by Angel Lawson
“Hey!” Rath protests, but then instantly nods. “Actually, that’s fair.”
Tristian tips his drink to him. “Obviously, it needs to be me. Good thing too, considering I’m the only one who gives a shit about nutrition around here.” Rolling the tension from his shoulders, he tosses us a grin. “Took her to that nice place on Market Street. A little reward.”
I scowl at him. “A reward for what?”
Tristian shrugs. “She came face to face with the Barons and the Counts and she didn’t speak to them. Didn’t even look at them.”
I stare at him hotly. “What were you doing that she fainted in the library?”
Tristian gives a casual shrug. “Fingerbanging the fuck out of her sweet, wet cunt.” He chuckles, like he’s remembering. “Not what I really wanted to do. Taking her cherry in the library today would have been epic. Instead, I had to settle for a little public exhibitionism.”
“Public exhibition?” Rath groans. “Fuck, that’s worth—”
“More points than you have,” Tristian confirms, smiling like the cat who got the cream.
I feel the anger rise up, swelling and pulsing. It’s bad enough that I’ve only got a measly two points for my punishment that morning. But now they’ve both had more of her than I have. Figures. Always knew she was a slut. I don’t know why hearing about it makes me want to pick up this plate and slam it into their fucking faces.
“How long has she been holed up in there?” I tuck all the volatility away, even though these two can probably see through it. It’s never easy hiding stuff from them.
“Pretty much since we got home,” Rath says. “She was quiet when she and Tristian got in. Ate a snack in her room.”
“She’s licking her wounds,” Tristian says, grimacing at something on his plate. “She might have gotten a reward, but she still disobeyed several rules today. I had to correct her with that fingerbang.”
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Rath asks, and Tristian nods back.
“She gets fucking sopping wet,” he agrees, ignoring the way I’m strangling my fork. “And tight as fuck. I completely believe she’s a virgin. I’m not even convinced she’s ever had an orgasm that didn’t come from the two of us.”
Disgusting. These assholes look about two seconds from high-fiving over the table like the shitheads they are.
Tristian continues, “She’s just so fucking oppositional, though. Not texting, arriving late…oh, and do you know why she was late to the library?” He doesn’t wait for us to answer. “Because she was talking to your dad.”
My voice comes out in a low, dangerous hiss. “She was fucking what?”
Rath and Tristian both shoot me similar sympathetic looks. They know all about what happened back then, up to and including the spiral it sent me down that year.
Tristian scoffs in derision. “They had a happy little family reunion, right in the middle of campus. Had to nip that shit quick.”
Goddamn it.
Motherfucker.
I slam my glass down and lurch from my chair, snatching my plate up. Is that why she really came back here? To be close to my father again? The bitterness that settles in the back of my throat makes food unappealing at the moment.
“This doesn’t need to be a situation,” Rath says in a sorry attempt at calming me down.
Tristian agrees, “I already punished her for it. She won’t be going near him without our say-so again, trust me. She heard that shit loud and clear.”
“You know we’ve got your back.”
Since they’re both used to my temper, neither looks surprised when I leave the room.
I know it’s not fair. These two have been ride-or-die by my side since elementary school. Like me, they’ve been through some serious shit, but they keep that close and know how to present themselves on the outside. There’s no whining. No sniveling. They’re tough, loyal, and deep down, maybe more depraved than I am.
But a small, resentful part of me thinks: You have your own backs. They want Story. They want her in the same way I want her. Absolute possession. But how could it be absolute if it’s three people?
This is a competition. The Game will have a victor. One of us will take her, fuck her, own a part of her that no one else can ever lay claim to. She’s mine by rights. We all know it. And somehow, these two have pulled ahead of me in the race to have her. It’s not fucking fair.
Well, I think as I wrap my plate up, I’ve never played fair a day in my life.
I’m not about to start now.
It’s late when I slip into her room.
