Lords of Pain: Chapter 20

“Not so fast,” I say, catching up to Story as she makes a beeline toward her room. She and the guys were hanging out in the downstairs living room when I got home, but she bolted as soon as she saw me. We’re in the upstairs hall and I can feel the tension rolling off of her, those big eyes of hers darting frantically around, as if searching for an escape route, just in case. It’s reasonable. Two days ago, I pinned her to the floor beneath our feet and fucked her tits. But she doesn’t need to worry. I’m not here to hurt her.

I just have a question. “Why the hell are you wearing my jersey?”

She ducks her head, her wide eyes taking in the orange shirt, my number emblazoned across the chest. “It was in my closet,” she stutters, lifting her chin. “I was trying to be supportive. Isn’t that a Lady’s job?”

I narrow my eyes at her tone—sulky and a touch insolent. Seeing her up in the suite wearing my jersey…it sent a tremor of warm heat, deep in my lower belly, that still flickers like a burning ember. For a moment there, I’d looked at her in the jersey, my name and number plastered all over her, and thought that maybe…

Maybe she was letting herself be mine.

Just a little.

I should have known it’d be like this—nothing more than a little malicious compliance. “Whatever,” I sneer, pretending that I’m not disappointed. “This is about tomorrow—”

“Jesus, my mom,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on telling them I’m working here—or for you. There would be way too many questions.”

“I know you won’t.” I level her with a look. “I was going to tell you to be ready by six. I don’t want to be there all night.”

“Oh,” she says, clearly taken off-guard. She rubs her palms on her thighs, gaze jumping to the knob of her door. “Sure, fine. Six, it is.”

She shuts her door and I hear the lock turn with a snap. I’m left with her clinging, cloying scent. That, plus one glance down at the floor, floods my mind with images of her down there. Trapped beneath me. Squirming. Begging. She’d been scared, sure. But more than that, she’d been seriously pissed off.

Well, so was I. The girls I’d brought up to my room hadn’t done the trick. If anything, they’d made it worse. Sure, they’d bounced on my dick, sucked it, offered up their asses, but none of that worked like it usually did. If I were being honest with myself, I’d admit that it’s been a gradual thing. The usual shit’s been doing it for me less and less. What happened the night of the party was just a culmination of three years’ worth of lousy lays.

My eyes flick to her door and I let the truth pass through my head.

Only one thing gets me hard lately.

This is the same shit that happened in high school. The same thing I told myself over and over again that I wouldn’t let happen. When I wake up, I hear her, moving around in her room, doing her hair, dressing. When I eat breakfast, there she is. At school, I see her, walking in the courtyard, roaming the halls. When I get home, she’s there. When I eat dinner, she’s there. At night, the one time I actually let myself look and want and have, she fills my nose with her scent, my eyes with the pale porcelain of her delicate skin, my mind with thoughts of everything I want to do.

She’s all I can think about. It feels like I’m fucking choking on her, begging for a single gulp of fresh air, but never able to find it. Everything is Story. The only moment of freedom I’ve managed to carve out are the minutes I’m on the field, too busy focusing on the game to be obsessed about the way my bruises look peeking out from the hem of her skirt; my mark on her, my claim made flesh.

Now even that’s tainted, the sight of her in my jersey already perverting it. I can see it now, being out on the field, thinking of all the people who’d seen her wearing my name, claiming me back.

I’m the guy who always gets what I want. I have money, looks, athletic ability. I don’t have to kill myself on the football field—I do it because my goal isn’t just to just be good, it’s to be great. I’ve accomplished that with a winning record, trophies, and an incredible scholarship that I didn’t even need. But it’s not all about sports. Academics comes almost as easily and so does being at the top socially. From high school to college, people just fell in line, allowing my social stature to rise. It didn’t hurt that I had two loyal, equally impressive best friends. And girls? Girls have always been easy. Always so, so insipidly easy.

Except my stepsister. Story is the one person who gets in the way of my life being exactly the way I want it. I shouldn’t need to have her. I’ve got everything going for me. Story Austin is nothing. So why can’t I stop thinking about the way she smells? The way her shiny fucking hair sways when she walks? The cut of her hips when she rolls over in bed? The way my fingertips look, digging into her skin? Her tight, fuckable tits?

