Page 53 of Beneath the Dirt

With both hands on her ankles, I drag her further from the knife.

“Please. No amount of ink or body modifications you’ve made can give you that level of balls. You don’t have it in you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” I yank her so hard that her body skids against the floor with ease. I continue to pull her where I want her. Pinned to the ground so she can remember where her place is in the new pecking order I’ve established for our family… beneath me. Where she belongs.

“Do you know what it was like after you left? No? Well I’ll tell you.” Spit falls unintentionally to her mouth and disgust mars her face. Infuriating me more. “He was ruthless. The sermons were nonstop. So were the punishments. He blamed me for what you did that night. He took it out on me until he finally got what he deserved.”

“Harlan,” she pants my name, “you’re scaring me.”

I lower my lips to hers, teasing her trembling mouth. “I don’t care.”

“You’re hurting me.” But the inflection in her voice says anything but pain. She sounds excited. Needy. Like this is a game she is about to win by getting me just how she’s craved.

“Good,” I seethe, taking her hands in one of mine, bringing them above her head while the other wraps around the slender column of her throat. She gasps, fighting for air… for the ability to move, but I grant her neither. “What’s the matter, all that snarky, stubborn, sass suddenly gone? How fucking sad.” I squeeze tighter. Spitting again, but this time it’s intentional.

Keeping my hand on her throat, I creep my index and middle fingers up to her mouth.

“When I tell you to suck, I want you to suck on them.”

Confusion lines her brow and she pinches her lips closed.

She hums a ‘no’, but I don’t listen, breaking the barrier of her lips, anyway. Who the fuck is she kidding? Her tongue is swirlingaround them, probably wishing it were my cock as she takes me deeper into my mouth.

“Who's a good little whore?” I taunt her, letting go of her wrists, I fish my free hand to my pocket, grabbing the syringe. I don’t bother hiding it and she doesn’t bother pretending that she doesn’t see it.

Still, I brace myself, expecting her to flinch and fight, but she does neither. She wants it. I shouldn’t be surprised. Whatever she took before driving to see me is likely wearing off by this point, and reality is probably too strong for her. She would rather be numbed, and lucky for her, I have what it takes to do just that.

She rolls her head, exposing her neck to me, and my fingers fall from her mouth.

“Do it,” she begs. “Just punish me and get it over with.”

I flick the syringe, but her skin beckons me to taste first. Lowering my lips to her neck, extending the split muscle of my tongue, I tease her with just the tip. Licking a soft trail up and down her now pebbled skin.

“Welcome home, little sister.” I murmur, bringing the needle to her neck, exchanging my tongue with its tip, and tease her with that instead.

She scoffs. “This isn’t home, it's Hell,” she grits as I lower my lips near hers. She’s staring at me with nothing but hatred spewing from her every pore, yet it doesn’t stop her from puckering her lips. The misplaced expectation that she’s going to get a kiss from me. Laughable.

I extend my tongue, the torn flesh playing with her septum piercing, before I yank it. Hard.

“Same thing,” I hiss.

Her stubbornness prevails as her jaw clenches, making the veins in her neck lift and throw me off. But I won’t let her win, not this time. Determined, I break the barrier of her skin with the loaded syringe and inject her with it.

As I retract the needle from her neck, her lids fall shut, and fora moment, I am in disbelief that I’ve fallen this far from the person I once was.

It’s not too late, I can just behave myself and wait until she wakes up, and take her back home. But, if I do that, and spare her from the wrath she thinks I’m not capable of, who wins? Who loses?

Blood rushes violently to my cock the more I stare at her still body. She’s breathing. Unfortunately. Still my mind drifts to a dark place that it’s found solace in over the years, wondering, fantasizing about how beautiful she would look if she were dead.

Fuck, I could come just at the thought of how peaceful my life would become if she didn’t live anymore.

It’d be so easy, too.

She’s already passed out. She wouldn’t feel a thing.

But that’s the problem. I don’t want her to get off easy.

I want her to suffer for what she’s done.

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