I’d picked out the sheer curtains myself, making sure the light from the streetlamps would reach her bed, but nowhere else. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but once they do, I see her. Sleeping.
The first time I saw her, that night at dinner when my dad announced his engagement to her gold-digging mother, I thought she was…fine. Cute. Sort of nervous and awkward, but perfectly fuckable. Better still was the knowledge—the intuition—that my dad was gifting her to me.
It made perfect sense. My dad got a toy, and so did I. He never came out and said it, but he never had to. I’d practically grown up on his porn collection, learned the right way to treat a girl, to fuck a girl, to put her in her place. The fact that I was still a kid, that he was my dad, made it difficult to share our interests. But he knew. I knew.
Story and her mom were his way of bridging the gap.
So I sat there at dinner and tried to play at being polite, even though I was buzzing with anticipation. I texted the guys the second we hit the parking lot, bragging about my shiny new girl, all mine, no one else’s.
What a fucking joke.
What none of them know, however, is that Story is prettiest when she’s sleeping. I look at her now, drinking in her milky skin, a lock of dark hair falling over her cheek. Her mouth is always parted in sleep, those plush lips of hers looking wet and ready.
It gets my dick rock hard, just like it always did back then. Sure, I made her life a living hell and the guys happily followed my lead. She was easy to pick on back in high school. Fun. All small and weak. I made it clear we weren’t family and never would be. I made sure she had no social clout at school. That she was never to speak or acknowledge me in public. Ever.
That didn’t mean I didn’t know about her. No. I kept a close eye on the girl in the next bedroom, especially as she got closer and closer to my father. It seemed that, briefly, Daniel Payne suddenly loved playing the savior who swept in and plucked these two unfortunate souls out of abject poverty. I knew it was fake, but they didn’t.
Keeping tabs on Story was like an addiction back then. First, because I was fixated on my new plaything. I wanted to know what she smelled like, what she sounded like, what she looked like under the clothes. It was easy enough and it consumed me. I had to share a bathroom with her, giving me access to her things, her scent, her presence. I knew what kind of shampoo she liked, and that she preferred white toothpaste to the blue gels. That her fucking long hair clogged up everything. I knew when I saw the crumpled-up papers in the trash that she was on the rag. I knew everything and it drove me mad, because it just made me want to know more.
The shared bathroom provided something else—something unintentional: access to her room, to her secrets. To her. I spent hours sitting with my back against the cool tiled walls, listening as her voice carried through the vent from her bedroom. That’s how I found out about her and Mary conning old guys out of gift cards and money by showing them their tits or whatever.
I didn’t stop there. Night after night—even after I found out the truth—I snuck into her room and stood by her bed, thinking of all the things I could do to her. At first, these thoughts were all about that soft-looking mouth of hers. The skin that disappeared underneath her little boyshorts. The dark outline of her nipples beneath a tank top. The way her hair might look, wrapped tight around my fist as I pulled…
I left her little gifts in the form of my jizz on her lips,
on the shiny tip of her tongue. Not enough that she’d notice. Just enough that I’d know she was marked—that she carried a part of me inside her.
But that was before.
Before the night I walked past my dad’s study and saw them. Story in his lap. His hand up her shirt. Touching her tits. The tits that were supposed to be mine.
Dad was clearly drunk, and there she was, just sitting on his knee, staring blankly at nothing as his fingers toyed with her nipple. I know he whispered something into her ear, but I couldn’t hear it. I could only see the minute, reluctant shake of her head before I stormed away.
After that, the things I imagined doing to her at night grew into these evil, acrid things. I could smother her with a pillow. I could steal the data on her computer. I could gag her, hold her down, and fuck her hard and fast and brutal.
Right now, she’s curled up in the middle of the bed, arms wrapped around a pillow protectively. What is Story afraid of? Me? The guys? Something else?
Whatever it is, she’s foolish enough to think that a pillow will be enough. I lower myself in the chair and focus on the girl in the bed—on the rise and fall of her breath and how very, very vulnerable she is right now.
