Page 41 of Little Stranger

My words are cut off, along with my air, and my eyes feel the pressure as Malachi grinds into me. My inner walls clutch around his dick, and the pleasurable heat shoots from my curling toes, all the way to my core, as I silently scream and cum all over his cock.

I clench around his thickness repeatedly, my back arching, and he stills, finding his own release as he fills me with each drop of his forbidden cum.

He only stays in place for a second before pulling out and shoving himself away from me. He’s standing as I push up onto my palms, seeing all the blood I hadn’t realized had soaked into my face and hands and chest.

My hands shake, though nowhere near as much as my legs do as I sit up on my haunches, and I glance over at Malachi as he tucks his cock away, wiping his face, his chest rising and falling. I stare at my father’s body, bleeding and twitching, my wide eyes lifting to Malachi again. He doesn’t seem to care as I reach down to check my dad’s pulse, which is weak but present.

“Dad, stay with me. I’m going to get you to hospital,” I say with a shaky voice as I pull on my panties and jeans, Malachi’s cum already leaking out of me.

I shoulder past Malachi and run to the kitchen, slamming my fist on the emergency button on the wall, sending signals to the nearest cop car and ambulance.

I glance up at Malachi as he follows me back to my father’s body. “I’ll give you a head start,” I snarl, trembling, the sirens already sounding nearby. “Run, Malachi.”

Part Two

Malachi – 8 years later

10

Malachi

MybeautifulOlivia.

My beautiful, smart, and twisted Olivia. You may have everyone else fooled with your kindness, with your warm smiles and soft voice, using them to get what you want in life—but I know you. I know the real you. Not this fake façade you show to those near you—your posture, your style of clothes, the way you let those delicate moans slip free when you ride your own hand, thinking of what we could’ve had if you hadn’t testified against me.

I know the depths of your depravity and the way your mind works. I know you more than you know yourself, you little fucking minx.

My foster sister’s touch is like a tattoo on my skin even now, all these years later. The way she whimpered my name against my lips, how tightly her cunt gripped my cock when I fucked her over our dying father’s body, coated in his blood.

I’m just biding my time. Waiting in the shadows and watching her receive all the gifts I leave her. They make her nervous. She hates chocolates and flowers and jewelry, so I shower her with them. She’s on edge, yet I think she likes to be scared. No—I know she likes the thrill of fear. Her journal goes into great detail about her dark desires; how much she yearns to being stalked, chased, kidnapped, and taken.

So, being the ever-loving big brother that I am, I intend to bring all her fucked-up fantasies to life while she begs for my forgiveness.

She’s been waiting for me—the brother who was released from prison six months ago. She looks for me and searches my name on the internet five times a day, trying to find where I am, messaging her friends that if I was going to come for her, I would’ve already done so.

I still have the voicemails she left on my phone. Drunken ones. Sad ones. Angry ones. I’ve listened to all of them, saved them on my computer so I can hear her crying that she hates me yet misses me, that she’s sorry for the way everything went when we were teenagers.

Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Fucking sorry.

That damn word echoes in my psyche—a curse that won’t fuck off.

Sorry’s just a word to try to get out of something, to dodge trouble if you’ve been caught out. Sorry’s a five-letter disgrace that shouldn’t even need to be used. It should be abolished from the fucking dictionary. Actions do speak louder than words, and if she’s as sorry as she makes out in her voicemails, then why does she sometimes look happy? Why is she going out partying with her friends? Kissing guys who—shockingly—vanish days later?

Why does she dance around her apartment, singing ridiculous songs about love?

Why is she living her life without me?

If the bitch is sorry, then why is she only looking me up on the internet and not hunting for me? Why isn’t she looking for me?

It fucking irks me that she didn’t visit me, not once. I refused any and all visitation from others, but I asked her to come and see me. I wrote to her the first two years, waiting patiently for a written reply, a presence, a smile to my fucking face that never came.

She left me in there to rot.

Well, little sister, no need to look for me anymore. I’m right here, and I intend to stick around until I’ve broken you.

I’ll break her the way she broke me. I’m going to make her terrified, make her scream for help while I fuck her tight ass and force her toshowshe’s sorry.

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