MY STEPBROTHER, MY DOM
ANNABELLE WINTERS
Start Reading Now!
More from Annabelle Winters!
Join My Mailing List!
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Copyright © 2015 by Annabelle Winters
All Rights Reserved by Author
www.annabellewinters.com
If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first.
Cover Design by S. Lee
Cover Image Copyright © by DepositPhotos
BOOKS BY ANNABELLE WINTERS
MY STEPBROTHER'S SECRET
@Amazon
@Amazon UK
and
FERTILE FOR HIM
@Amazon
@Amazon UK
MY STEPBROTHER, MY DOM
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
DARCY
My stepbrother was always a biker. And by always, I mean like forever. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was born with a grease-stain on his cheek, a tire-mark on his smooth baby-bottom, a tiny leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He would’ve smiled at the nurses, partly freaking them out, partly making them hot in a disgusting way. The nurses would have tried to take little Cameron away to clean him up, but his mom wouldn’t have let them. She’d have told them her Cameron was perfect, and that instead of standing around like cows, the nurses should go find a tiny Harley-Davidson so little Cameron could hit the highway right after his first breast-feeding.
His first bike (at least the first one that I saw) was a beat-up old BMX that Cameron brought with him when he and his mom moved into our house after his mom married my dad. I was just eight, and Cameron had just turned ten. The bike was his tenth birthday present, and it looked like it had been used by a lot of people before it found its way to my ten-year-old stepbrother. (Cam and his mom weren’t rich.)
I watched Cameron work on that bicycle every day after school. The first day he cleaned it. The second day he painted it. The third day he asked my dad for his toolbox so he could work on the brakes and the chain.
My dad was amused at this little kid asking for a grownup’s toolbox, but my stepmom said it was okay, and so, with just a shrug and maybe a look of admiration, my dad got up from the dinner table and went out to the garage. A few minutes later he came back with a shiny yellow toolbox and a brand-new pair of work-gloves that were way too big for Cameron. I’ll never forget the way my stepbrother’s eyes lit up when my dad said the tools were his to use whenever he wanted.
“Can I help?” I remember my eight-year-old self asking Cameron that evening after dinner, when Cameron went out to the garage and opened up his toolbox.
I had followed my new stepbrother out there, and he must not have noticed, because he was startled when he heard my voice. He looked at me with those pale blue eyes that seemed to contain a depth beyond his years, and he simply shook his head.
“No,” he said, his ten-year-old voice sounding very grown-up to me at the time. “A man never lets anyone touch his bike. Especially not a woman.”
I remember laughing, my brown eyes twinkling with the mischievous, don’t-give-a-fuck streak that would stay with me for many years after that, that is still with me now. “I’m not a woman,” I remember saying. “I’m a girl. And you’re not a man. You’re just a boy.”
Raw anger flashed in his eyes that day, and his expression changed so suddenly, so drastically, that to this day I can remember the chill that went through me when I saw Cameron’s ten-year-old face all twisted and contorted with rage.
“I’m a man. You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything,” he said to me that day. “You’re a girl, yeah. But I’m a man.”
“You’re too small to be a man,” I told him, my eight-year-old voice all squeaky but still firm, almost taunting, even though I couldn’t have known what I was doing. “You need to be big to be a man. You need to be big like my daddy. My daddy’s a man.”
Cameron looked up at me when I said that, and he nodded. “My dad was a man too. He taught me how to be a man. He said it’s not about being big or tough. It’s about earning respect. If people respect you, then you’re a man, no matter how big you are.” He paused after saying that, his expression going blank, the rage seemingly disappearing, leaving his face smooth, his eyes focused, his ten-year-old jaw set. “My dad told me I would need to be a man when he was gone,” Cameron said then. “Now he’s gone and so I’m a man. I’m a man now.”
