Sisters Cuck pt.3

The phone call ended with a click that echoed louder than it should have. I lay there, the stolen lace still pressed to my face, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. The screen dimmed to black, but the afterimage of her voice lingered—*Deal? Deal.*—coiling in the silence. I exhaled sharply through my nose, the scent of her almost gone now, just a faint ghost clinging to the fabric. My fingers twitched toward my waistband before I caught myself. *Patience,* I thought, though the word tasted bitter.

The next morning, I woke to my phone buzzing against my thigh. A single notification—*Unknown Number*—and a photo that made my breath hitch. Just her torso, the curve of her waist disappearing into rumpled sheets, one hand splayed possessively over her stomach. No face, just skin and the faint shadow of someone else’s fingers near the edge of the frame. The caption read: *Morning.* Simple. Devastating. I stared at it for three full minutes before I remembered to breathe.

The phone clattered to the tile, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the empty kitchen. I crouched, fingers fumbling, scrambling to pick it up before the screen cracked—before I lost whatever he’d sent. The video was already playing when I grabbed it, her moan slithering out of the speakers before I could mute it. *Fuck.* My thumb smeared across the screen, pausing it just as the frame tilted—her bare thigh, his hand gripping it, the dim light catching the sweat between them. The text beneath glared up at me: *You like watching?*

I exhaled through my nose, slow, deliberate. My pulse was a riot. *Reply,* I thought, but my fingers hovered, useless. What the hell do you say to that? *Yes* felt too eager. *No* was a lie. The dots appeared before I could decide—him typing again. Then: *Answer the question.*

The challenge in the words prickled the back of my neck. I thumbed out *Depends* and sent it before I could rethink—cowardly, hedging, but honest. The reply came instantly: *Bullshit.* A video link popped up beneath it, thumbnail blurred, and my pulse kicked hard enough to bruise. I tapped it before common sense could intervene.

The screen filled with her—no, *them*—her back arched off the mattress, his hand fisted in her hair, pulling just shy of painful. Her moan crackled through the speakers, low and wrecked, and I nearly fumbled the phone again. The angle was deliberate, calculated: his forearm flexing as he moved, her fingers digging into his thigh, the way her breath hitched when he murmured something off-camera. Then, abruptly, the frame tilted—her lips brushing his shoulder, her whisper just audible: *He watching?*

The video ended there. My throat burned. Another message appeared: *Answer.*

I exhaled, ragged. *Yeah.*

The dots appeared again, taunting me. I watched them pulse, my thumb hovering over the screen like it might bite. Then: *Good.* Just that. My breath stuck in my chest, sharp as a splinter. The kitchen clock ticked loud in the silence, mocking my hesitation. I should’ve walked away—deleted the thread, burned the lace, pretended last night never happened. Instead, I typed *What now?* and hated how small the words looked.

Her reply came fast, like she’d been waiting. *Your turn.* Attached was a list—not demands, but *suggestions*, each one more ruinous than the last. *Shirt off. Hand on your throat. Say her name.* I read it twice, my pulse thudding in my ears. The last line undid me: *Make it hurt a little.*

The phone buzzed again before I could reply. A photo—her mouth around his thumb, teeth just barely showing. The caption: *Waiting.*

I swallowed hard. The lace was still in my pocket, the fabric warm from my skin. I fished it out, pressed it to my nose one more time—barely a whisper of her left—and set the phone on the counter. The camera app glared up at me, accusatory. *Fuck it.* I yanked my shirt over my head, the fabric catching on my elbows for a humiliating second before I tossed it aside. The mirror above the sink showed the mess of me—flushed, uneven breaths, the desperate arch of my own eyebrows. Pathetic. Perfect.

The phone buzzed against the countertop—another message, another photo, this time just her fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white. *Tick tock,* the caption read. I exhaled sharply through my nose, my reflection’s pupils blown wide in the mirror. The lace trembled in my grip as I lifted it again, the last traces of her scent clinging stubbornly to the fibers. My thumb hovered over the camera button, then jerked away. *Not like this.*

I snatched the phone, swiped to our thread, and typed *Give me five* before I could second-guess it. The reply was instant: *Three.* A laugh punched out of me—half-hysterical, half-aroused. Of course she’d negotiate.

The bedroom was a mess, sheets tangled from last night’s fumbling, but I didn’t bother straightening them. Kneeling on the mattress, I angled the phone toward the mirror, catching the slope of my back, the tense line of my shoulders. One tap. Send. No caption.

