28. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
Lucky:
I think we’re at a would-be raunchy chapter. Your thoughts?
I try to relax in my room, still on edge from earlier. Today is the second time this week that Dollie’s seen me without a top on. The look of disgust over my wounds rattled me more than I’d like to admit.
Still, I didn’t dress after cutting. Didn’t risk the voice in my head screaming about infections. Not this time or a few days back.
Fresh wounds bleed out as I lie on my bed with the lights out. I haven’t dressed since I showered. I showered after seeing her, drowning out her sadness with a bottle of wine that Annabelle had left behind. I could have stayed, hung around, and told her it wouldn’t help, but why be a hypocrite.
I do the same thing weekly, drink until I’m numb.
Instead, I came up here to wash her judgment away—maybe two hours ago.
It didn’t work, so I cut my wounds open again and showered.
It isn’t because of her.
It’s because how I feel for her can’t compare to anything else.
I can’t help the hope I felt when I slid that note under the bathroom door. I thought maybe she’d have called me down by now, even if just for a coffee or something. I thought she’d give in to her fears of the house and use something meaningless as an excuse not to be alone.
Nothing.
She never wants to speak to me.
Until… I’m Lucky.
That’s why I’m the one to continue our conversations.
I’m deep into chapter twenty-five. Dollie is a little slower, savoring every detail, and I know that because she tells me her thoughts about every paragraph. Some things she says, I remember from our previous reads and my last message, kinda feels like I’m tainting that memory.
I shouldn’t have agreed to this, plucking out the possible would-be raunchy chapters.
But honestly, I’d agree to anything she asks, and the more I talk to her, the harder it is to stay away.
God, I’m going to hell.
This is your sist— there is no way I’ll let myself finish that thought. I replace it with another. This is the person I need to live because surviving isn’t enough these days.
I need this.
Need her.
Dollancie:
Was it her saying that she preferred fierce favors to anything more tender? What do you think fierce favors would be in this day and age?
Lucky:
I’m really not sure I can answer that without you thinking I’m like every other guy on MateMatch.
Dollancie:
I’ll give you a pass. Seeing as we both agreed to this.
My dick twitches beneath my towel, aching more than each and every wound.
I’m almost sure the three little dots that indicate my typing appear and disappear on her screen twice before my message eventually pops up. I cringe as I send it, taking a swig from the whiskey bottle at my side.
There’s no way this can end well with both of us being a little drunk.
Lucky:
So, I guess she’d rather be tied to the bed and fucked raw, have to beg to come, rather than have a mediocre six minutes as stale kisses dry on her skin.
Dollancie:
Who wouldn’t.
You should, my sweet Dollie. And even if you do, I shouldn’t be the one to want to do it—that’s the fucking alcohol.
God, I’m so sick of lying to myself.
Dollancie:
Sorry.
Despite the alcohol, Dollie’s message catches me off guard. It’s hard to picture her, my sweet little stepsister, who was always so innocent, this way. It’s harder to understand why I do. Fucking daily.
My phone buzzes again.
Alcohol makes her impatient, it seems.
Dollancie:
Have I scared you away?
Lucky:
Not at all.
If only that were fucking possible, I’d be long gone.
Dollancie:
Good, as we’re about to get to the pleasing and teasing.
She would rather please him than tease him. This would definitely be raunchy today.
Lucky:
The whole book would be filth.
Dollancie:
Correction: plot-based smut. I think that’s what it’s called these days.
Lucky:
So, how would she please him?
Regret over that question tickles me in an unfortunate area, and my dick twitches again.
This is your fucking sister. The thought slips through this time. Another drink blocks it out, and I stare at my phone with eager anticipation.
Dollancie:
I can’t tell you that.
My hands shake as I type, barely able to send a short text.
Lucky:
Why not?
Dollancie:
A magician never reveals her secrets.
A laugh falls out of me.
Lucky:
Would it have anything to do with a wand and a rabbit?
Dollancie:
No. They’d be to please her!
Lucky:
So, what would she do?
Dollancie:
I don’t want you thinking I’m a whore.
I’ve been with the same guy my whole adult life, I’ll have you know.
Lucky:
And I can only imagine how boring that must have been.
You know, all those mediocre six minutes and drying kisses.
Besides, we’re talking about Jane, not you.
This message was so much easier to type despite being so much longer. Shane, the most powerful magician of all, can easily make any filthy thought melt away.
Dollancie:
Well, if we weren’t talking about Jane, you’d probably know now that I’ve had very few drying kisses.
Lucky:
Fuck me…
Dollancie:
That’s not a request, right?