I’d held off the night before, telling myself that all I was going to do was watch. But here I am again, my cock getting harder and harder under the thin fabric of my sweatpants. My hands fist the edge of the cushion. Story’s legs shift, moving under the blanket and I freeze, watching silently as she rolls over, facing me. I don’t move for a long, treacherous heartbeat, waiting to see if she’ll wake up like she had the night before, peering around the room like she was looking for a monster.
Her eyes never open, but in the dim light I see her mouth slack, lips parting once again. Story’s lips have always been so red—so plump. It’s the first thing Tristian said to me about her when he met her. “I bet those lips would look amazing wrapped around a cock.”
I’d played around with it, before I realized that Story was never meant for me—that she’d probably flirted and slutted her way into my father’s designer trousers. I used to pull my dick out and slot the head of it between her lips, just the littlest bit. She never knew.
It wasn’t enough, though. It was a dissatisfying tease, just like Story herself.
But Tristian had finally done it that night in the laundry room—forced his cock past those red, pretty lips, and fuck it all, he’d been right. They did look amazing. I grimace at the memory, my heart pushing blood between my legs. Leaning my head back, I finally relent, shoving my hand into my pants and pulling out my length. The cool air feels good against the overheated skin. I run my hand down my length and conjure the fantasy I’ve perfected over the years. We’re back in the house and I’ve snuck through the adjoining bathroom and into her room. I’m standing by her bed while she sleeps, and it’s some truly kinky combination of motivating factors: fucking and hurting.
In the fantasy, the blanket is down around her waist and she’s wearing a tight tank top. I can see her nipples visible through the fabric. Even though I know it’s nothing but trouble—she’s my stepsister and a dirty whore—I reach out and touch one, feeling the smooth surface instantly pebble. She doesn’t wake, and it just spurs me on. I lift the blanket and carefully, quietly, slide into the bed behind her. Her back is pressed against mine, but her breath continues in even, controlled inhalations. When I push my hips forward, I suddenly realize she’s not wearing any panties. The feel of my hard cock pressing insistently between her thighs doesn’t stir her. I nudge the outside of her hip forward, giving me access to the warm heat between her legs. I wrap her hair around my fist, and there’s no stopping it. There’s no controlling the urge to take. My cock slides between her legs, pushing at her pussy. I grip her hip and hold her still, forcing my cock inside with a hard, unforgiving shove.
She cries out in the fantasy, always the same sharp, wounded sound that fades into a sleepy, confused whimper.
Now, my hand angrily strips my cock. This fantasy—this old, reliable, never-fails fantasy—takes on a new intensity with her only a few steps away. My balls tighten, the pit of my stomach burning with the need to finally have her. I know the truth, that this fantasy is tied up in the perversion of wanting to hurt Story, humiliate her, defile her. But much stronger than that is something else. It’s what releases the trigger of my orgasm, time and time again.
I want to fuck my stepsister.
I want to claim her.
Own her.
I want her to finally be mine.
That’s what I think about, staring at her sleeping form as I come, the spunk oozing warm and thick down my hand. I exhale silently, chest heaving from exertion, cognizant of one other thing.
I let someone else take her away once.
I won’t do it again.
11
Story
As much as I bristle while doing it, I take the time the next morning to dress ‘appropriately’. The last thing I want is another correction—aka: strip tease—in front of the guys at breakfast.
I flip through the clothes in my closet, fingering the short, perky skirts that I know Tristian would prefer. There are a few outfits that I assume Rath picked out; faux leather leggings, shirts with strategic rips and tears, a little edgy. It makes me wonder what kind of outfit Killian would like to see me in, but as I pick through the rack of clothing, there’s nothing that stands out. Maybe, like he always said, I’m just trash to him, repulsive and embarrassing.
It’s a strange comfort, the idea that he doesn’t want me, but it makes it that much harder to navigate.