I remember nodding as I listened to this ten-year-old speak. Looking back now, who knows what we understood back then, about ourselves, our families, our lives. I knew Cameron’s dad had been very sick and had died. Later I found out he had died of lung cancer, from smoking three packs a day for most of his life. He had spent the last six weeks of his life in a hospital, and Cameron had spent every evening there after school, sometimes refusing to leave. His mom told me once that she would wait until he fell asleep and then carry him out to the car, and sometimes he’d wake up and get real angry. He’d kick and punch, call her names, try to smash the car window. It was a hard time for all of them.
And sure, Cameron brought some of that pent-up rage with him to our house. But although I often got him riled up with my increasing skills at straight-up snark, he was always in control, always present, always mindful that I was a girl, he was a man, and real men don’t hit girls.
Sometimes I think my bond with Cameron started that very first week when I asked him if I could help fix up his BMX bike. He said no, and although I didn’t kick up a fuss or ask him again, I didn’t leave the garage either. No, I stayed there and watched him, sitting quietly as I examined my new stepbrother, stared at the way his eyes narrowed as he focused on tightening a screw or rotating a pedal, picking out some dirt from the links of the bike chain, using his strong little hands to straighten out a steel spoke that had gotten bent.
I watched him every evening after school. All winter we sat together in the garage, neither of us speaking too much, which is pretty crazy for a couple of kids, if you think about it. But you know what, all those hours we spent together in that first year, all those quiet evenings of just being in the same room, in the same physical space, breathing the same air . . . yes, it bonded us in a very deep way, a way that’s hard for me to explain, hard for me to deal with.
That bond was the foundation, I know, and as we got older, we got closer. By the time spring arrived, Cameron’s BMX was shining like new. The chain was rust-free and the handlebars were neatly taped up. He never let me ride it, but I loved to watch him race up and down our driveway, across the front lawn, up and down the front steps. I’d scream and clap when he’d jump his bike up onto the curb or over a small rock. I’d shout out a warning when I saw a car coming down the street while Cameron was slaloming between the dashed lines on the road. I’d keep my mouth shut when Cameron got a scratch or scrape that he hid from his mom. We were a team, I thought. We were a team.
My greatest thrill came the following year when my dad bought Cameron a set of foot-rods for the rear wheel of his BMX. The rods were shiny chrome, and they screwed onto the center of the back wheel on each side and stuck out a few inches. They were designed for the rider to stand on so he could do some of the more advanced BMX tricks, but you could also have another person stand on them.
“Hop on, sis,” Cameron had said to me that day after school.
I remember doing just that, carefully placing one foot on each of those pegs, holding onto my brother’s shoulders, and then gasping for breath as the wind blew through my nine-year-old curls while Cameron pumped his legs and ra
ced us up and down the street. I was hooked, I knew. Hooked to all of it. Hooked to him.
I was nine years old then, and I’m almost nineteen now. It was ten years ago, and a lot has changed since then, but one thing that hasn’t changed is the feeling I get when I hear Cameron call my name, flash me that pure white smile, and say, “Come on, sis. Hop on. Hop on, and let’s ride.”
Let’s ride.
2
CAMERON
So today’s the day. Hell, yeah!
I turned twenty-one today, and although most guys my age are hitting the bars and getting blind drunk because it’s now legal for them to do it, I am sober as a fighter pilot. I went to bed at nine p.m. last night, woke up at 6. Did my morning routine of a hundred push-ups, thirty pull-ups, and a thousand ab-crunches. Stretched, jerked off, and then showered.
I am home from college for spring break, my junior year. Yeah, everyone else is in Panama City or Mexico, the chicks getting topless, the guys running around with permanent hard-ons, everyone getting drunk and sunburnt. But I am back home for spring break. Back home for my twenty-first birthday. Back home with my family. But the truth is, I’m not here for my family.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m cool with my mom and my stepdad, my little sis Darcy. We’ve had our moments, good and bad, and we’re no more fucked up than any of my buddies’ families. Still, there’s no way I’d miss my twenty-first birthday and spring break with my buddies just to come home and blow out the candles on a Speed Racer cake or whatever my mom picked up because she thinks I’m still ten. (Though I was watching Easy Rider when I was ten, not frickin’ Speed Racer!)