Why can’t I be around her without being consumed by it all?

The rest of the team is partying right now, while I’m at home obsessing over our Lady. I have no choice. The last thing I need is to have to turn down more girls. The other night was a loophole in the contract—my pregame ritual. Otherwise, I’m not allowed to be with any other women, which I’m starting to think was a really stupid deal to make. Especially since popping Story’s cherry relies on who wins the game. All of this is just one giant cockblock designed to make me obsess over her harder. I’m horny all the goddamn time now. I’ve got girls, I’m pumped up on adrenaline, yet my dick wants one thing. One.

This is exactly the frame of mind that’s going to get me into trouble. All I need is to go out to some bar and take all this energy out on the wrong thing—the wrong person.

I go into my room and change, pulling on loose shorts and an FU T-shirt. I should be worn out after the game, but I’m more keyed up than ever. I open my laptop, intent on finding some porn—the one thing that does seem to work for me lately—but instead see a message pop up about the weekly points tally.

Shit. The points.

I open the spreadsheet and do a double-take.

No fucking way.

The guys are both relaxed when I storm downstairs, and why shouldn’t they be? “How in the hell,” I growl, snatching Rath’s tumbler of whiskey right out of his hands, “are you scoring so goddamn high?!”

Rath looks momentarily pissed that I’d taken his drink, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with something smug. “By having so much game that she’s begging for it. Sucks to be the two of you.”

“I’m seven points behind. I could dust your ass in a single lunch.” Tristian rolls his eyes, but adds in a begrudging tone, “That said, the tutoring mindfuck was genius. You and I,” he points to me, “are going to have to up our game.”

“How?” I ask again, distantly surprised that this glass isn’t shattering in my grip. “How the fuck do you get so many points? I spend ten minutes with her and I want to put my fist through a wall, but you expect me to believe the two of you—”

Rath holds up a hand, eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Are you doubting us?”

“Every point can be backed up,” Tristian agrees, sipping from his own tumbler. “I watched Rath’s video myself. She asked to suck his dick. She swallowed. She didn’t run away after.” He’s ticking off point modifiers on his fingers. “Look, I know you don’t think much of the long game, but Story isn’t like you think, Killer. The path of least resistance works with her. She’s, like…just a normal girl.”

Rath leans forward to pry his glass back. “She’s putty, dude. The punishments don’t pay off, but you know what does? Being nice.” He chuckles at this, like he’s tickled fucking pink at the idea. “Tristian bought her one of those paper flowers after the game. You know, the ones they sell to fundraise? You should have seen the look on her face.”

“She was blushing and tripping all over herself,” Tristian explains. “It doesn’t even take much.”

“Prince tactics,” I sneer, but Tristian shakes his head.

“Not at all. You see, you’re so fucking terrible to her that she latches onto the smallest gesture of kindness like Velcro. So hey, I guess here’s to you.” He raises his glass toward me before tipping it back.

“This is fucking bullshit,” I seethe, planting my feet to stop myself from pacing around like an irate tiger. “Kindness? Niceness? Since when do you fuckers play the game like that?”

“Since I’m going to be breaking in that pussy with my fat cock in a few months.” Rath laughs, grabbing his crotch. “Sorry, bro. All’s fair.”

Tristian must sense that I’m about to blow because he puts his glass down, lacing his fingers together. “Killian. Killer. You need to chill out. Story does what she’s told. She’s a good Lady. You just have to give her something to work with.”

I burst, “Like fucking what?!”

He raises a palm, like he’s giving me something. “Like a compliment. A gift. A reward for being good. Positive reinforcement. Be nice to her for five fucking minutes. You’ll see what we mean. The Princes are pussies, but there’s some merit there.”

Rath adds, “Might help if you at least tried to kiss her.”

“Why would I want to kiss her?” I give them a disgusted look, even though the thought of her mouth is already making my cock stir. “And anyway, she doesn’t want anything ‘nice’ from me, and even if she did, why should I? She’s the bane of my fucking existence. Every day I don’t barge into that room and strangle her ass is enough of a gift.”

