Book Knock Knock Novels & Stories

I was getting fucking close, I could feel my balls tightening, while my cock swelling inside her tightest hole. Almost cumming And that was when three loud knocks echoed through the house. *Knock. Knock. Knock.* “Honey…? You home?” Mr. Williams’ voice boomed from downstairs.

“I’m in the living room.” I took a slow sip of tea. The cup warmed my hands. Outside, a car passed, tires whispering on the road. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked twice and went quiet. I laughed again at my fake dog story. I picked up my phone and typed a note to buy Star’s favorite juice in the morning. Then came the knock. It wasn’t gentle. It was heavy, like a fist that had a purpose. My cup stopped halfway to my lips. I waited, holding my breath. Sometimes knocks are mistakes. Sometimes they move on.

And then— Bang. Bang. Bang. Three impatient knocks from behind the door. “What was that?” Ronan confused. I froze. ...It‘s Luc!

Arthur~ The knock came at six in the morning. Not a normal knock. Not the kind delivered by neighbors, friends, or delivery drivers. This one was sharp. Deliberate. The kind that immediately made your stomach tighten before your brain caught up. I was already awake. Sleep and I had not been getting along lately. So when the second knock came, I was standing before it finished.

When the knock comes it is not Wren’s rhythm. Three ordinary taps, polite, spaced, the kind any household steward might use. I go completely still. The bond-pull spikes hard, a protective jolt that feels almost like anger. I do not answer. I do not move toward the door. I stand exactly where I am and listen with every part of the ten years I spent learning what a polite knock can hide. A second set of taps, slightly longer. Then a voice, low and careful, pitched to carry through wood without carrying down the corridor.

BANG. A sharp kno⁠ck c‌rash‍ed‍ t‌hrough the r‍oo‌m like a breaking g‌la⁠ss‌. I j⁠erked bac⁠k. He did too, painfully s‌lowl‍y, like every part of hi⁠m⁠ resis‍ted t‌he separation⁠. We⁠ s⁠tared at the do⁠or. Ne⁠ith⁠e‌r of us sp‍ok⁠e.⁠

Ann was so engrossed in the book she was reading that the repeated knocking on the door barely registered at first. She blinked once, twice, her eyes still dancing over the printed words as if her brain hadn’t quite processed the external noise. It wasn’t until the knocking grew persistent—louder, firmer, with an urgency that pulled her out of the quiet world of fiction—that she jumped slightly, startled by the intrusion.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. This time the sound was different and it wasn't coming from Tyler's door. My blood ran cold. It was coming from mine.

Every tick of the clock sounded like a countdown. Then, out of nowhere — Knock Knock. Knock The sound was so sharp it sliced through the air like a gunshot. Everyone froze. The first knock was loud. Confident. Not the kind that asked permission — the kind that announced authority. Jerry’s hand went straight to his gun. “Boss?” “Quiet,” I hissed. We waited. Then the knock again. Knock. Knock. Knock. Three times. Slow. Measured. Whoever was at the door wasn’t nervous. They knew exactly where they were.

“At least your love life’s never boring. I mean, two brothers? That’s like… Olympic-level relationship management. I don’t know how you’re not charging admission.” “I think you’re living a soap opera, and I’m the best friend who gets to watch it live. Of course I think it’s funny.” I rolled my eyes, but her grin was contagious, and before long we were laughing — not because it was funny, but because if we didn’t, I might cry. The laugh died when the knock came. It wasn’t normal knocking. Not just a polite tap tap. No. No pauses. No waiting for a reply. Just a steady, heavy thud like whoever it was had decided they were getting in one way or another.