A boner inducing whimper makes me forget everyone in the room, my neck slowly turns until I seeherfrom over my shoulder.
Finley.
I stare on in awe of her grinding against the fuck machine I’ve had pumping into her for the last thirty minutes. Her tan skin glistens with sweat, and I want to lick it as her round tits bounce with each thrust she meets.
Finley’s the closest carbon copy I’ve come across. She doesn’t need any cosmetic enhancements. Her blonde hair will need to be dyedmidnight black, and she’ll need contacts to match the hazel-green I need them to be. Only then can she be who I want—needher to be.
Talia.
At the thought of her, my earlier excitement begins anew. I’ve wanted her even before that night. Not the way I do now, which is under me as I fuck her until I knock her up, branding her as mine. Back then, it was the need to possess her innocence—her purity. She looked so pitiful in the days after her parents never returned. I often found her crying. It’s how I inserted myself like an older best friend. That thought replays—I inserted myself like an older best friend.
Best friend—older best friend.
The distinction, even then, was not to be seen as an older brother, not that it would’ve stopped me from my need to own her. When you’ve been fucked by your parents, older siblings, and their powerful friends, and conditioned into being a serial killer, there isn’t much room for morality.
“Fuck me.” The whined command evaporates that bullshit bag of trauma no person could ever get me to discuss. It’s why the four of us are brothers. Bound in our tragedies and the bloodshed of that night that changed it all.
As if sensing the epic spiral my stubborn mind wants me to have a front row seat for, Finley groans, “Let your demons meet mine.”
I think I’m in love—like, honestly, in love.
Finley asked to be tied up. She wanted to be fucked to death—no drugs needed.
At first, I thought she was trying to toy with me to see if I’d lower my guard until I saw the dark depravity in her manic silver eyes. She played with herself while the other three girls were being tortured. I watched as she came twice, once on my fingers, the other on my tongue.
Did I mention she’s not drugged, or that I may be in love?
I snort, knowing the only person I’ve ever held any emotional connection to is Talia.
A guy can pretend to be normal sometimes.
I snicker. There isn’t an iteration of the DSM that would clinically diagnose me as anything in the same stratosphere as normal. It’s fun to pretend, though.
One could also argue thatwe’re all playing pretend—that there isn’t a living thing that isn’t playing pretend, but that’s a philosophical debate for another time.
Instead, I stand over Finley and pinch her nipples, rolling them between my fingers until she begins to squirm. I take time savoring her—her makeup askew and yearning oozing off her.
Lowering my head, I pull a raised peak into my mouth, sucking it between my teeth as I imagine the chaos she and I could wreak on society.
Bonnie and Clyde?No. The couple’s crime spree was like a big ‘fuck you’ to the wealthy in a time when too many went without. It rings too close to vigilantism.
Finley and I would be more, lure you to your death with sweet words—the Lonely Hearts Killers—a couple with no remorse or regret, the true scourges of society.
Satisfied with my choice, I focus my attention on her voluptuous tits and her perfect nipples. I’m half tempted to bite one off, but think better of it for now. Her body responds as if knowing it’s found its true master. I find myself wanting to test that theory.
“Please, don’t stop,” Finley begs, and being the asshole that I am, I stop, stepping away from her, striding around the bed she’s tied to, and flicking off the machine, mid-pump. Her lips part, the question dancing on her tongue before they close. No begging, no rage—just unquestioning acceptance.
Fuck, I’m definitely keeping her. At this rate, she’s about to earn concubine status.
She’ll never be able to vie for Talia’s position, but she can certainly join our twisted arrangement. Maybe they can?—
Nope.
The idea of Finley touchingmyTalia boils like molten lava under my skin. “You can’t have her,” I hiss, unzipping my pants. “She’s mine.”
Yanking away the machine, I ignore the dildo saturated in her cum, position myself between her legs, and slam in her pussy so hard that I pull a muscle in my groin.
Undeterred and fueled by a possessive rage, I grip Finley’s throat and buck. She tries to roll her hips, but she can’t keep up.
