Read Stuck On My Stepbrother Online
Authors: Lilian Vale
Stuck On My Stepbrother
Chapter One - The Glamorous World Of Local News
Chapter Three - And The Winner Is...
Chapter Four - Letting Off Steam
Chapter Five - Miss Goody Two-Shoes
Chapter Six - White Bear Problem
Chapter Seven - Retail Therapy
Chapter Eight - A Whole Lotta Flowers
Chapter Nine - Hair Of The Dog
Chapter Eleven - The Unmistakeable Eyes
Chapter Fourteen - The Glamorous World Of International News
Chapter Fifteen - Good Conscience vs. Bad Conscience
Chapter Sixteen - An Unfortunate Encounter
Chapter Seventeen - Weak At The Knees
Chapter Eighteen - Teacher's Pet
Chapter Nineteen - Cards Are On The Table
Chapter Twenty - Answering Back
Chapter Twenty-One - Home Of The Satyr
Chapter Twenty-Three - An Exercise In Imagination
Chapter Twenty-Four - Negotiation
Chapter Twenty-Five - Pick Your Own
Chapter Twenty-Six - In At The Deep End
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Green To Red
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Terrible, Forbidden, Wonderful
Chapter Thirty - Liberty. Peace. Strength.
Chapter Thirty-One - Fly In The Ointment
Chapter Thirty-Two - The Inevitable Retaliation
Chapter Thirty-Three - Sick Day
Chapter Thirty-Four - All Dressed Up And Everywhere To Go
Chapter Thirty-Five - A Dangerous Game
Chapter Thirty-Six - White Jasmine
Chapter Thirty-Seven - An Ill-Thought-Out Apology
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Making A Scene
STUCK ON MY STEPBROTHER
Lilian Vale
As Adam’s hand pressed down on my back, and my face pushed hard against the paperwork spilling across the surface of his desk, I heard him fiddling with something. The sound of something unhooking, and being lifted away from me. Oh no. It was one of the straps on my dress. He’d managed to unhook it, and pull it free, and I could feel the thin, sheer elastic being pulled across my wrists.
‘Looks like you need to be taught a lesson,’ he said. ‘My naughty little stepsister has started to stray.’
He yanked the elastic around both wrists, and then I could feel his fingers, expertly tying a knot around my hands.
‘Wearing dresses like this without my permission,’ he said, running his fingers over the remaining two straps across my back, ‘is completely unacceptable. You know who make the decisions around here, Rose… don’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said quietly.
His hands ran over my buttocks now, and I shivered as he touched the scars which had still not quite healed from the weekend before last. Then I felt his fingers on the hem of my skirt, so close to my pussy, which was bare and vulnerable in the cool air of my stepbrother’s office. Slowly, he lifted the hem of my skirt up, over my buttocks, revealing my bare ass to him completely.
‘No panties,’ Adam tutted. ‘Well well, what a whorish little stepsister I’ve got. This just gets worse and worse.’
This book may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the copyright holder. This story contains explicit content that is intended for adult audiences only. This work was inspired by ‘His: Bound to Please’ by Vivie Rock, and ideas have been used with full permission. All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older.
Copyright © 2015 Lilian Vale. All rights reserved.
Logo Image © photochatree, bigstockphoto.com.
Cover Image © CURAphotography, fotolia.com.
The Glamorous World Of Local News
It was the biggest night of my life. It was the weirdest night of my life. There I was, a nobody, sitting at a table with some of the most powerful people in the world of newspaper publishing, having a panic attack.
I was hoping – no,
praying
– that no-one would decide to speak to me. As long as they didn’t speak to me, they wouldn’t realize that I wasn’t meant to be here.
OK, I’ve started in the wrong place. I do that a lot. Let me try again.
My name’s Rose. About a year ago, I had that same feeling that so many young people have after finishing college:
Oh my god, what am I going to do with my life?
I’d been independent at college, living away from home (even if college had been a bit of a fantasy world of zero responsibilities), and so having to come back to my parents’ house, to their overprotective rules and dinnertime squabbles was a struggle. It was nice to be looked after, I guess, but I was
desperate
to get away. Trouble is, there’s not much that a Bachelor's Degree in English Language can get you these days, work-wise. Everyone’s got a Degree now, or so it seems. And English Language is not exactly vocational, except if you want to become a sleepy academic, writing papers on a topic almost no-one cares about. It’s not the reason I studied English, either. I love communication, and I wanted to learn more about it. There’s something magical about the way that talking, or writing, can connect someone else to that private, inner world we all have. I love the way everyone’s vocabulary, whether or not they come from the same place, is slightly different. The word that I use when I’m happy might be different from the one
you
use, for example. The way I communicate to you that I’m scared, or excited, might be different too.
So this realization hit me: that I was going nowhere, with no plans, living with my Mom. And job-hunting is not fun, especially when you don’t
want
a job.
For such a long time, I felt like it was going nowhere at all. I’d had interviews at places like factories and warehouses, pubs and restaurants. I guess maybe my heart wasn’t in it though, or maybe it was just nerves, because I never really managed to sell myself that well in them. Either I felt like the person had made up their mind about me before the interview even started, or that they were just rushing through to get to the next person in line.
Then, after a month of looking, my Mom said, out of nowhere: ‘Rose, I’ve got you an interview at The Chronicle’.
I nearly choked on my cornflakes.
‘What? I thought you needed a journalism qualification to write for a newspaper?’
