Todos los capítulos de MY TABOO STEP DADDY : Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

(TRISTAN’S POV)I’ve fucked my hand seven times in this jet, cummed, smoked, and drank, yet it feels like a boulder is sitting on my balls. I’m hungry, but it’s not food. I won’t eat his pink little hole. Hell forbid I see him, even if I do, nothing’s going south. Gone are the times I used to ravage his mouth, and he’ll swallow my seeds like sweet nectar down his throat. This ain’t about gimmicks and control, I promised Camilla, and I’m keeping my word. My seatbelt digs into my hips. The tires hit the runway with a bump, followed by the roar of engines. The jet slows down as it taxis, the sound fading into a gentle hum. FIJIDALE. I toss my cigar into the ashtray, shoving a hand over my hair. Take the hounds, get back in, fly away. Easy. “FUCK!” I collapse back onto my seat. “Panther, come on. This wasn’t the plan. Please.”My stupid cock thickens in my pants. I don’t like the precum soaking through my pants, dripping down my thighs. Even as my fingers grip the leather seat, I ha

(CARLTON’S POV)I can’t feel my throat. Can’t feel my face. Only Tristan’s cum coating my mouth, the taste burning in the back of my throat. One minute I’m stabbing him, and the next I’m choking on his cock. I sneeze, droplets of cum glistening on my palm. I’m worse than Damon. I’m sick. But I’m not letting him go, never. Not until he answers my question. Pushing up my feet, I storm out the door, with a bloody-cum streaked face. Tristan charges up the jet stairs. The platform merges back to the plane, and the lights come on. I think my lungs are fractured. I gallop on aching legs, mount Damon’s bike, and put on my helmet. Nathan’s face flashes in my mind. A lick of terror whenever I’m behind the wheel. I grit my teeth, slamming the boot on the gear lever. “You’re not going without me!” Damon appears behind me. “You know nothing about geographics. Go too close, and you’ll die of jet vapor. The heat from the engine is powerful enough to melt bones, concrete, and—”“Damon!” I snap, t

(DECLAN’S POV)The wail of sirens fills the air. A few officers scatter around, knocking on doors and stopping people who were at home, and might have witnessed or heard something. Others record license plates of cars in the area as passers by gawk at the scene, some pushing at the tape, while officers try to keep them out. Am I a believer? No. Do I respect sacred places? Fuck, yes. So, which sadistic sociopath woke up on a Monday morning, deciding it’s best to murder churchgoers? Not just that, but a Priest too. Taking off my hat, I swipe up the yellow tape and walk through the doors. Dried blood, oak smell, and mixed perfumes. I stand in the center of the carnage, trying not to vomit. “An domhan olc seo.” (Irish for wicked world) Ten years chasing criminals in this shithole town, and I’d never seen a church turned into a butcher shop. Seven bodies. All stabbed. The priest’s throat slit while he clutched his bible.“Cac,” I mutter in Irish. Shit. This is personal. Whoever did

(THIRD PERSON'S POV)THE ROMANOV’S EMPIREDakor doesn’t bother with the intercom. The gates recognize his car and swing open automatically. The green rustling with the hum of his car. Even FEAR knows its master. As he kills the engine, the children scatter like roaches from light. Balls abandoned mid-bounce. The see-saw still rocking from whoever fled—up, down, up, down—moving without riders. Even the playground knows to empty for Dakor. He steps out. The maidens and men dip their heads. Another step. And the environment empties itself. Puff. No living thing in sight. This occurrence both terrifies and satisfies Dakor simultaneously. He doesn’t have a heart, but that doesn’t make him a monster, right? He reminisces back to Father Jonas, dripping of his cum, his blood soaking his garment. Maybe he shouldn't have done it? Or maybe he should? But the urge was there, Jonas' stare, stirring his hubris. Jonas' age was the end of him. His ass too. His voice. Everything. Father Jonas w

(DECLAN’S POV)The first stone hits my chest before I see it coming. “Satanist!” someone screams. Then another stone. “Kill him!” People surge against the police barricade like rabid dogs. Camera lights. Reporters. Parishioners wailing. They think we let the devil walk among them. They think we protected Mad-Bishop. They’re not entirely wrong. “Stay in fucking line!” The officers won’t hold them for long. SCREECH!!!Tries crash against concrete. Boots thumping like armies of war. “Police! Get back!” The SWAT team spills out of the armoured van, shields raised, batons in hand, helmets glinting under the streetlights. An officer is heaved over the barricade tape. He hits the ground hard. Within seconds, they’re on him: Fists, boots, pummeling him with brutal intensity. By the time his team drags him clear, he’s already dead. “That’s my cousin!” Bolton screams, body thrashing. “No!”“Kael is dead!” I drag him inside, slamming the door shut. “Get yourself together!” He collap