Tristian shakes his head, lounging back in his chair. “Fine. Do it your way. Keep upsetting her and making her feel horrible, and we’ll be there to rack up the points. Your move.”

I swear I can still hear them laughing when I leave, climbing the stairs. What fucking jokes. Be nice. Gifts. Rewards. Positive reinforcement.

I bet she wouldn’t think they were so nice if she realized they’re treating her like a dog.

Stopping outside her door, I’ve decided I’ve waited long enough. It’s been a long day and I’m pissed off, imagining her asking Rath for it, on her knees for him, swallowing him down. I wonder if she liked it. She didn’t—not when it was Tristian. But Rath’s had time to get into her head. Maybe she was into it.

The thought makes my fist curl around the key, and a moment later, I’m slipping through the door. The lights are off and she has a fan going on the dresser, pointed at her bed. She’s always been a pretty deep sleeper, but I know—I remember—that she wakes up if it gets too hot. I’d put the fan in the closet before she moved in, knowing she’d find it and use it. How’s that for fucking nice.

I creep inside, closing the door quietly behind me. The room is dark, but I can make out her body in the bed. Each time I come in here, I get a little braver—going from sitting on the couch to inching closer to the bed. Tonight, I stand over her, inhaling her sweet scent, and look down at her sleeping body. It takes my eyes a moment to acclimate but when they do, every single nerve in my body fires off in shocked awareness.

She’s still wearing my jersey.

For the briefest moment, I wonder if she knows I’m coming in here—if she wanted me to find her like this, all splayed out in her bed, swimming in this shirt. My shirt. It’s basically a goddamn invitation. One I can’t refuse.

Silently, I suck in a breath and reach for the blanket covering her lower body. I pull the cover down, slowly, revealing the soft flesh of her thighs and her smooth calves. From here, I can just barely make out the fading bruises. Maybe it’s sick, but it gets to me almost as much as the jersey, knowing that I’ve pressed myself into her flesh. That she’s wearing me. Being owned by me.

She’s not wearing shorts under my jersey and my fingers itch to lift it up and see what she has on underneath. Something lacy? Nothing? My cock twitches, growing harder. If only I could crawl in next to her.

No. That’s too far, too soon.

I’ve had the fantasy forever—ever since I crept into her room all those years ago. It was before I’d found her with my dad, back when I still thought she was meant for me—mine.

I was seventeen, and after realizing she was a complete chicken for horror movies, I wanted to scare the fuck out of her. But when I got to her room, my body had other plans. Spontaneous boners were something I was totally used to; in the shower, at breakfast, in math class, sometimes even at dinner. But seeing Story all vulnerable in that bed, no fucking clue that I was in there or what I could do to her…it was a whole new level. My mind started to churn, thinking of the things I could do, the pain and humiliation I could inflict—but one wouldn’t get out of my head.

I wanted to crawl in the bed and explore her body, run my cock between her thighs. I didn’t care that she was sleeping. That made it better. I didn’t want her to know how she made me feel.

Night after night, I’d go in her room and fantasize about it, all the different ways it could go. In most of them, she’d never wake up. I’d just fuck her senseless and go. But sometimes there were other fantasies. Ones where she wakes up and cries out in fear, begging me to stop. Or the one where her body instantly arches back into me and she moans in satisfaction, so turned on by my cock that she doesn’t even care. Whatever way, I crept into her room, and jerked off to whatever conjured-up sex fantasy I had, night after night.

Or I did, until she ran away.

I’ve just run my hand down my length, feeling the familiar stirrings, when she rolls over and faces me. I freeze. I’m so close to the bed—closer than I’ve ever gotten—close enough to reach out and touch her. Her eyes are still shut, but her lips part, expelling a soft, gentle sigh. A flash of her licking the tip of my cock comes to mind, forcing me to stifle a groan. My eyes dart from her lips to the curves of breasts, down to where I know a flat, smooth belly is hiding beneath my jersey. If that wasn’t enough to get my dick completely hard, her hips shift against the mattress and her hand presses between her legs.

