The scent hit Leo first, long before he even saw them—a thick, dizzying wave that rolled through the open front door like a tropical storm front made of sin. Expensive perfume (something coconutty and jasmine-laced that screamed "five-star resort sex"), undercut by the sharper, unmistakable musk of fresh sweat, expensive lube, and the raw, animal tang of two women who had very recently been fucked senseless and were still glowing from it.
Leo froze mid-unpacking, one half-empty ramen box dangling from his hand. He'd only been in the sprawling modern house for maybe three hours—his entire life reduced to six cardboard boxes, a duffel of clothes, and a gaming laptop that had seen better days—when the front door exploded inward with the force of a reality-show entrance.
"Leo, darling! You actually made it!"
Sasha hit him like a velvet missile.
Fiery red hair—freshly blown out, smelling faintly of argan oil and sex—cascaded over his face as she tackled him into a full-body hug that pressed every impossible curve of her against him. Her breasts, legendary even among people who didn't watch porn, squished warmly against his chest through nothing but a sheer black silk robe that was doing heroic, failing work at containment. The belt had slipped open during the charge; one perfect, pink nipple grazed his collarbone before she pulled back just enough to beam at him.
Blair didn't charge. Blair sauntered.
Sleek platinum-blonde waves framed a face that belonged on billboards and OnlyFans thumbnails alike. She leaned one hip against the doorframe, a matte-black Hermès Kelly bag dangling negligently from her elbow, wearing a cream silk slip dress so thin it was basically body paint. The hem barely skimmed mid-thigh. No bra. No panties. Just smooth, golden skin and the faint outline of pierced nipples pressing against the fabric like they were personally offended by modesty.
"He's even cuter in person, Sash," Blair drawled, voice low and smoky, the kind of purr that belonged in a dimly lit hotel suite at 3 a.m. Her ice-blue eyes raked over Leo from sneakers to messy brown hair with the slow, professional appraisal of someone who evaluated cock for a living. "A little green. Virgin eyes. We can fix that."
Leo's brain blue-screened.
He was twenty. A college dropout who'd spent the last two years living off instant noodles, energy drinks, and the occasional hookup that ended with "you're sweet, but…" He'd known—thanks to a very ill-advised 2 a.m. Google search six months ago when his dad announced the marriage—that his new step-sisters were adult film royalty. Sasha "Firecrotch" Kane and Blair "Velvet" Voss. Platinum-selling, award-winning, subscriber-count-in-the-millions porn stars. The kind of women who had entire subreddits dedicated to analyzing their squirting techniques and rimjob enthusiasm.
And now they were hugging him. Smelling like fresh orgasms. In his new living room.
"Uh… hi," he managed, voice cracking on the second syllable like he was thirteen again. "Nice to… finally meet you?"
Sasha laughed—a bright, filthy sound—and finally released him, though one hand stayed possessively on his bicep, squeezing like she was testing produce. "God, you're adorable when you blush. Look at those cheeks. We're gonna have so much fun corrupting you."
Blair pushed off the doorframe with feline grace, heels clicking on the marble floor as she closed the distance. She stopped just inside his personal space—close enough that he could smell the sex on her skin, close enough that the silk of her dress whispered against his jeans when she breathed.
"Relax, baby brother," she murmured, reaching up to brush an invisible speck of lint off his shoulder. Her fingers lingered, nails grazing the side of his neck. "We don't bite…" A slow, wicked smile. "…unless you ask nicely."
Leo's dick—traitorous, hopeless thing—twitched hard enough that he had to shift his weight to hide it. He was suddenly, painfully aware that he was wearing gray sweatpants. The kind that hid exactly nothing.
The first few weeks were exquisite torture.
Sasha treated the house like her personal runway. She'd wander into the kitchen at 8 a.m. in nothing but a silk kimono so short it barely covered the lower curve of her ass, humming some pop song off-key while she made avocado toast. The robe would slip open when she reached for the honey; full, heavy breasts would spill out, nipples already stiff from the morning chill—or from whatever had happened in her bedroom at 3 a.m. She never hurried to cover up. She'd just smirk, catch him staring, and say, "Like what you see, little bro? Plenty more where that came from."
Blair was subtler. Deadlier.
She'd sit across from him at dinner in silk camisoles and boy shorts, legs crossed so the fabric pulled tight against her pussy lips, outlining every detail. She'd eat slowly—strawberries, always strawberries—sucking the juice off her fingers while recounting, in perfect deadpan, the day's work.
"Today's scene was brutal," she'd say casually, spearing a piece of salmon. "DP with two guys who were hung like Clydesdales. Took me forever to get the angle right so the camera caught the gape. You should've seen the cleanup."
Leo would choke on his pasta. Every time.
His bedroom sat directly between theirs.
At night the walls might as well have been paper.
It started innocently enough—soft giggles, the rustle of sheets, the unmistakable sound of lips on skin. Then it escalated.
Low, throaty moans that vibrated through the drywall. The wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. Sasha's voice—bright and filthy—counting down from ten while something buzzed furiously. Blair's lower, commanding purr: "Deeper, baby, I want to feel it in my throat." The unmistakable creak of a bedframe being tested to its structural limit. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, faster, harder, until the headboard slammed the shared wall like someone was trying to punch through to Leo's room.
He'd lie there in the dark, cock so hard it hurt, hand frozen halfway to his waistband, torn between shame and the desperate, animal need to stroke himself in time with their rhythm.
Sometimes he gave in.
He'd wrap his fist around himself—quietly, shamefully—and match the tempo he could hear through the wall. When Sasha screamed—a raw, shattering sound that meant she'd just squirted so hard the sheets were probably ruined—he'd cum with her, biting his pillow so they wouldn't hear him whimper their names.
Other nights they'd be gentler with each other. Soft gasps. Whispered "I love you"s between kisses. The slow, slick sound of fingers or tongues working patiently until one of them shattered with a long, trembling sigh.
Those nights were somehow worse.
Because then Leo would lie there aching, untouched, listening to the tenderness he'd never had, wondering if they even knew he could hear every whispered endearment, every filthy promise.
One night—three weeks in—the sounds stopped being muffled.
The door between his room and Sasha's wasn't latched properly.
It swung open an inch—just enough for sound to pour through unobstructed.
He heard Blair's voice first, husky and amused.
"Think he's awake?"
Sasha's giggle, breathy. "Oh, he's awake. I can feel him listening. Poor baby's probably got the hardest dick in the house right now."
A wet, deliberate kiss. Then Blair, louder, clearly projecting through the gap:
"Leo? Sweetheart? If you're stroking that pretty cock thinking about us… don't stop. We like an audience."
Leo's heart slammed against his ribs.
He didn't move.
He didn't breathe.
He just lay there—cock throbbing against his stomach, leaking steadily—while the two women on the other side of the wall proceeded to put on the filthiest, most deliberate show of his life.
And for the first time, he didn't try to stay quiet.
He let them hear him groan.