It was something I’d looked into briefly. Although being a hack had always been appealing, the idea of learning shorthand and spending more time as a student wasn’t something I’d wanted to do.
‘Not a journalist’s job,’ my mom said, a twinkle in her eye, ‘advertising sales. The good stuff.’
No prizes for guessing how my Mom had made her money.
‘I don’t want to work in sales,’ I protested. ‘It’s miserable, and I’ll be useless. I’m no good at arguments, and I’m not persuasive at all.’ It was true, I’d always been a total pushover.
‘You should do it, dear, it’ll be good practice at least.’
True to form, I gave in, and attended the interview.
And amazingly, I got the job.
Thanks, Mom.
The interview wasn’t that bad, all things considered. The woman who’d end up being my boss was a hard-voiced Scottish woman called Christina. She grimaced when she spoke and asked me questions like, ‘You don’t want to be a journalist, do you?’ and, ‘What’s your favourite cocktail?’
She seemed like she didn’t suffer fools gladly, to put it mildly. I did my best to answer her questions, trying to pretend that the thought of selling small ads to farmers and one-man-band plumbing companies was fascinating. Finally, Christina said, ‘Look let’s cut the crap. It’s not a glamorous job. It’s not fun. But we’re a good team here, and it’s a good paper. Do you want to make money?’
‘Yes.’ I replied, honestly.
‘Then you can have the job. We’ll see how you get on, and in three months, if you don’t like it, we’ll say goodbye, no hard feelings. How does that sound?’
It sounded great to me. Well, good enough, anyway.
I was put on the classified adverts team. I worked with Patrick and Jen. Patrick was a good-looking young Irish guy, who was an excellent sales-person. He had a silver tongue and could talk anyone round to his way of thinking. I’d heard him do it so many times; a customer would start off aggressive, and, in the space of five minutes, Patrick would have them eating out of his hand. If we had any angry customers, we always passed them on to Patrick.
Jen was gorgeous. She used to openly flirt with all of her male customers, and was particularly good at landing big accounts from car dealerships and builders. Jen was fun, if a little intimidating. She drank a lot, sometimes during the day. She’d come back from a working lunch, half-cut and slurring, but Christina turned a blind eye, partly because of the results she got, and partly because she enjoyed a drink too.
So all of a sudden, I was part of a crack sales team. Totally great, right? Well, under normal circumstances, it would be great. But imagine my shock when, after three weeks of working for the paper, a silver envelope appeared on my desk, with my name, Rose Smith, beautifully hand-written on the front.
‘What’s this?’ I asked, holding up the mysterious letter.
‘Holy shit!’ said Patrick. ‘They managed to get you an invite! That’s great.’ He flashed me a smile.
‘An invite to what?’ I said.
‘Well, it’s not quite the Oscars, but basically the next best thing. Our team’s been nominated for a prize at the National Press Awards.’
‘Oh, right,’ I replied. ‘But, um, why do I have an invitation?’
Jen, who’d been quiet up until now, interjected. ‘Good question.’ There was a note of venom in her voice I’d never heard before. But, to be honest, I could understand why it was there. I’d done nothing to deserve this invitation. I knew nothing about newspapers, nothing about why we’d been nominated, and almost nothing about advertising sales. I opened the envelope. The invitation was expensive. I already knew it was going to be a special night.
So, there I was. In the most expensive (about eighty dollars) dress I could afford, wearing too much perfume and too much makeup, still praying desperately that no one would talk to me. The room was lavishly decorated. Strings of shining gold stars hung from the ceiling, twinkling as the swooping spotlights carved their way through the mist-steamed atmosphere. Thirty or forty round tables were arranged around a central stage, with powerful people dressed in much nicer clothes than me everywhere I looked.
‘That guy over there,’ said Jen, ‘that fat old guy, Paul, is the head of NewsBiz.’ Jen looked incredible, of course. She’d made sure to spend all of her spare time at the gym this past month, making sure she looked as good as possible for the awards. She was slender, and her full breasts were almost spilling out of her low-cut black dress. The men sitting around the table were all just staring at her, entranced by everything she said.
‘What’s NewsBiz?’ I asked.
Jen looked at me like I was a total idiot.
‘Um, it’s our parent company, Rose.’
I guess I
was
a total idiot.
Jen turned back to continue to talk to whichever billionaire she’d caught the attention of this time. And that’s when I saw him for the first time. The man who would change my life, change me, forever. And it was someone I had known almost all my life. My stepbrother.
Adam Cooper
We were still a little way from the start of the awards. The waiters were clearing the deserts away from the now messy tables. A group of men from a table in the centre of the room got up and headed towards the exit - past my table. As they moved through the room, there wasn’t a head that didn’t turn to look at them. And the reason was right in the middle of group. As he got closer I felt my chest tighten and my heart begin to beat harder, like it was being hit with a lump hammer.
He was tall. That’s the first thing about him that really struck me. So much taller than when I’d last seen him. When was that? It must have been almost seven years ago. He was massive, towering over everyone else. He must have been six-foot-six, or close to it. He had wild, dark hair, that seemed to be straining against the close-cropped cut he had. I could tell it was thick, and coarse, jet black, not even a hint of gray. His face was hard, angular, and he had a serious expression in his eyes, no, not just his eyes, his expression was set into all of his features. A hard, uncompromising demeanor. And his eyes. I’d forgotten about his eyes. The most incredibly, thickly lashed eyes I’d ever seen.