Stepbrother Studs Ian: A Stepbrother Romance (2 page)

For one glorious moment, she thought she heard him groan and shivered with pleasure.

She could only dream.

* * * *

Ian’s “Fuck Everything, Even Death” trilogy was coming along splendidly. He was scribbling away when he heard the giggling from the vent, but managed to successfully ignore it. There was a thump or two against the wall, which sounded almost deliberate to him, and then some more giggling.

“No!” Another laugh. Then Ian thought he heard the word “strap-on.” This caught his attention and, his mind caught between his work and what was going on next door, he found himself doodling on the margins of his “Death” trilogy.

“I hate those things!” More giggling, “They’re so gross. If I wanted a cock, I’d sleep with a man.”

Ian couldn’t help but listen more closely. He thought maybe he could hear the buzzing of a vibrator, but was that even possible? Surely his music would drown
that
out, at least.

“No. Put that away. No cocks.”

“Aw, Amanda…”

There was an inaudible comment or two, then a smacking sound and a whoop, and some laughter. Something rebounded off the wall with a sharp crack.

“You broke it!”

“No I didn’t. It’s still okay.”

“Fuck.”

“Ow! Don’t squeeze so hard.”

“Jessie doesn’t mind them, do you Jessie?” More laughter. The sounds of tumbling and bedsprings and thumping. There
were
only three of them in there, weren’t there?

A fucking circus.

He found himself unable to imagine what was so funny, but his mind began inexorably to wonder what might be going on in his sister’s room. He found he had been doodling, almost unconsciously, a picture of his sister wearing an enormous strap-on, a smug, all-conquering look on her face. She seemed to be looking down, as if at some imploring victim.

“Uuu-UNGH!”

“Ooooh!”

“Slow! It’s so fucking… ouch!… big…”

“You should have been a guy.”

“Fuck off.” More laughter.

Then it sounded as if Ian’s name came up, and more laughter, followed by some groaning that might even have been a deliberate parody of groaning. Was any of this for his benefit? He wondered. He wouldn’t put it past his sister.

Ian couldn’t make out if it was two or three of them groaning, but he thought he could hear his sister’s voice in there. His imagination ran wild. He thought of her with one hand on each of the other girls’ pussies, playing with them, teasing them, tormenting them….

He had little idea of what, exactly, was going on, but it definitely sounded as if his sister was the ringleader, as usual. He imagined her naked, arranging everything, ordering the girls around. That would be just like her. Sometimes he thought she just needed a guy to take her over his knee and spank her curvy, round little ass.

Damn. He shouldn’t have let his mind travel so far. He was, after all, trying to get some work done. Ian’s hand wandered towards his groin, as his attempts to write poetry became increasingly absentminded.

“Let me show you how it’s done.” His sister’s voice came clearly through the vent. “You don’t need that stupid thing. Here.” There seemed to be more sounds of mirth, and wrestling, a tumbling of bodies and a delighted shriek or two. Then a thump on the wall that made Ian jump and curse.

He wanted to storm across the hall, break it up, and send the other two home.

Then, maybe he would be the one who took Veronica over his knee to give her the spanking she deserved.

Instead, he took off his pants.

He had intended to be disciplined, to ignore everything in the next room, and when his logical mind had suggested that putting headphones on and playing his music that way would more effectively blot out the sound of his sister’s sex life, another part of him had quite rationally objected that because…

Well, what, exactly, had been his objection?

He couldn’t think now.

It was too late.

He rationalized his little masturbatory break by saying that there was no way he was ever going to get anything done that evening until he relieved this tension. They could tear the apartment down then or smash the walls with the strap-on—at least, for a while, he wouldn’t be too horny to work.

He glanced at the door, wondering if he’d locked it, but his cock ached in his hand, and besides, everyone next door was too busy to bother him anyway.

His sister’s voice rose above that of the other two girls, commanding, joyful, clearly in charge. But just exactly what they were doing, he couldn’t tell. Though he had one hand on his cock, his ear was focused on the vent above his bed, trying for the life of him to figure out what it was the three of them were doing.

Every time he thought he had it figured out, he would hear something to prove the ménage was not positioned as he’d imagined. He could picture them on his sister, one of them licking her pussy, the other her tits. Amanda and Jessie were good-looking girls, he supposed, but they were just bit players in his head. It was Veronica who took center stage, her eyes half-closed with pleasure, her mouth slightly open as her breath came faster and faster.

He could almost see her, the pale glow of her skin, sheened with sweat, writhing with pleasure. He could definitely hear her. Every time she moaned, his cock jumped in his hand like it could leap off his body and go find her. His prick was a goddamned divining rod, and she was water. Sweet, wet, delicious.

Fuck, he wanted her.

Ian grabbed his cock, squeezing hard, listening to his sister’s soft moans. He loved the way her breath caught like that, following by a soft mew, a breathy cry. She was so hot it set him on fire. Every part of him wanted her, and when he was like this, completely vulnerable, alone, trembling with lust and longing, it was the only time he was willing to admit the truth.

“Veronica,” he whispered, knowing she couldn’t hear him. He wet his lips with his tongue, imagining he could taste her.

The room next door seemed curiously quiet. When had that happened? Ian had lost track of time. But his imagination was running riot. His fantasy was all in his head now, totally cut loose from the filtered version of the real world that had provoked it. Probably they were all asleep or something, he thought, fingers still in each other’s holes, and in his thoughts he placed them all this way and that.

But then he dismissed the image, because it wasn’t the one he wanted.

