Stepdad’s Pet, His Son’s Plaything

EMMA’S POV

The first thing I heard wasn't the rain against the window or the settling of the old house. It was the smack. A sharp, wet sound of palm meeting skin that echoed through the vents and straight into my bedroom.

I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart thudding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. For a split second, I thought someone was being hurt. Then came the moan—low, guttural, and unmistakable.

My mother, Ruth, was screaming. Not in pain, but in a state of absolute, shattering undoing. And the man making her sound like that was Jordan. My "perfect" stepdad.

I stared at the wall separating our rooms, my breath coming in shallow hitches. I was twenty-one now, back from university for the holidays, but in this house, I was still the "smartest girl in the world" to him.

Jordan had married my mom six years ago, stepping into the void my biological father left with a grace that was almost saintly. He was the man who had tied my shoes, the man who drove me to every dance, the man my friends at school whispered about with envious sighs.

“Your dad is such a DILF, Emma,” they’d giggle. I’d always laughed it off, but deep down, the word ‘Daddy’ had started to feel heavy in my mouth for all the wrong reasons.

Smack.

"Fuck, babe! Please!" my mother wailed.

"You like it rough, don't you, baby?" Jordan’s voice was a deep, tectonic rumble. It wasn't the voice he used at the breakfast table. This was dark. Dominant. "Tell me how much you love it when I fuck you like this."

The sound of their bodies colliding—a rhythmic, relentless thudding—vibrated through the floorboards. I felt it in my teeth. I felt it in the pit of my stomach.

A toxic cocktail of jealousy and heat flooded my veins. I hated her in that moment. I hated that she was the one under him, feeling the weight of that powerful body, hearing those filthy commands directed at her. I wouldn't tell him to stop. I wouldn't beg for mercy. I’d beg for more.

My hand moved instinctively. I didn't even think about it; the desperation was a living thing. I shoved my silk nightgown up to my waist, my skin tingling in the cool air. I was already soaking, the mere sound of Jordan’s voice acting like a key in a lock I’d kept hidden for years.

"Good girl," Jordan growled through the wall.

I closed my eyes, imagining it was me he was calling a good girl. I imagined those large, capable hands—the ones that had patted my head and signed my report cards—clutching my hair and pulling my head back. I slid my fingers down, gasping as I found the center of the ache.

Every time I heard the bed frame bang against the wall, I matched the rhythm. I was losing myself in the fantasy, the boundary between "stepdaughter" and "woman" dissolving in the dark. I was Emma, and I wanted the man who had raised me to ruin me.

I was so close, my back arching off the mattress, my breath hitching in a series of broken sobs, when the door to my room creaked open.

I didn't hear it. I was too far gone, whispering "Jordan... please, Jordan..." into my pillow.

The light from the hallway spilled across the carpet in a long, jagged blade.

"Emma?"

The voice was younger, sharper, but carried that same underlying rasp of the bloodline. I froze. My hand was still buried between my legs, my gown hiked up to my chest, my face flushed with a forbidden climax.

Reign didn’t just stand there. He didn't offer an apology or a polite retreat. He watched me, his chest rising and falling in a jagged rhythm that matched the frantic pounding coming from the master suite.

"Emma," he rasped, the name sounding like a threat.

I tried to pull the silk of my gown down, my face burning with a fever that wasn't just shame—it was residual heat from the sounds of Jordan through the wall. "Reign, get out. You’re supposed to be…"

"I’m exactly where I need to be." He moved with a sudden, predatory speed, kicking the door shut. The lock clicked—a final, definitive sound.

He didn't waste time with words. He lunged onto the bed, his weight pinning my thighs down. His hands, calloused and large—so much like his father’s—grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head. Before I could even gasp, his head dropped.

He didn't kiss me. He went straight for the source of my undoing.

Reign buried his face between my legs, his tongue sharp and relentless. I let out a choked scream, my back arching off the mattress as he devoured me. He was aggressive, his teeth grazing my sensitive skin, making me sob as he forced my body to respond to him. It was a different kind of hunger than the one I imagined Jordan having; Reign was starving, and he was eating me alive.

"Reign, stop…" I gasped, but my fingers were already winding into his dark hair, pulling him closer.

He ignored me, his tongue swirling with a punishing pressure that made my vision blur. I looked up at the ceiling, the thudding from the other room still vibrating through the house. Thump. Thump. Thump. My mother’s cries were reaching a piercing crescendo, and Reign was matching it, his mouth working me into a state of total delirium.

Just as I felt the world start to tilt, Reign pulled back. He stripped his jeans off in one fluid motion, the moonlight catching the lean, hard muscle of his back.

"Look at me, Emma," he commanded.

He didn't wait. He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and drove into me with a singular, forceful thrust.

I cried out, the air leaving my lungs. He was thick, filling me in a way that made my head snap back against the headboard. He started a brutal, rhythmic pace, his body slamming against mine with a violence that made the bed frame groan.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The sound of his skin hitting mine echoed the sounds of Jordan hitting my mother. I closed my eyes tight, the sweat dripping from Reign’s forehead onto my chest. In the dark, with the friction and the heat, the lines began to bleed together.

He pushed up my nighty further and cupped my breast with his warm mouth. I was about to scream when he stuffed my night into my mouth to stifle my moans. While his fingers worked on my clit.

I felt Reign’s other hand on my waist, but in my mind, they were larger. I felt the weight of him, but I imagined the scent of Jordan’s expensive bourbon instead of Reign’s tobacco.

"Harder," I whispered, my voice a broken wreck. "Don't stop."

Reign growled, his pace turning frantic. He flipped me over, pushing my face into the pillow and taking me from behind—the exact position I knew Jordan was using on my mother just a few minutes ago. The synchronization was intoxicating. Every time Jordan thrust into Ruth, Reign thrust into me.

I was being split open by the son, but in the white-hot haze of my climax, I was screaming for the father. I imagined Jordan’s hand wrapped around my throat, his voice telling me I was a good girl as I shattered.

Reign let out a guttural roar, his body tensing as he emptied himself into me, his weight crushing me into the mattress. For a few seconds, the house was silent, save for our combined, ragged breathing.

Reign collapsed beside me, his hand resting possessively on my breast. He didn't say a word about his father. He didn't ask why I was touching myself to the sound of the master bedroom. He just stared at the ceiling, a dark, satisfied smirk on his face.

I lay there, my body aching and used, staring at the wall. My stepbrother that we were almost always fighting was in my bed, his scent marking my sheets. But as I listened to the silence from the hallway, all I could think about was the man who had started the fire Reign had just tried to put out.

The son has had his turn. But it was the father I was coming for next.