No, I’m back here for one reason and one reason only. My birthday present.
Now, I’ve been a biker all my goddamn life. I’m pretty sure my first tricycle was the fastest one on the sidewalks. My BMX was a goddamn torpedo on wheels. The dirtbike I got when I was sixteen was run into the ground from use, even though I maintained it with the love of a mother for her child. But all that is history. No more tricycle races, BMX stunts, or dirtbike tracks. I’m about to move up to the big leagues, the ONLY league, as far as I’m concerned.
Because today, my mom and stepdad are buying me a Harley-Davidson. A fucking HARLEY!
I’ve always loved speed, and sure, you can RIP it on a Harley all right. But a Harley is about more than speed. It’s about more than power. It’s about more than just a bike. A Harley is a culmination of something, the synthesis of everything associated with being a biker. In my book, you don’t call yourself a biker unless you’re riding a Harley. Because a Harley says something about you. It says EVERYTHING about you. It says that this man knows the secret. The secret that it’s all about the ride.
It’s all about the ride.
So now I am dressed in my well-worn black Levi’s, a white Gap tee-shirt, and my riding boots. I head downstairs to the living room, taking a deep breath as I smell the coffee, smiling as I hear the sizzle of bacon on a skillet, laughing when I see a stack of lame-ass balloons that say, “Happy Birthday!” on them in bright red and green lettering.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” they all shout when I walk into the kitchen, and although I try to hold a straight face, I cannot. I just smile and let them hug me, one by one.
Mom gets to me first. She comes with a big hug, an oven-mitt still on her left hand, her breath smelling like fresh coffee as she plants a very wet kiss on my cheek. I mumble out a “Thanks, Mom,” and then turn just in time to get smothered in a warm bear-hug by my stepdad.
He pulls me into him, hugging me hard, pounding me on the back, now rubbing my freshly-buzzed brown hair.
“Congratulations,” he says as he plants an awkward kiss near my left temple, on the side of my head. “You’re a man today, Cameron.”
I shrug and roll my eyes, but I am smiling. My stepdad and I have had some friction over the years, but we got over it. He’s not my dad, but he is my dad, you know what I mean? I’m happy to have him around. He’s great to my mom. He’s been decent with me, even though I’ve been an asshole more often than not to him. Of course, even if he weren’t a decent guy, buying me a Harley can make up for a lot of sins.
So I smile and thank him, turning once more as I sense my little sis Darcy standing behind me. I didn’t see her last night when I came in because she hadn’t made it back from college yet. In fact I was surprised to hear she was coming back at all. After all, this is her freshman year. Who misses spring break your freshman year to come back for your brother’s birthday?
But I am glad she’s here. It’s been almost three years since I left home, and to be honest, Darcy and I haven’t been in touch much. I spent the last two summers working out east and then traveling the country, catching rock concerts with my buddies and my girl (well, my girl at the time . . .), and I wasn’t even home for Christmas this year.
“Hey, sis,” I start to say as I turn, prepared to listen to some snark from her. But I stop in my tracks when I see her full on, because this is not the little sister from three years ago or even ONE year ago!
I blink as I take in the sight of her long brown hair, her lips that look fuller than I ever remember noticing, her eyes that are gleaming with an energy that’s still got that little-girl’s spunk but also has a clear womanly presence. Her legs are long and tanned, those light brown thighs disappearing into white cotton shorts through which I can make out the silhouette of some black panties. And are those . . . are those . . . BOOBS?!
Now she comes at me, hugging me hard, pressing her nineteen-year-old body into mine. She smells different, feels different, tastes different as I feel her smack me on the lips with an exaggerated, “Mwah!” sound.