Lucky:
No. Hahaa.
I was just expressing how truly unfortunate you’ve been.
Dollancie:
Is that right?
Lucky:
You were loved wrong.
Dollancie:
And how would you have loved me?
Lucky:
A magician never reveals his secrets.
Dollancie:
Well, that’s disappointing. Back to Mr. Rochester, then.
Lucky:
Trust me, I wouldn’t disappoint you if given the chance.
Dollancie:
Oh, really? Would it go longer than six minutes?
Lucky:
Well, I wouldn’t be timing it, but I would fucking hope so.
Sorry. Language.
Dollancie:
That language make it into your bedroom antics?
Lucky:
That depends. Do you like it?
Dollancie:
As long as it stays in the bedroom.
Lucky:
Oh, so you’re not into car fun or the outdoors. Got it.
Dollancie:
I never said that.
Also, for the record, the language doesn’t bother me.
I just like to tease.
God, maybe don’t say anything else. I harden, and it’s really my own fault for leading this conversation in the direction it’s gone.
Lucky:
Tell me more…
What the fuck am I doing?
Dollancie:
I can’t… your opinion of me will change.
We are so far beyond that, and she has no fucking idea.
Lucky:
As Jane, what would you do to please Mr. Rochester?
Her reply doesn’t come instantly, giving me time for my mind to wander, following my dirty thoughts to dark places, creating a fantasy in my head.
I slip on some clothes and a mask I wear occasionally for work and stalk through the house.
My unbuttoned jeans do little to help with my straining dick as I see Dollie in the reading room, wearing a pair of tiny shorts and an oversized hoodie, the kind of clothes she always prances around the house in.
She moves to the kitchen to get a snack because she always likes to snack on her favorite chocolates while reading her favorite books.
I follow.
Spinning from the refrigerator, she spots me, an intruder in dark clothes and a creepy mask, standing in the doorway.
Her mouth drops open, and I signal for her to kneel down.
She ignores that, as a need to run from the situation, from me, fills her.
I catch her at the back door and drag her thrashing body back to the kitchen table.
Fear stops her from screaming as I pull down her shorts. My attention stalls on her pretty cunt. I want to taste her, but all I taste is cheap plastic as I lick my lips with the mask on.
I trace her shape with my finger, dipping inside her slightly.
It’s not enough, not even as I push all the way inside her.
Pulling out, I return with as many fingers as she can take. I stretch her, unable to pull my eyes away to see the pretty tears shining on her face.
It shouldn’t excite me.
It should repulse me the way anything sexual usually does.
But these feelings are new and hard to fight.
I can’t think of anything else. I can’t think of stopping, even as she tries to get a good look at me under the mask. She would realize who I am, and I’m not sure even that would stop me.
She tries bucking away from me, but I pin her to the table using my body, forcing a fourth finger inside her, forcing her body to accept me, to get ready and prepare.
Her mouth moves, and it almost looks like she’s repeating the word, no, no, no.
But I don’t hear it.
No, I hear the buzzing of my phone against my stomach.
I glance down and see it pressed to my skin, my hand on my aching, hard dick, moving up and down along my shaft, fast and vigorously.
A sickness washes over me.
She’s your fucking sister.
You’re picturing her in nonconsensual situations.
You’re such a fucking creep.
Rubbing my hands over my face, I cringe because they smell like me, like the soap I wash my cock in daily, and still never feel clean from.
What the fuck?
Non-con isn’t what I want from her. I want every rapist on earth to just drop fucking dead without an explanation.
But consent isn’t something I’ll get.
Ever.
Glancing down at my phone, I read her message because she’ll get impatient again soon.
Dollancie:
Okay, no judgment. But if I were Jane and I wanted to please, not tease, I’d do this hypothetically, like if I were her, because I’m an angel who rarely sins.
Lucky:
Is this where you trade me in for someone else on MateMatch?
My reply, unlike my thoughts, speaks of innocence.
Dollancie:
No, hahaa!
The only reason I trust you to play is because of all you are. That and I’ve been drinking, and I never ever drink.
Lucky:
I can’t comment on someone’s need for alcohol.
So, we’ll focus on the other part of your message.
What am I exactly?
I send the text one-handed, the other hand back around my cock, tugging to the point of pain. Because I deserve pain.
The sick feeling is still present, too, but I ignore it, biting down on my lip until it bleeds and the blood leaks into my mouth.
It tastes dirty.
I feel dirty.
I feel my eyes fill with tears, and that’s harder to ignore, but my hand keeps moving, though the pace slows.
Dollancie: