SUBTITLE: A Brother(s)/Sister Erotica Short Story with group sex and anal only.

The sun shines brightly over Lake Como, a postcard-perfect setting that should be awe-inspiring. Instead, I stand under a flower-draped pergola, fighting the urge to roll my eyes so hard they might fall out of my skull.

This is the fifth time I’ve watched my father stand at the altar, looking like a lovesick puppy, ready to promise his undying love for yet another wife. Five. Who does that? The crowd coos as Dad slips a sparkling ring onto his new wife’s finger. She beams at him, her teeth impossibly white, her dress hugging her like she’s auditioning for a bridal magazine cover.

I glance at the rows of impeccably dressed guests, all pretending this isn’t utterly ridiculous. Maybe they’re genuinely thrilled for Dad and wife number five. I’m not. I can barely keep the scowl off my face, though I try for the sake of avoiding a scene.

As the officiant drones on about love and commitment, I shift uncomfortably in my bridesmaid dress, a pastel pink monstrosity that screams “candy store employee.” It pinches at the waist, and the fabric is so delicate I’m sure it’ll snag on something if I so much as exhale too deeply. Dad chose the dresses, of course, because God forbid we wear anything that doesn’t match the color palette of his latest wedding fantasy.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t even want to think about being here. But I didn’t have much of a choice. When Dad first called me about being a bridesmaid, I laughed, thinking he was joking. He wasn’t. He went on and on about family obligations, guilt-tripping me with promises that this marriage would be “the one.” And so, here I am, trapped in pink satin, playing the part of the dutiful daughter.

The ceremony drags on. The vows are over the top, complete with poetry that makes my skin crawl. The crowd sighs and giggles at all the right moments, and I feel like I’m stuck in some corny rom-com that refuses to end.

Finally, the words I’ve been waiting for come: “You may now kiss the bride.”

Dad leans in, his new wife throwing her arms around his neck as they kiss to a chorus of cheers. My stomach churns. I bolt the second they turn and start walking down the aisle together, all smiles and perfection.

No, I don’t wait for the rest of the bridal party to follow. No, I don’t care that a few people stare as I slip out of line and head straight for the bar. Dad can throw a fit about it later if he wants. I’m not sticking around for pictures or post-ceremony chit-chat. I need alcohol, and I need it now.

The reception area is already bustling. Servers weave through the space with trays of champagne, while a string quartet plays some soft, elegant tune I couldn’t care less about. The venue is stunning, sure-terraces lined with white flowers, tables set with gleaming silverware, and the shimmering lake in the background. But none of it matters to me. It’s all just fluff, another show Dad is putting on to distract everyone from the fact that he can’t keep a marriage together.

I reach the bar, leaning against the polished surface and signaling to the bartender. He’s a young guy, probably in his early twenties, with sharp features and a bowtie that makes him look like he walked out of a classic movie.

“Vodka soda,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended.

The bartender gives me a polite smile and nods, turning to grab a glass. I let out a slow breath, trying to loosen the tension in my shoulders. My reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar catches my eye. I look as annoyed as I feel, my expression dark beneath the careful makeup I applied this morning.

I didn’t want to wear makeup, either. But Dad insisted. “It’s a wedding, Hannah,” he said. “You could at least try to look the part.”

I cross my arms, tapping my fingers impatiently as the bartender sets my drink in front of me. The cool condensation on the glass is a small comfort, and I take a long sip, the sharp bite of vodka easing some of my frustration.

The chatter of the reception buzzes around me, guests congratulating one another, clinking glasses, and exchanging pleasantries. I ignore it all. The idea of small talk right now makes me want to scream.

I take another sip, savoring the burn of the alcohol. It’s going to be a long evening, but at least I have this.

The third sip of vodka soda barely hits my tongue when I hear the telltale sound of heavy footsteps behind me. I know who it is before I even turn around.

“Is the princess pouting again?” Kane’s deep voice rumbles with amusement as he slides onto the stool next to me. His deep voice turned me on in the past the two times we had sex, but I’m angry right now.

Yes. Kane and I have fucked twice. He’s my brother, yes. Who cares?

“Oh, look,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “It’s the Three Stooges.”

Grey and Orlie follow close behind, both grinning like they’re thrilled to see me in a foul mood. Kane is the tallest of the three, and his broad shoulders make him look like he could bench press the bar. Grey is leaner, his sharp jawline and perpetually raised eyebrow giving him a smug, almost predatory edge. Orlie, the youngest of the triplets by a whopping three minutes, is the most laid-back, his mischievous smirk already tugging at his lips.

“Come on, Hannah,” Orlie says, plopping down on my other side. “You can’t hide at the bar all night.”

“Watch me,” I say, taking another sip.

Grey leans over the bar and flags down the bartender. “Four shots of tequila, please. My sister here needs to loosen up.”