His Dark Secret – A Stepbrother Romance (3 page)

The molten gold in my heart starting to slide into my stomach, kindling a warmth in me that spread downwards.

I clutched desperately at his hair, and moved my hand onto my mound, sliding over the folds of my pussy through my pyjama-shorts a few times, before inevitably rubbing circles over my clit.

He pressed his face between my breasts, squeezing them around his face, and nibbled at my other nipple, before sucking on it hard, letting it spring from his mouth with a popping sound.

Then he started to gnaw at them with a growing ferocity, forcing me onto my back as he pressed his face ever more insistently against me, until he ended up straddling me. His knees were on either side of my hips, and his hands were on each of my shoulders, pulling me up into his mouth just as he pushed me downwards with his lips.

I pulled my leg up, and hooked my big toe around the waistline of his shorts – pulling them over his butt and down his thighs.

His manhood finally sprung free.

It felt as if the world had just stopped spinning.

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

No porn videos watched clandestinely on my smartphone. No amount of times googling “largest penis size possible petite girl”.

It was perfectly, ramrod straight, rising up into the air to bulge ever wider at the end, almost like a baseball bat. Its size had something of a baseball bat quality to it as well, for that matter...

A thick drop of precum shone at the tip of his shaft, a trail of it dripping down it, catching the silver glint of the moonlight entering through the window.

“Ja–... Janice... can I?”

Oh... Oh God. There's... there's just no way... Wait, how did it even get to this point? Why am I lying under my gargantuan lunk of a stepbrother, and why are my breasts glistening with his saliva? Why am I wet for him – so wet I'm rubbing my thighs together, to relieve some of it... Why the heck would I think of losing my virginity to this... callous idiot... this insensitive tool... this... this...

Then my gaze moved back upwards – away from that impossibility sprouting between his legs, and up to his face. His frightened, vulnerable, child-like eyes. His trembling, desperate mouth. The creases of anticipated rejection furrowing his brow.

I felt myself smile, and saw the warmth of it reflected in his eyes.

I felt myself pull his t-shirt up his chest, over his head and the steely arms he lifted in succession to let the last remnant of his clothes slough off him. That left nothing but his tight, textured mass naked above me – covering me like a Cathedral over its congregation.

I felt myself uncross my legs, and work them to either side of his own, my ankles sliding against his bunched calves.

I felt myself nod.

And then, I felt him slide my pyjama-shorts to one side, and press himself against my entrance. It felt as if the head of him covered my entire slit, much wider in circumference than the hole which was supposed to contain it. But slowly, he worked his thumb between us, and teased out my labia, causing me to arch involuntarily upwards, and a gasp to escape me.

I didn't feel him enter me.

All I remember is the bucking rush of my orgasm... and then, as the throes of it faded... I remember the foreign feeling of his apple-sized head inside me.

I had only had my fingers before. One, sometimes two – and, once, the handle of a hairbrush.

Luckily, all the air had been expelled from me in a long, low grunt when I came. If it hadn't, then our parents would have heard me shout, and our lives would have been over.

As it was, I don't understand how they didn't hear the rasping intake of breath which Jonathan drew from me when he pushed himself deeper.

He had his arms wrapped around my torso, and at this point, he lifted me into the air.

My head hung limply back, my hair fanning across my pillow.

My breasts and stomach were pressed against the uncompromising firmness of his pecs and his abs.

My ass was pulled towards him until it would eventually come to rest against his thighs, as he knelt.

He had me effortlessly hanging under him and over the bed, encompassing me wholly, while he took from me an intimate sustenance which no one had ever thought to give him before.

When I couldn't hold my screams back any longer, I found the strength to bite against his shoulder, feeling the taste of his blood in my mouth. The only thing going through my mind was that there was nothing I could do to save myself anymore, and that this was the only thing I could do to save him – from himself, and from the guilt of the pain he was causing me.

Some eternity later, I felt him crush against my cervix, and he pulled back out and then pushed back in – what must have been agonizingly slowly to him, but felt like a piston at full throttle to me.

He might not have actually moved, in fact – just rocked me away and then toward him, while he remained rock-still.

Then he moved his knees back and fell with me – on me – onto the bed. I felt the full weight of him press down on me, all over me, my mouth leaving bite marks across his chest when he heaved back and forth.

I felt his hips grind against mine, my clit leaping to life, a pinprick of pleasure which hurt, like a blessing, even more than the crashing waves of agony around it.

That pinprick became a ray, became a flood of light...

I felt myself coming closer to it...

I felt myself begin to lose my sense of self...

I felt my mind and my body shut down in anticipation of it...

And then it came.

I orgasmed with a power I couldn't contain.

I orgasmed with an intensity which should have shattered the remnants of me.

I orgasmed, and then the world around me darkened, and I started to fade into unconsciousness...

And then... I felt convulsions within me.

As I started to faint, I couldn't fully realize that it wasn't me convulsing.

But there was enough to keep hold of the last fragments of my mind, before they disappeared into the dark.

Enough to have it slowly dawn on me that it was him convulsing.

Enough to, dimly, remember that he hadn't put on a condom. And that it had been a week and a half since my last period.

