The Freshman (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  It almost makes me dread going back to Kingmakers. I asked Anna if we should get married instead, and start our lives together. She considered for a long time.

  “I want to be married to you,” she said at last, her clear blue eyes fixed on mine. “I want it desperately. But I also want to be the best wife for you, the best partner. The empire we’ll build together . . . it will eclipse anything anyone has done before. If we finish our education first.”

  I knew she was right, though I hated to admit it.

  “Three more years . . .” I sighed.

  “We’ll be there together,” Anna said, intertwining her fingers with mine.

  Now she’s wandered off before the sun is up, and I know that means she’s troubled. My restless love can never be still when there’s something on her mind.

  I slip out of bed, pulling a thick sweater over my bare torso and shoving my feet in battered sneakers. I creep downstairs and out onto the wraparound porch, where I spot Anna sitting on the edge of the moss-covered rocks, her bare toes dipping in the lake.

  She looks pale as a ghost, dressed only in a nightgown with her long sheaf of silver-blonde hair likewise trailing in the water.

  I take the woolen blanket off the porch swing and bring it down to her, wrapping it around her slim shoulders. She tilts her chin up and kisses me, her lips cool against my warm mouth.

  “We go back to school in only a few weeks,” she says.

  “Did you change your mind?”

  “No,” she shakes her head. “I just wonder what will happen . . .”

  “What do you mean? What are you afraid of happening?”

  “I don’t know . . .” she says, gazing out over the black water blanketed with mist. “I think this year will be different. When we started out at Kingmakers it was difficult, but it was new and exciting. I have a feeling things are about to get a whole lot darker . . .”

  “Darker than almost drowning the last week of school?” I laugh.

  Anna looks at me, somber and serious.

  “Yes,” she says.

  I kiss her again, longer this time.

  “I’ll be right by your side,” I tell her. “I’ll always protect you.”

  “I know,” she says. “I’m not afraid of anything when I have you, Leo.”

  We sit side by side with my arm around her until the first morning light burns the mist away, and the lake turns from black to navy to pink, the sky streaked with orange. The birds make strange and mournful cries across the water.

  I can smell bacon sizzling in the kitchen—probably my mother wide awake and instantly hungry.

  By the time Anna and I return to the cabin, hand in hand, my mom has pancakes on the skillet, coffee percolating, and eggs poaching, too.

  “Good morning,” Anna says, hugging my mother from behind. She has to reach much farther around than usual to do it, because my mom’s belly now keeps her arm’s length away from the stove. “How’s Baby Frances doing?”

  “She doesn’t like that upstairs mattress,” my mom says, “but she’s very excited for breakfast.”

  “That makes two of us,” I say.

  “No breakfast for you until you set the table,” my mom tells me, sternly.

  “I have to set the table,” I say. “I’m the only one who can reach the plates way up here.”

  I lift them down from their perch on the impractically high shelves above the sink, then pass them to Anna so she can set them out on the table.

  Once I’ve grabbed the glasses, I join her in arranging the place settings. She’s leaning way over the table to reach the other side, her nightgown stretched tight across her cute little ass. I can’t resist pinching her bottom.

  It’s the worst possible timing, since my father and Uncle Miko have just come strolling into the room. Mikolaj’s expression goes from calm to homicidal in an instant.

  “Young love!” my dad says, cheerfully. “Can I get you some orange juice, Miko?” And then, in an undertone, “Please don’t murder my son.”

  “Everybody sit down!” my mom says. “The pancakes are ready!”

  As we arrange ourselves around the table, Anna and I make sure to take the seats furthest from her father. My mom deposits a huge platter of crispy golden pancakes in the center of the table. My dad brings the bacon and toast a moment later.

  I can hear Whelan before I see him, thundering down the stairs at full speed. There’s a tumbling, banging noise that sounds like he might have fallen down the last four, but he comes sprinting into the kitchen looking perfectly recovered.

  “Where is your sister?” Miko asks him.

