Stepbrother's Dirty Little Slut

4

“I’m coming.” Alex is the first to call out breathlessly. He slams into her ass one last time and grunts before pulling his semi-hard d**k out and stepping back. He walks out of the formal dining room, removing his condom.

Jenks doesn’t waste a second and grips her hip, slamming his d**k inside her and not letting up. I watch and see her wetness coating his lower abdomen.

I’m surprised at the rage that bubbles up inside me, like a pot of water about to boil over. The thought of her coming all over his d**k pisses me off. But I can’t stop them now. She’ll never let me live it down. This is what she expects from me. To be used. To be an object. We don’t give a s**t about one another.

“Fucckkkk.” Finn growls, and then I watch him stiffen while he comes down her throat. When he pulls out, he lets go of her nose, and she’s gasping for air as spit and c*m fall out of the side of her mouth, landing on the table she’s pinned to. “Good job, slut.” He taps the side of her face before falling into a chair and all but passing out.

“Colt…” She cries my name. “I can’t …”

“Raylee!” I warn. If she comes on Jenks’s d**k, I’m going to make her wish she hadn’t. I’ll beat that ass black and blue.

Jenks pulls out of her p***y, and she sags against the table and begins crying harder. “Turn her over,” he orders.

I roll her from her side to her back, and he yanks her ass to the end of the edge where he stands. I move to stand where Finn was and lean over the side of the table, keeping her legs pinned to her chest. My head now right above hers. She looks up at me, tears rolling down her face, and I hear Jenks going back to f*****g her.

“Please?” she begs. The single word is broken. “I need—”

“Do not f*****g come, Raylee,” I snap, more pissed off at myself than anything. I’ve f****d her enough to know that it takes quite a bit of effort to get her off. Who knew three d***s would do the trick?

“I can’t stop it,” she cries, now sobbing as fresh tears trail down the sides of her face. “Colt—”

I slap my free hand over her mouth and lower my face to the table to whisper in her ear. “If you come, I will tie you down and f**k you to the point you are about to come and then stop. Over and over. As many times as it takes for you to learn a lesson. Do you understand me?”

Her eyes start to roll back into her head, arching her neck, and just when I think she’s about to disobey me and come all over Jenks’s d**k, he pulls out and stumbles back away from the table.

“Jesus, dude. We should just tie her to the table and use her all night.” He licks his lips while his eyes scan over her.

Her p***y wasn’t enough for him. I get it. It’s never enough.

“You had your fun.” I let go of her legs and slide my arms under her, picking her limp body up off the table. She lays semi-conscious across my arms while I carry her upstairs.

CHAPTER ONE

I SIT IN the driver’s seat of my car, parked outside of the house that I call a prison—three stories, white stucco, black shutters, wraparound porch, and multiple balconies with iron railings. Surrounded by the beautiful Pennsylvania woods, it looks like something you’d see on a TV show for the rich and famous. Makes me want to gag.

Cars litter the circle driveway because dipshit is throwing a party tonight. He didn’t even ask if I cared, but I’m not surprised. It’s his house. I just get to live here.

The lights from the dash illuminate the inside while “Joke’s On You” by Charlotte Lawrence blares, the bass making my car rattle while I contemplate what most call love.

Do you ever get tired of being a woman? Don’t you just want to know once what it feels like to be a man? To have a d**k that can f**k whatever it wants and be slapped on the back for it, like you actually accomplished something?

Why can’t women go crazy in their twenties and then want to settle down in their thirties and not be judged for it? If you’re a virgin, you’re too inexperienced, and they don’t want to take the time to “teach” you. Yet if you’ve had multiple partners, then you’ve been used too much and aren’t good enough for them.

These days, girls are being taught to raise the ceiling and break the glass. Be independent—you don’t need a man. But I don’t care how successful you are. People still need s*x. Some kind of human interaction.

As a woman, I understand it. The need to use men but also believe in love. But society tells us to question that. With how high divorce rates are, you have to think—is there one person out there for you? Maybe that person is the one for you today, but what about in two years? Who says that the man you marry and have three children with won’t f**k your best friend in your bed with your wedding pictures hanging on the wall while he tells her he won’t leave you because of the kids? Then what?

I f*****g kill him, that’s what. Then I spend the rest of my life in prison while my mother raises my children, and they end up getting bullied because their mother is a murdering psycho who was once a w***e back in her twenties.

Women will say things like; it’s just a man. You deserve better. Go out and find another one. But why should I have to go and start over with someone else because he can’t keep his d**k in his pants? Why do I have to accept his betrayal? I wasn’t raised to accept defeat. No. My mother raised me to fight fire with fire. Even if that means having to burn myself along with him.

I look out the windshield at the car parked in front of me. It’s unique, rare. He ordered it after he graduated from college and went to work for his daddy. It’s a black Lamborghini Sian and cost him a whopping 3.6 million dollars. I think it’s ugly.

He’s why I question everything. Men, love, s*x. I’m where I’m at in my life because of him. The fucker has crossed the line. For years now, we’ve been going at it. I hate him. He hates me. It’s what makes the world go round. I’m sure of it.

But the s*x… Goddamn, it’s off-the-charts amazing. That’s what makes me so mad at myself and pissed off at the world. But just when one of us thinks we should stop, the other pulls us back in for another round. We both know it. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure we’d kill one another.

My mother married his father when we were in high school. Typical fairy-tale romance. She was a server who was overworked and underpaid. He was a billionaire who just so happened to walk in and sit in her section early one morning. Four months later, they were married. My stepdad is a nice guy. But my stepbrother? Let’s just say he’s a f*****g nightmare. He was a year older than me, and I thought I would be free of him after he graduated high school. But nope. Once his father got me into Barrington University—an elite college for rich kids—he offered me a room in his house that he shares with his three best friends—like I was a stray dog that had nowhere to go. I had laughed, thinking it was some sick joke. My mother thought it was the best idea Colt ever had. She praises him and thinks he’s the best thing to happen to us, other than his father, of course. I’ll give it to him, he’s good at being a stepson, but he lives to make my life miserable.

Looking at the clock on the dash, I see it’s a quarter till midnight.

Now is as good a time as any. He’s probably balls deep in some woman’s mouth right now. One can only hope that I’m about to interrupt something so fun for him.

Throwing my long, bleach-blond hair over my left shoulder, I pick up the joint and lighter out of the cup holder, stuffing them into my bra for safekeeping. It’s not to get high or to calm my nerves. It’s from his personal stash that he thinks I don’t know about.

My phone dings for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes, and I ignore it. The last time I checked, the video had over a million views in less than five hours. Instead, I dig into my purse and pull out my lipstick.

When I yank down my visor, the two lights on either side give me just enough visibility to reapply my Ruby Woo lipstick so it’s fresh as can be. Smacking my red lips, I smile to myself, rubbing my teeth to make sure none got on them. Showtime.