#{nothing much

—them being utterly obsessed with you.

You could just be baking your sweet treats when one of them would come up behind you, kissing your neck, hiking your leg up that thrusting his hard length in your already dripping—with another's cum fron earlier—naked pussy under your pretty little skirt. He would fuck you hard and fast, rutting into you so harshly that your hips ached from hitting the counter. You would only find relief when his hand snaked over your hip to tease and slap your clit.

He wouldn't stop, kissing you when you complained about your task, gripping your neck when you tried to pull away to breath, spitting on your awaiting tongue. As soon as you were coming, he would too, filling up your sore pussy with his hot load. Then with a parting kiss that felt like he was fucking your mouth with his tongue, he would pull away and leave to do his errands.

It could be Quinn, or Jack, or Luke. All of them would do this.

However, if it was Quinn, he would sit you over the counter, pushing your ingredients to the side, then he would eat his cum out of you. He would savor every scream you released, every clench of your pussy around his tongue, every tug of your hand on his hair. He would make you all clean and tired from coming on his tongue at least twice, so you could continue baking with just your arousal and cum dripping out of your well-fucked cunt.

If it was Jack, he would give your ass a slap, muttering how good of a fucktoy you were. Sometimes you would fight him, retorting that you were a person. He would grin and agree, appeasing you. Then he would call you his whore, that would effectively shut you up, especially when he pushed you down on your knees, when he told you to open your pretty mouth, when he made you clean his cock. He would be grinning, chuckling for every lick, praising and dregrading you, until you finished. You would be carrying on with the taste of him on your tongue and his cum heating your insides and thighs.

If it was Luke, he wouldn't be satisfied with coming inside you once. He would keep fucking you until you were dripping sweat on the counter, your arousal dripping to the floor, until he had fucked his brothers' cum out of you and replaced it with his. When you tried to tell him about the cookies, he teased you about making it while he was deep inside you, laughing if you did try, rolling your nipples over your shirt. After unloading in you, he would pull out, wiping his wet cock on your skirt, grinning if you sagged on the counter, waving goodbye with you barely keeping yourself upright.

You could also just be napping then you would wake up to an orgasm from either a cock, a finger, or a tongue. Or maybe two. One thing would be sure, they would be hovering over you, coming on your bare tits because they'd cut your nightgown again, smirking at how pathetic you were. They would take turns fucking the remnants of sleep from you, using you, destroying any ideas of resting if they weren't satiated.

If you begged for a break, they wouldn't let you—unless you told them your word but you were stubborn. You would try to take them on despite your pleas, despite how overstimulated you were, despite all the bruises on your skin and how filthy you were with sweat, cum, and spit. You would be so perfect for them and they loved you for it.