They come—hard, hot—*everywhere.* One spurts across Mom’s back, ropes of cum sliding down her spine, soaking into the torn lace. Another pulls out, strokes himself fast, and paints her face—her lips, her cheeks, her forehead—like she’s been *blessed.* The third roars as he fills my sister deep, then pulls out, letting it drip from her pussy onto the floor, her pink lace now ruined, *worshipped.* She doesn’t move. Just trembles. Smiles. They pull back—sweaty, satisfied, *kingly*—and one says, voice calm, firm, *commanding, * “Go change into maids. We’ll be waiting in the hall.” No cruelty. No shame. Just *order.* Like this is how it’s always been. Mom rises slowly, cum dripping from her, legs shaky, but her head high. My sister crawls down from the table, legs wide even now, like she can’t close them if she tried. They don’t rush. They *glide* past me, their skin glistening, their eyes *alight.* I follow. Up the stairs. Into the linen closet. There they are—three crisp maid uniforms, short black dresses, white aprons, stockings, *heels.* No panties. *Of course.* We dress in silence. The fabric hugs us, *transforms* us. Hair smoothed. Faces wiped—mostly. Lips still wet. Down the hall. Into the hallway. There they are. One on the couch, legs spread, cock still half-hard. The second in the armchair, relaxed, sipping water like a gentleman. The third—same, calm, *ready.* He looks at us. At *me.* And says, “Come here. Kneel.” And we do. Together. Mom on one side. Sister on the other. Me in the middle. Barely dressed as maids. Fully *theirs.* Waiting. *Alive.*