His thoughts strayed, as they always did, to Veronica, and he began to think of them, just the two of them, alone together…

* * * *

Amanda and Jessie got into a fight, and that put an end to the night. Who knew strap-ons were such contentious subjects for lesbians? Veronica didn’t even see them out as they bickered their way to the front door. Instead, she curled up in bed with a book, frustrated and angry, but it didn’t have anything to do with her girlfriends, and she knew it.

The vent was still open and she glanced at it, frowning. She could hear Ian’s music, as always. But there was something else. Something rhythmic, fast.

That’s when she realized he was masturbating.

Her pussy clenched at the thought and suddenly her juices were flowing like they hadn’t been all night long. She smiled, throwing her book down and jumping out of bed. She headed to Ian’s room, intent on barging in with the pretense of complaining about his music. Two could play that game, couldn’t they? She’d throw open the door and tell him to keep it down, or Mr. Quimby would call the cops—

And maybe, just maybe, she’d get a brief glimpse at him jerking off.

The thought made her mouth dry and her ass clench.

Veronica threw open the door—she’d been hoping it wasn’t locked, and surprisingly, it wasn’t.

“Hey!” she shouted, just barely suppressing the smile on her face. “Keep it down or…”

She’d been prepared to act shocked at the scene, of course.

But she found she didn’t have to feign surprise.

What she saw jolted her to her core.

It wasn’t the sight of her stepbrother jerking off that surprised her though. That was just as delicious as she thought it would be==hand wrapped firmly around his thick length, pumping so fast his cock was almost a blur, eyes closed, brow knitted as if he was concentrating very hard. His belly was tight, the muscles there ridged, undulating as he rocked his hips.

That sight didn’t surprise her, it delighted her. 

But what did shock her was the elaborately done tattoo on his belly, positioned just over his giant erection. She saw it in the lamp light, and had a moment to admire the work and wonder who’d done it, because the likeness was striking.

It was her.

Ian had a tattoo of her on his belly, done up in retro pin-up girl fashion. She had a Betty Page haircut, a bullet bra, garters and stockings and she was astride some kind of bomb with fins on it, riding it downwards with one hand between her legs and the other held high. Her mouth was wide open and her eyes closed in unimaginable ecstasy.

Not only that, but the tattoo was upside down so Ian could look at it right side up.

She supposed he could have argued that it wasn’t her, that it just
looked
like her, but Veronica knew, the moment she saw it, who it was. Ian had sat for that tattoo, had asked someone to ink her image on his body for now and forever.

She didn’t have much time to consider this fact, however, because Ian had reacted to her bursting into the room. The reaction was slightly delayed, given what he was doing, but when his eyes flew open and saw her, she saw the panic in his eyes. She saw him glance down at the tattoo, and then back at her, staring at its original inspiration.

Veronica couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. All volition seemed to have left her.

“Fucking son of a…” gasped Ian, and with lightning speed, he covered himself entirely in his sheets and blankets, retreating into the very corner of his bed, “What the… you couldn’t knock? What the fuck?”

She’d been planning some smart-assed comment, had one ready, even, when she’d opened the door, but whatever it was had gone entirely out of her head. She could only gape at him, blinking in disbelief.

“Uh…” she managed, but that was it.

“Get the flying fuck out of here!” Ian shouted, reaching for a book on his nightstand and throwing it in her general direction.

Veronica took the hint and retreated, pulling the door closed behind her.

When she got to her room, she not only closed the vent, she found a roll of black duct tape and carefully tore off size-appropriate strips, sealing off the portal.

She didn’t care how cold she got in the winter, she decided, swiping at the tears as they fell, not really understanding why she was crying until she heard the shower go on. He hadn’t followed her. He didn’t come after her, didn’t want her, after all.

Ian.

His name throbbed in her mind as she threw herself on the bed and let herself sob.

* * * *

Veronica turned up her whiny, Emo music, as Ian called it, to drown out the sound of her crying. It was mostly over when the Jimmy Eat World album was finished, and she got up to rummage through her piles of CDs and found an early punk rock mix Ian had made for her a long time ago. She curled up in the corner of her bed, wiping at the mascara on her cheeks. She remembered when Ian had made this mix and given it to her—two years ago?—and she had done her best to try to appreciate his kind of music.

She had not succeeded, but always remembered his making it as such a sweet gesture.

There was a knock on her door and her heart leapt.

“What?” she asked, dully.

“It’s me.”

“Who else?”

Ian opened the door. He stood there for a moment, looking at his sister, who still sat in the corner of the room on her bed, eyes closed, as if in emotional exhaustion. He was in just his boxers and had his shirt off—something, she realized, she hadn’t seen him without in a while. A year, maybe more? No wonder.

“I guess you saw, huh?” He glanced down at the tattoo, frowning.

“If you mean retro-me riding a bomb to sexual Armageddon? Yeah, I saw it.”

“I guess I should explain.” Ian stepped into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Veronica said nothing, but her breath caught when she felt the weight of him move the mattress.

“Listen. Don’t feel bad,” Ian continued. “I know it seems a little creepy… but I did it on purpose.”

“I guess.” She couldn’t help the smirk that lifted the corner of her mouth. “Accidental tattoos are hard to come by.”

“Not what I meant.” He sighed, glancing at her, and took a deep breath. “Look, the truth is—God, you’re going to think I’m so sick—”

Now she really couldn’t breathe. Something hard was caught in her throat and she couldn’t swallow around it.

“I mean, we’re only stepbrother and sister, right?” His eyes pleaded with her, and she felt every emotion in them. They shattered her to bits, in an instant. “And … well, the truth is… I love you.”