours later the kid's drenched in sweat from fetching drinks, rubbing lotion, doing every little thing they bark at him. When they stretch out and demand foot massages, his shorts give him away—stiff as a board. Reagan smirks, leans over, and runs her tongue across her teeth. "Seems only fair we give our good boy a tip." Before Oliver can blink he's flat on his back, cock out, two pairs of soft hands jerking him like they've practiced it. Reagan guides Charlotte's mouth down first, then climbs on, dripping and greedy. They take turns riding him, whispering filth in his ear about how good he feels and how they're just getting started. Every bounce makes the couch creak, every slap of skin louder than the last, until Oliver's pumping hot loads into both of them and they're swapping it with sloppy kisses like family dinners will never be the same again.