  “Coming,” Whelan pants, plopping himself down at the table and seizing a fistful of bacon. “She’s gotta get all fancy first.”

  “Use the tongs,” Miko says, sharply, rapping Whelan across the knuckles with them.

  “Right,” Whelan says, grabbing another pile of bacon with the tongs.

  Aunt Nessa floats into the kitchen, as graceful as Anna and barely looking any older than her, even in an old t-shirt and ponytail with no makeup on her face. She gently takes the majority of the bacon from Whelan, dividing it onto Miko’s and her plate.

  “But I’m starving!” Whelan complains.

  “Eat that first, and then we’ll see,” she says.

  Cara follows Nessa a moment after, wearing a clean flannel shirt and denim shorts, her blonde hair brushed and braided into two plaits. She sits down on the other side of Anna, giving her sister’s hand a quick squeeze.

  “It’s so nice to be all together,” my dad says. “May not happen again for a while, once the baby’s born. Traveling with an infant is awful.”

  “Are you scared to start it all over again?” Nessa asks my mom.

  “No,” my mother says, with her usual bluntness. “It never felt right, having only one. I never felt done.”

  “I’m sorry I was so unsatisfying,” I tease her.

  A year or two ago I would have been annoyed hearing that my mother was unhappy with me as her only child. She probably wouldn’t have admitted it. But she can see how happy I am and how little I need that kind of flattery.

  “You’ll understand soon enough,” my dad says. “The desire to have children with the person you love can be overpowering.”

  “Not very soon, though,” Uncle Miko says, frowning.

  “Don’t worry, Papa,” Anna says. “We’re not in a rush.”

  She lays her hand on my thigh, under the table. Then, wickedly, she slides it a little higher, inside the leg of my shorts. I stiffen up, trying not to show the slightest sign of enjoyment on my face. I can feel Uncle Miko’s frozen stare drilling into me, as if he can see right through the table to his daughter’s wandering hand.

  “Maybe we should draw up the marriage contract,” my father says. He grins at Miko. “Will there be a dowry, or a bride price?”

  He’s only joking—my dad and Miko have run their empires generously and equally, side by side. There’s no difference in “value” between Anna and me, at least not from a business perspective.

  Without taking his eyes off me, Uncle Miko replies, “You will be bankrupted, my friend.”

  Anna’s fingers steal further up my shorts toward my crotch. I try to trap her hand without visibly moving, but she slips my grasp and continues on until she’s brushing the side of my cock. Perversely, preposterously, right under her father’s stare, I can feel the rush of blood as I start to get hard. I swear to god, he knows exactly what’s happening. Miko always knows.

  Trying to hold my lips as still as a ventriloquist, I mutter, “Anna . . .”

  Anna smiles serenely, taking a sip of her coffee with one hand, and teasing my cock with her other.

  I want to jump up and run to the bathroom, but it’s too late now, I’m already hard. I’m trapped here while the love of my life attempts to bring down the wrath of the devil on my head.

  There’s only one thing I can do.

  I knock over my own glass of orange juice, right i
n my lap.

  Then I grab a napkin, press it over my crotch, and jump up from the table.

  “Oops!” I say. “I better clean up!”

  I run upstairs to shower and change, and I don’t dare go back down for breakfast until I’m sure Uncle Miko has safely engaged himself someplace else.

  I can hear Anna coming up to shower shortly after, when I’m already in my room. She’s skipping up the stairs and down the hallway, probably laughing to herself.

  That’s fine with me—I want her cheerful and unaware when I punish her.

  It’s not easy to capture Anna. She’s fast and wary. She’ll know that she has it coming, after her stunt at breakfast.

  So I leave the house as soon as I’m dressed, telling my mother that I’m going to chop a few more cords of wood for the stove.

  I take the axe from its place leaned up against the porch, and I head out into the woods, to the stand of birch trees ten minutes away that we’ve been felling, chopping, and stacking in the woodshed.

  This part of the forest is dense and nearly silent. You’d think I was hours away from any other human. You can’t hear the loons on the water anymore. Only the soft buzz of bees and the occasional creak and groan of the breeze knocking the pine branches together.

