Lords of Pain

by Angel Lawson

  “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.

  21

  Story

  Leaning back on my heels, I wipe my mouth, watching the quick rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest. It was even better than last time, sucking him. Easier. Faster. Hotter…

  “Shit,” he gasps, sprawled on his back. “You’re getting good at that.” Listlessly, he reaches down to tug his pants back up, lifting his hips with a groan.

  After taking a drink from the soda I’d brought up with me, I climb to my feet, feeling restless and antsy. It’s even harder, looking at him like this. More than once, the thought has struck me.

  Specifically, the thought that a repeat of what he’d done to me my first night here wouldn’t be unwelcome.

  But like last time, he’s given me permission to touch myself tonight, to get myself off, and I already know I will. I have been. I did last night.

  Swiftly distracting myself from that very complicated and super-confusing memory, I say, “Okay,” and open the laptop I’d left on his sofa. “Let’s get started.”

  Dimitri really does do better after I’ve sucked him off. He rolls toward me, loose-limbed and clear-eyed, and then reaches out to sweep my hair over my shoulder. It’s an idle gesture, hardly intimate, but still takes me by surprise. If he notices, he doesn’t make it known.

  It’s completely forgotten once we’re focused on the work, me typing out his thoughts, making him repeat them back and memorize them verbatim.

  He focuses better.

  Me? Not so much.

  My blood feels a little too electric, my skin a bit too tight to properly concentrate. It doesn’t help that my gaze can’t stop drifting to his eyes. He has such long, dark lashes. They brush against his cheek when he looks down. His eyes are soulful, but strangely shuttered, like he’s hiding multitudes just beneath the surface. It makes me want to ask him things, like why did he just touch my hair like that?

  It takes two hours, but we finally manage to bang out a workable draft. As I’m packing up my things, I say, “I’ll probably head down. Killian and I have dinner with our parents tonight and I should get ready.”

  He rises from the bed, stretching his arms high into the air. My eyes dart to the patch of skin exposed by his shirt hiking up his torso. When they ascend once again, he’s smirking, having caught me. “Sure. ‘Get ready’. Consider yourself excused.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, pointedly ignoring the implications.

  Before I go, however, he stops me. “You should wear something cute.”

  I pause, turning. “Cute?”

  “For Killian,” he clarifies, quirking an eyebrow when I stiffen. “He likes those cute little dresses you wear sometimes. Girly stuff. All sweet and innocent, you know?”

  “Oh.” I blink, confused. Am I expected to dress for Killian? I hadn’t really planned on it. I’ve been avoiding thinking of him at all. “Uh, right. Thanks for the tip.”

  As I walk from the room, I see him open a small book on the piano. He plucks up a pen and makes a few quick marks before closing it again. He did that the last time I was here too, but I didn’t think much of it then. Now I wonder if he’s taking notes after our sessions, and if so, what they say. Is it good? Can it help me help him? Going through the guys' personal stuff makes me queasy. Even checking the computer in Killian’s room felt like a huge, scary risk. I’m still half-convinced he’s going to jump out of a corner at any moment to punish me for it.

  Downstairs in my room, I quickly shower and dress for the night. After Dimitri’s comment, I find myself looking at the dresses. They are cute. Truthfully, they’re the sort of thing I’d wear freely, without being told to. There’s a peach-colored sundress in the closet that ties on the shoulders. It stops a few inches above my knees and isn’t racy in the least. After slipping it on, I spin, watching myself in the mirror.

  Would Killian like this?

  It’s a dumb thought. Killian doesn’t like anything about me, and I’m not sure why I should make the effort. He doesn’t deserve anything more than the bare minimum. I live under his roof and take his punishments. That’s enough.
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  Still, I wear the dress. What was that Ms. Crane had said about Dimitri?

  “He’s the best at handling the other two.”

  If Dimitri thinks this is the best way of handling him, then it’s worth a try. God knows I’ve never been good at it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Tonight isn’t about him. Not in the least. It’s about suffering through a family dinner together. We’re going to our parents' house, and over there, I’m just Story. His stepsister. Not his Lady.

  Unluckily, I step into the hallway at the same time he does, coming face to face with his large frame. His scent wafts over me and I reach back, holding onto the door to steady myself. Without bidding, I’m assaulted by the memory of Killian in my room, cock out, stroking himself in the dark. The way he looked, shadowed but still clear, and the sound of his quick breaths are burned into my memory like a brand. A sparking heat runs up my spine from my own enjoyment. The memory is so whole, so real, that I know in my heart it wasn’t just a dream, no matter how much I wish that were the case.

  “What?” he asks, watching me.

  “N-nothing.”

  His face is infuriatingly expressionless, even when he looks at me up and down, taking in my dress. The dress I’d worn for him. He clears his throat and I’m not sure what this is, the way he stands, still and stiff, but he asks, “Are you ready?”

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  I try to process my thoughts—my feelings—as I climb into the front seat of his truck. Killian isn’t acting mean and hostile like usual, but there’s also nothing on his face that speaks of what happened last night. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it really was just a dream. Maybe I can just pretend.

  Maybe he’ll even let me.

  The truck’s powerful engine rumbles to life as Killian backs it out of the garage. I feel ridiculous sitting here. If he wanted to, he could reach out and snap my neck with a single blow. But even though his hands are wrapped around the steering wheel, gripping so tight his knuckles are white, he doesn’t regard me at all. I keep my mouth shut. What would I say? I know who you are and what you do. I know somewhere, deep down, you want me the same way I want you.