I hug her back as I feel my heart start to race. She presses herself into me again as she whispers, “Happy Birthday, Cam,” into my ear, and I feel a shiver go through me when I feel her hot breath in my ear, hear her voice which is sounding huskier than I ever remember it.
She is still pressed into me when I hear Mom asking me if I want two eggs or three, and finally we disentangle ourselves. Yes, we disentangle ourselves, but not before I become acutely aware of my cock moving in my pants, stirring against my thigh, stiffening as I catch myself glancing at my sister’s bouncy round ass as she walks away from me.
3
DARCY
What the hell was that, I think as I sit down at the breakfast table across from Cam.
It is a four-person table near the kitchen window, and the sun is shining through in all its glory. Outside the birds are singing, heralding the arrival of spring, the time of new beginnings, new birth, new life. And something is new here, I think as I steal a glance up at Cam’s face. Something is different.
Sure, I haven’t really seen Cam in . . . I don’t know . . . at least a year, maybe more. He wasn’t back for the summer, and he didn’t even make it back over winter. He went to his girlfriend’s home for Christmas. Well, his ex-girlfriend now, I guess. My stepmom told me they broke up just a couple of months ago. I never even met her.
But as I glance over at Cam again, I feel the blood rush to my face when we make eye contact. This feels new, weird, strange. It’s like my body is reacting in some direct, primal way. What, am I only just hitting puberty at the end of my freshman year in college?! No, I think as I look down at my plate, breaking eye contact with Cam. It’s not just me. Because what the hell was that when I hugged him? Did I really feel his—
“So how’s college, sis?” Cam asks me now, interrupting my train of thought, which was rapidly going downhill. “You get wasted and throw up yet?”
“Cameron!” my stepmom says, but she isn’t seriously angry or anything. “Your sister isn’t even nineteen yet.”
Cam furrows his brow, grabs a piece of bacon, and shrugs as he glances at his mom and then looks back at me. He is chewing with his mouth open, and I giggle as I watch him. Yeah, he’s still got the same old Cam in him. I
can almost see his brain working, and right now he’s going to make some snide remark.
“Not even nineteen?” Cam looks up at the ceiling in an exaggerated pose, pretending like he didn’t know how old I was. Now he looks at me quickly, a twinkle in his eye, and then looks back down at his plate. “So no alcohol yet.” He shrugs as he grabs another strip of bacon with his fingers, and then he says, “And I guess you’re still a virgin too, huh, sis?”
“CAMERON!” my stepmom shouts just as I throw a piece of toast across the table at him.
I feel the color rush to my face as I keep giggling. My stepmom is red in the face too, trying her best not to smile. I glance over at my dad now, and he is chewing, with a very serious expression on his face. But I know he’s a bit amused too.
“Of course she’s a virgin,” my dad says as he carefully pats his mouth with a napkin. “She’ll be a virgin until her wedding night, which I figure will be in about 10 or 15 years. Hopefully I’ll be dead by then, so I won’t have to deal with the trauma of knowing Darcy isn’t a baby girl anymore.”
Everyone laughs now as I cross my arms over my boobs and pretend to pout. It’s no secret that I didn’t have a lot of boyfriends in high school. Didn’t even go on a lot of dates. No, I spent all my free time with Cam, watching him work on his bikes, watching him ride, waiting for him to say those magic words, “Let’s ride, sis.”
Cam didn’t date a lot either in high school. It was a new school for him, and he sort of kept to himself. Kept to himself, kept to his bikes, and kept to me, his little sis. We were best friends, in a way, looking back now. But we were also kids, and things change, right?
But today things seem like the old days, and we all talk and laugh, eat and drink, smile and nod.
“At least you haven’t put on the Freshman Fifteen, sis,” Cam says when I get up from the table and walk over to the sink with my plate.
My Stepbrother, My Dom Page 1