I stop breathing.

In all my nights of watching Story, she’s never touched herself. As far as I know, she’s never had a sex dream or anything close. A few nightmares maybe, where she jolts up and looks around the room like she’s searching for a monster, but this is different. There’s no urgency, no fear, just her slow, squirming restlessness against the sheets. The way I’d always imagined.

There’s no fucking way I’m leaving now.

I take a step back until my calves hit the couch and I sit, pulling my cock out of my pants. I can still see her, hear her, as she slowly bucks against her hand. It’s a sleepy movement, lacking in finesse. This is something mindless and primal, meant to be private. All of her squirming makes the jersey ride up, finally revealing what’s beneath.

A lacy pair of pink panties.

I stroke my length, thumbing the tip and gliding back down, putting pressure on my balls. It’s so much more intense though, watching her like this. I don’t have to work nearly as hard. I follow the rhythm of her short breaths, the sound of her rustled shifting against the sheets. I don’t know if it’s just the sight of Story pleasuring herself or if it’s the scent of her in the air, but it doesn’t take long to lead myself to the edge, cock growing so hard that it throbs painfully against my restrained pace. My jaw falls slack and I stare at her face, transfixed. I’ve fantasized more than once about feeding my spunk to her. Sometimes, back then, I used to smear a little on her lips and imagine her licking it off later. I used to watch at the table during breakfast, knowing that she’d taken it in, even unknowingly, and I’d spend the whole day half-hard and impatient for bedtime.

I came even closer to achieving it a couple of nights ago when I sprayed her chest. My balls tighten at the memory and I close my eyes, trying to remember every detail about it. The burn inside is so good, it feels so right, and the wispy little moan coming from the bed only makes it sharper and more acute. It draws my eyes back open and I look at her.

Her big, sleepy eyes are staring back.

Fuckfuckfuck

I freeze, heart pounding, balls aching, orgasm tickling at the edges of my awareness. I wait for the freak-out, the terror, the screams. What do I do? Run? Hide? Deep in my heart, I know that I won’t do either of those things. I’ll shut her the fuck up and finally fulfill that fantasy that’s been running in my veins for the last four years. I’ll make her pay for finding me here. I’ll make her beg me to stop.

No.

I’ll make her beg me not to stop.

We’re both quiet for a long moment as I assess my next move, but then it dawns on me that she’s not even reacting. She stares back at me, mouth softly parted, hand pressing between her thighs, and says…nothing. My boner is still hard as rock, sticking straight out. If she really is awake there’s no way, even in the dark, that she can’t see it. I run my hand down the length, feeding the urge, which hasn’t abated in the least. Her hand keeps moving between her legs, pressing and pushing, and I realize what’s really going on here.

Sweet Cherry knows I’m in the room and whatever little dream she was having has made her horny as fuck. We sit, feet apart, and quietly fulfill our needs. Her fingers dip under her panties and mine push and tug my cock. Soon the room is filled with the sounds of our erratic breathing and working hands. The twist and tightening of my orgasm doesn’t take long—not under these circumstances—not with Story riding her hand so close by.

Watching her come is the sweetest fucking ache. Her shoulders quiver with it, mouth open in a tiny, gentle cry. Blood thrums in my ears, and for a moment, I’m lost in the swell of euphoria. Sticky cum drips down my fist as her breathing and motions slow.

It’s the first time we’ve ever been equals—shared a moment instead of stealing one. She watches me take off my shirt and wipe down my cock, and I watch her right back. I only look away for a second, just to tuck myself back into my pants, but when I glance back, her eyes have fluttered shut, breathing slowed and even like she was never awake. Like this never happened.

Briefly, I wonder if I fell asleep and made the whole goddamn thing up. Was it just a sex dream? No. I don’t believe it. Even in the dark, I can tell her cheeks are flushed and her lips are red from biting down on them. Standing, I lurk over her bed for a long moment, watching her, wondering if I’m crazy for coming in here every night—for choosing to be this close to her but never letting myself have her.

After tonight, I know one thing is for sure.

There’s no way I can make myself stop.