Enough to rip me from the sweet pull of unknowing, and register the first gush of his semen against my cervix, and then the second, the third, the fourth... I lost count...

Enough to feel his weight collapse upon me.

Enough to hear him whisper my name – enough to hear he said it like a prayer.

\\\\\\//////

As my stepbrother panted hoarsely where he nestled between my breasts...

And as his semen and my blood mingled into a growing lake between my legs…

And as his seed worked its way up to its resting point within me...

...it slowly dawned on me, just how much trouble I was in.

Perhaps it was stupid, but I wasn't even thinking about the overwhelming probability of pregnancy.

No. Much more than that... the thought that came to be was...

Holy shit. I think I've just fallen in love with my stepbrother...

\\\\
The End
////

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MOM'S BEST FRIEND

by Vanessa Wilde

James McCullum took off his tie as he walked into the driveway of 18 Meridian Lane.

Then he stopped, stepped back a few paces until he was on the pavement, and fumbled the tie on again. He got all the way to the doorstep of 18 Meridian Lane this time (and even rang on the doorbell) before reaching up to his neck and swiping the tie off one last time, in the moments before the door swung open.

James was a 19-year-old college freshman, who had been an honors student all through middle school and high school, before finally getting into his first-choice college, far away on the East Coast.

He used to own a guitar, once, but sold it so he could concentrate on cello, when he realized an Orchestra extracurricular would look better on his admission statement. He had used the money from the sale to buy next year's textbooks – it never hurt to be prepared!

Needless to say, he was still a virgin – though that fact had never seemed to trouble him as much as it did right now.

If anyone would ever bother to take the thick glasses off his face and get him to look them in the eye, they would notice he was a very good-looking young man – in a pretty way, rather than in a handsome way. He had the sweetest baby-blue eyes. Unfortunately, until very recently, no one ever had.

In order to understand why he was currently standing on this doorstep, breaking out into a cold sweat and barely able to breathe, we have to go back to the garden party his mom had thrown 6 days ago.

////\\\\

Mrs. McCullum was a Strict Mom of the Old School. The idea of being a soccer mom filled her with disgust – you'd never catch
her
prioritizing her son's sports and hobbies over academic achievement! And frankly, any mother who did spend all her time ferrying their child from one practice to another clearly didn't have their best interests in mind... is the kind of thing she used to say to anyone who gave her a chance.

James was her only child, and so had received the full force of all his mother's theories about parenthood. Birthday parties were to have an equal number of adults and children present, to make sure nobody got too wild. James could have friends over only if they spent the first hour studying. That kind of thing.

However, when he had finally gotten into her first-choice college for him, everything started to change. It was as if a huge weight had lifted off her shoulders. She started to occasionally undo the topmost button on her blouse. She wouldn't always politely turn down a glass of wine when offered one at a fundraising dinner or reception.

And now that her son was back in his little hometown after a very academically successful first year at college, she decided to do something she had never done before: throw a party. A real party. A party which wasn't an excuse to proofread each other's tax reports for accounting errors.

A party with music
.

A party with
alcohol
.

Mrs. McCullum didn't have many friends. She wasn't exactly disliked or anything – she just hadn't given many people reason to try and actually like her. But when they received the invitations, her neighbors and casual acquaintances were so shocked by the uncharacteristic behavior that everyone who didn't already have plans all turned up on the appointed day and time, out of curiosity. In the end, there were easily 80, maybe 90 people in attendance.

There were a couple of things Mrs. McCullum hadn't realized about throwing a party. Firstly, she hadn't quite estimated the correct amount of alcohol she'd need. She hadn't accounted for the fact that some people might not come. She also hadn't wished to gamble on the fact that anybody might not actually be drinking that night, or might want to drive home. And she hadn't quite realized that vodka and beer had different strengths of alcohol.

So, going off the assumption that a polite gentleman would have one bottle of beer when at a lunch event, she got a bottle of vodka, whisky, or rum per person.

Needless to say, the punch she concocted was... interesting, too.

As a result, by sundown, the party was well and truly banging. Dozens of people thronged in the kitchen and spilled into the back garden. Someone had taken control of the speakers, thrown out the smooth jazz CD that had been playing on repeat, and started some kind of techno nobody in this perfect picture of suburbia could recognize, but (as it turned out) every single one of them could dance to.

And if anyone took the trouble to look up through the window of the upstairs toilet, they'd see Mr. Truman from Hanger Lane eating Mrs. Simms out for all she's worth.

Mrs. McCullum, the poor woman, was by no means immune to this general mood of festivity.

After one glass of punch, she was referring to people she'd never met as “darling”, or “my love”.

After two, she reckoned she could do without her shoes, and lost the ability to pronounce all the syllables in her last name.

Three glasses in, and she let down her hair. As in, literally untied it from her bun. No one outside her immediate family circle had ever seen her without her hair tied up. When she undid the pins holding it, and shook out her wavy blonde tresses, this was greeted by a large cheer.

She didn't understand exactly what they were cheering.

But she had another glass of punch anyway, to celebrate along with them.