The dots appeared immediately. Then: *Cute. Now lose the pants.*

The phone clattered onto the mattress as I fumbled with my belt, my fingers suddenly clumsy. The leather slid free with a hiss, and the button of my jeans popped open before I could overthink it. I hesitated—just for a second—before shoving them down my hips, the denim catching at my thighs. The mirror reflected the mess of me: bare legs, the sharp jut of my hip bones, the desperate arch of my back as I leaned forward to grab the phone again. My thumb hovered over the camera button, my pulse a frantic drum behind my ribs.

The screen lit up with her reply before I could press it: *Warmer.* Just that. A challenge. A dare. My exhale shook as I kicked the jeans the rest of the way off, the fabric pooling on the floor. The lace was still clutched in my other hand, the edges frayed from how tightly I’d been holding it. I lifted it to my nose again out of habit, but the scent was gone now—just the memory of her lingering in the threads. The phone buzzed again. *Tick tock.*

I angled the camera lower, catching the tense line of my stomach, the way my fingers trembled against my thigh. The flash went off—blinding for a second—and the photo sent before I could reconsider. The dots appeared instantly. Then: *Better.* A pause. *Now the boxers.*

The command sent a jolt straight to my groin. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband, hesitated—then stopped. Something sharp and stubborn coiled in my chest. *Make me,* I typed, the words bold on the screen. The silence stretched. Then her reply, slow and deliberate: *Oh?* Just that. A single syllable that curled hot under my skin.

The dots danced on the screen—her typing, stopping, typing again—and I gripped the phone tighter, my pulse hammering against my ribs like a caged thing. When her reply finally came, it was just a video link. No caption. No taunt. Just a blurry thumbnail that made my mouth go dry.

I tapped it. The screen filled with her—no, *him*—his fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her head back as she laughed, breathless. The camera angle was deliberate, cruel: the flex of his forearm, the way her lips parted around his thumb when he pressed it to her tongue. Then, muffled but clear, her voice: *Tell him to behave.* The frame tilted, catching his smirk as he murmured, *You heard her.*

The video ended there. My throat clicked when I swallowed. The dots reappeared. *Still feeling bold?*

I exhaled sharply through my nose. The lace was sweaty in my fist now, the last traces of her scent smothered under my own desperation. I thumbed out *Maybe* and sent it before I could chicken out. The reply was instant: *Proof or it didn’t happen.*

The screen dimmed to black, but her words lingered—*Proof or it didn’t happen*—like a dare scrawled in smoke. My fingers flexed around the lace, now damp with sweat. The mirror caught the flush creeping up my chest, the way my teeth dug into my lower lip. *Fine.* I shoved the boxers down in one rough motion, the fabric catching at my knees before I kicked them aside. The phone camera glared up at me, unblinking.

I angled it low, catching the tense line of my thighs, the way my cock twitched against my stomach—already hard, already leaking. My thumb hovered over the button. *Do it.* The flash went off, bleaching the room white for a heartbeat. The photo sent before I could second-guess it: raw, unposed, *honest.* The dots appeared instantly. Then, her voice—*play the video*—texted beneath a new link.

I tapped it. The screen filled with *them*—her straddling his lap, his hands gripping her hips as she rocked against him. The camera caught the exact moment she noticed it, her gaze flicking downward, lips curling. *Watch this,* she murmured, and then her fingers tangled in his hair, wrenching his head back. The moan he let out was filthy, ragged. Her laugh was darker. *That’s for you.*

The video ended. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. The dots danced. *Now touch yourself.*

The command punched through me. I fisted my cock without preamble, hissing at the contact. The lace was still crumpled in my other hand—useless now, but I pressed it to my nose anyway, inhaling the ghost of her as I stroked. The phone buzzed again. *Slower.*

I obeyed, dragging my thumb over the head, smearing precome down the shaft. The mirror reflected the wreck of me—flushed chest, parted lips, the desperate arch of my back as I fucked into my own grip. The dots appeared. Disappeared. Then: *Say her name.*

It tumbled out of me before I could stop it—*her name*, gasped like a prayer, like a curse. The phone buzzed. *Louder.*

I choked it out again, louder this time, my hips stuttering. The video link appeared mid-stroke—her hand wrapped around him, her mouth at his ear. *He’s close,* she whispered, and the way his groan cracked sent me spiraling. My grip tightened. *Come for us,* she murmured to the camera, and that was it—my back bowed, my thighs trembled, and I came with a broken shout, stripes of white painting my stomach

The phone buzzed almost lazily. *Good boy.* A photo followed—her fingers smeared with his release, glistening in the low light. *See what you did?*

I slumped against the headboard, spent, my heartbeat loud in my ears. The lace slipped from my fingers, forgotten. The dots danced. Stopped. Then, finally: *Next time, don’t stop when I tell you to slow down.*

My telegram is the same as my username if anyone is up to chat. did manage to get a photo of her sucking his dick.Love to see and hear others experiences as well.