  I set the birch logs up on a ready stump and begin to split them. It’s relaxing work with a smooth, steady rhythm. The swing of the axe, the heavy thunk as it hits, and the clean split of the wood breaking apart. Then I pick up the pieces and throw them neatly on the pile, to be carried over to the woodshed when I’m finished.

  Despite the shade and the cool morning, I soon start to sweat. I unbutton my shirt and take it off, enjoying the breeze on my bare skin.

  Swish, thunk.

  Swish, thunk.

  Swish, thunk.

  I’m listening to the wood split. Listening to the wind. And listening for the sounds of Anna approaching.

  I know she’ll follow me. She can’t resist the sight of me chopping wood. She loves to watch me do anything athletic, she always has.

  She’s quiet and stealthy. But I’ve learned to hear even her light footsteps over soft, loamy ground.

  I hear the snap of a twig. Instantly I drop the axe and sprint toward her.

  She tries to run away, fleet as a white deer in the forest, but I grab her around the waist and throw her over my shoulder as she hits and pummels my back with her fists.

  “You crossed a line, baby girl,” I tell her.

  Anna doesn’t waste time arguing—she’s saving her breath for squirming and struggling.

  “Do you know what they used to use woodsheds for?” I ask her as I carry her inside, carefully ducking so I don’t hit her head on the low doorframe. “That’s where they used to take naughty children when they misbehaved. And baby girl . . . you’ve been very naughty.”

  As soon as I set her down she tries to run again, but I was expecting that. I seize her by the hands, then take off my belt and wrap it around her wrists. I pass the end of the belt all the way through the buckle, cinching it tight, then I hoist her arms up over her head and tie the other end around the rafter.

  “Let go of me!” Anna demands, her cheeks already flaming pink and her eyes brilliant blue in the gloom.

  “I don’t know why you always have to poke the bear,” I say, walking around her slowly as she stands on tiptoe in the center of the woodshed. Anna can stand in that position for a very long time. “I think you like to see how wild the bear really is . . .”

  Anna bites back a smile. She’s enjoying this a little too much. I’m going to have to punish her harder than usual. She’s too tough—she’ll barely feel it otherwise.

  I grab the front of her shirt and I tear it open, baring her chest. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples instantly stiffen up as if in defense of what I’m about to do.

  “That was my favorite shirt!” Anna cries.

  “Keep quiet. or I’ll have to gag you.”

  When Anna opens her mouth to retort, I use the remains of her t-shirt as a gag, tying it tight behind her head. The outrage at this occasion causes many muffled shrieks.

  “That’s probably better anyway,” I say. “Your dad already wants to kill me. Imagine if he heard you screaming off in the woods . . .”

  I run my tongue over Anna’s helpless lips, spread apart and held open by the gag. Anna twists and squirms, rotating on the end of the belt. I grab her nipple and pinch it hard, making her shriek at a much higher frequency.

  “Can you tell me baby . . .” I say. “Why do you love this so much?”

  I shove my hand down the front of her jeans, dipping my middle finger inside her soft, tight pussy. When I pull it out, my finger is soaked all the way up the second knuckle. I hold it up to show her.

  Anna narrows her pale blue eyes, passing over from fear to rage. That’s all part of it—part of making her feel every last acute sensation blended with her arousal.

  I know what my girl needs. She’s no common princess, wanting to be stroked and pampered. Anna is a mafia queen. That means she would never tolerate a civilian or a soldier. She only submits to the motherfucking king.

  She needs the boss of bosses.

  The only man who can tame her.

  She needs me.

  “Do you know what a switch is?” I ask her.

  She watches me silently through those narrowed eyes, refusing to nod or shake her head.

  I take the switch down from the wall. I cut it off a birch tree and stripped the bark off it. It’s long and flexible, with just the right amount of whip.

  I slowly slide my fingers down its length, testing its flexibility. Then I bring it down sharply on my palm, making a loud cracking sound that makes Anna flinch.

