The burden of the family

The rest of the week turned into a slow, frustrating blur.

John barely left the office. Early mornings, late nights, takeout containers stacking up on the desk that still smelled faintly of the tissues Maya had raided. Phone calls, video meetings, contracts, supplier problems that never seemed to end. The three sisters tried—god, they tried—but every soft trap they set bounced off the wall of pure exhaustion surrounding him.

Lila would lean over his shoulder while he ate a rushed breakfast, letting her bare thigh brush his, voice low and warm. He’d just give her a tired half-smile and keep scrolling through emails on his phone. Maya “accidentally” walked around in nothing but one of his shirts, the hem riding high enough to flash everything when she reached for something. John would glance up, eyes dark for half a second, then rub his face and mutter that he had another call in five minutes. Sadie tried crawling into his lap on the rare evenings he made it to the couch, soft and affectionate, pressing little kisses to his jaw. He’d wrap an arm around her out of habit, hold her for a minute, then gently set her aside so he could answer yet another message.

They could have pushed harder. Could have dropped to their knees under the desk again or climbed into his bed at 2 a.m. when he finally staggered upstairs. But every time they got close enough to see the dark circles under his eyes and the way his shoulders stayed tight even when he was sitting still, the hunger in their cunts quieted into something softer and heavier.

Worry.

He was slipping.

The man they all loved—the one who still tried to be the steady center of their little broken family even while they plotted to turn him into their personal breeding stud—was disappearing under the weight of the business their deadbeat parents had left behind. And for once the three of them didn’t have a filthy plan for that.

Thursday night Lila found him asleep at the desk, forehead on a stack of papers, one hand still loosely curled around a pen. She stood there for a long time just watching him breathe, then quietly draped a blanket over his shoulders and turned off the lamp. When she came back upstairs Maya and Sadie were waiting in the hallway, both of them unusually quiet.

“He’s not okay,” Lila said simply.

Maya hugged her arms around herself, the usual spark in her eyes dimmed.
“I hate this. I want him inside me so bad it hurts, but I want him to sleep more.”

Sadie leaned against the wall, voice small.
“We should ease up. Just for a bit. Let him catch his breath.”

They all felt the same frustrated ache between their legs—days of near-misses and ruined plans and the memory of his cum on Maya’s face still vivid—but the worry sat heavier. So they did the hardest thing any of them had done since the funeral:

They stopped.

No more deliberate flashing. No more grinding on the couch. No more “accidental” bathroom visits. They still touched him when they could—soft hugs, a hand on his back when they passed, Sadie tucking herself against his side for a quiet minute when he finally made it to the dinner table—but they kept it gentle. Caring. The kind of affection that said we’re still here even while their cunts stayed wet and neglected.

By Saturday evening John looked like a ghost of himself: pale, quiet, moving through the house on autopilot. The three sisters watched him from the living room as he headed back toward the office with another mug of coffee, and for the first time since they’d started trying to get into his pants, none of them felt like celebrating how close they’d once gotten.

They just wanted their brother back.