I decide on a mishmash of options. There’s a pair of tight, black pants for Rath. A pink top with a swooping low neckline and short, puffy shoulders is for Tristian. I choose a pair of Mary Janes that don’t exactly look comfortable, but seem to complete my ‘oh so innocent’ ensemble. Innocent. I shift my shoulders, looking in the mirror. Yeah, right. Tristian could have my breasts out in a second flat.
I even open the jewelry box on my dresser, intending to choose something to go with it. I all but laugh at what’s inside. A few different, sweet-looking pieces. Earrings. Hair clips. Bracelets.
It’s the chain with a small, delicate crucifix hanging from it that makes me slam it closed.
Give me a break.
Martin’s inspection goes flawlessly. “Very good, Lady,” he says, nodding in approval. I almost expect him to pass me a doggy treat. “I’ve been asked by Lord Tristian to explain the breakfast standards, so know that unless you’re asked to attend in the dining room, you’ll eat in the kitchen.” At my nod, he adds, “Today, the Lords would like their Lady to eat with them.”
After that, I’m sent to the kitchen to get their drinks. I hear the guys in the dining room already, their deep voices and loud movements.
Ms. Crane pours a cup of coffee, eyes sliding to me. “Good plan, girl.”
“Plan?” I ask, pouring some kind of ultra-organic orange juice, likely for Tristian.
“The outfit,” she says in her raspy voice, gesturing to my chest. “You picked it out yourself, didn’t ya? ‘Course you did. You’re starting to learn.”
I feel my jaw tighten at her words. “Yeah, I know my place.”
But Ms. Crane scoffs. “I meant you’re starting to learn what you can control. Haven’t got much. People like us never do. That makes the things we can control that much more important.”
I disagree, “I don’t have any control. They bought all these clothes for me.”
“Open your fucking ears, girl,” she hisses, eyes pinning me. “You can’t control the year, but you can control the day. You could have worn something else. You chose not to disobey. You chose to do the opposite.” Rattling the jar of sugar, she concludes, “You set the tone of the day. Eventually, you might learn to use that thing between your legs, but this is a nice start.”
I look at her skeptically, not quite seeing her point, but also a little too scared of making her angry to say so. She’
s an older lady, and I know from meeting her last night that she seems really cranky a lot. Apparently, my lot in life is handling prickly, unpredictable people.
“I see,” I lie.
Ms. Crane nods approvingly. “Yeah, you will. People don’t realize how small a life can get. My husband could have made mine fit into a breadbox, if he could.”
I look at her curiously. “You’re married?”
She barks a harsh, rough laugh. “Hell no, girl. Not anymore.” Casually, without any expression whatsoever, she explains, “Stabbed that fucker in the neck. Seven times, too.”
I wait a second, half-convinced she’s joking. She isn’t. I take a step back. “You…stabbed him?”
Without sparing me a glance, she answers, “Damn right, I did. You don’t need to worry, girl. He had it coming. My old man would’ve made those three in there look like goddamn boy scouts.” The thought makes me shudder.
I look around the room, wondering if anyone can hear. “Should you be telling me this?”
But Ms. Crane just flaps a wrinkled hand. “I’ve already been convicted and sentenced. No one can do anything to me. If you want my advice, go for the quiet boy first. He’s the best at handling the other two.”
Stunned, I enter the dining room behind her, thoughts swirling with what Ms. Crane’s life must have been like. Worse than these three? Like Ted levels of worse? Or even worse than that?
I fight down my shiver and begin carefully placing their mugs and glasses around their plates. Ms. Crane puts a plate in front of Killian and Rath, but I notice that Tristian already has a bowl of something gross-looking in front of him.
Killian gives me a curt glance, like just looking at me pisses him off.
I venture a small, quiet, “Good morning,” to him.
He ignores me.
Tristian’s eyes are following me, though, taking in my appearance slowly, appreciatively.
Rath lets out a low hum. “Don’t you look sexy this morning,” he says, leaned back lazily in his chair.