  “When someone needs to be punished, you take them to the woodshed and you fetch the switch,” I say to Anna, softly. “Baby girl . . . you need to be punished.”

  I walk around her again, trailing the switch lightly across her bare back. Her flesh trembles and her fists tighten in the loop of my belt.

  Swiftly, I reach around her and unbuckle her jeans, yanking them down around her knees. Her underwear comes with them. Now I can see the smooth twin globes of her ass, flawless and unmarked.

  Not for long.

  I bring the switch down hard on her ass. It leaves a thin red line, right across both cheeks. Anna’s muffled scream is the highest yet.

  I whip her again and again, until her ass is striped with red lines, and both cheeks are glowing pink, no hint of creamy skin left.

  She stops shrieking, but her body still flinches with each hit. Her nipples are so hard that they stand out an inch from her chest.

  I’m sweating harder than when I was chopping wood.

  I reach around and test Anna’s pussy. She’s wet all the way down the inside of her thighs. She moans helplessly as I slide my fingers over her warm and throbbing clit.

  I stand in front of her, her nipples brushing against my bare torso. I rip down her gag and plunge my tongue into her mouth, kissing her like an animal, without gentleness or technique. I bite her lips, I suck on her neck, and I fuck her with my fingers until she’s sobbing and begging for relief.

  I rip her jeans the rest of the way off, tossing them aside. She grabs the belt in her hands, pulling herself up higher so she can wrap her legs around my waist. I free my cock, stabbing it all the way into her with one thrust.

  Her pussy is a thousand degrees, the hottest I’ve ever felt it. And my cock is an iron brand, fresh out of the fire. I hold her by the hips and I fuck her violently, intensely, until the sweat pours down my chest.

  It’s exactly what she needs. In seconds she’s cumming, screaming out so loud that for the first time I think she might actually be heard all the way over at the cabin and I clamp my hand over her mouth. I hold it there as I blow inside of her, a rush of boiling hot cum that sears my cock as it pours out of me. I’m roaring too, biting down hard on her shoulder.

  When she collapses against me I undo
the belt, both of us falling down on the floor, our legs too weak to support us. I’m covered in sawdust and sweat but Anna doesn’t care. She lays her cheek on my chest, still breathing too fast, her heart like a running rabbit.

  “That was a good one,” she says, when she can speak again.

  I press my face into her hair, inhaling her scent.

  “Best ever,” I say.

  “Best so far,” she replies.

  Ready to meet Miles & Zoe? →

  Zoe

  It’s my engagement party tonight.

  I’ve never been less excited to celebrate something.

  My stepmother Daniela sends her team of specialists to ensure that I’m in peak form, so Rocco and his family can be sure they’re getting their money’s worth.

  They come into my bedroom at three o’clock in the afternoon and spend the next four hours scrubbing, exfoliating, waxing, moisturizing, painting, and primping every square inch of my body.

  The fighting starts immediately when I demand to know why they’re waxing my bikini line.

  “It’s an engagement party,” I tell Daniela. “Not the wedding night. I don’t expect anyone to be checking under my skirt.”

  I glare at my stepmother, who is already partway through her own exhausting preparations for the night ahead. She has a mud-mask on her face and her hair up in rollers the size of soup cans. Far from looking ridiculous, it only makes her appear all the more imperious as the curlers encircle her head like a crown, and the mask obscures the few hints of emotion Daniela ever betrays. I can’t tell if Daniela actually lacks all human feeling, or if she’s just very good at hiding it.

  Daniela is only ten years older than me.

  I was nine when my mother died, nine-and-a-half when my father remarried.

  He used my mother up like an old sponge, putting her through fourteen pregnancies, ten miscarriages, two stillbirths, and the shameful arrival of me and my sister Catalina, none of which produced a male heir.

  That last stillbirth was the death of her. She hemorrhaged on the gurney. The darkest part of me suspects that my father held back the doctor, allowing the life to drain out of my mother as punishment for the fact that even that final breathless baby was a girl.