Little Stranger: A Dark Taboo Romance

Olivia’s phone dings, and I sit myself down and read.

Olivia: What time does the festival start?

Abigail: Seven, I think. Are you still sick? Please tell me you aren’t gonna cancel???

Olivia: I’m not.

I smirk. She’d woken up yesterday, clouded and a little unsure of her surroundings, and staggered to the bathroom, and I’d held my breath in case I hadn’t put the small rug in the right place, but she just relieved herself and showered.

Her confusion continued when she saw the empty sink and trashcan, then she sat on her sofa and massaged the inside of her thighs, the same ones I was between. She’d pressed her palm to her forehead, and through the feeds in my apartment, I’d watched her search the internet for answers as to why her thighs were sore—but none of the results filling the screen were the right one.

The reason you’re sore, and the reason your thighs are a little bruised, is because I fucked you, Olivia. And you loved it. It won’t be the last time either, little sister. I will fuck you again. And again. And again, until you lose your voice the way I did and silently cry until you realize you still love me.

I keep smiling. I also keep talking to myself in my head as if my sister is in there, trapped within the darkness of my mind—it satiates me a little to imagine it; to believe she can hear everything I’m thinking, even though it would take me an hour minimum to actually get those words out.

Maybe I am a little insane.

Another message comes through—Olivia saying she’s leaving work early and will head to Abigail’s house to get ready before they go to the festival. It’s in the middle of nowhere, an abandoned barn on a farm that’s now a designated party place all year round.

I hum to myself as I watch Olivia walking home on my screens—which annoys me because she has a perfectly functional car in the apartment garage. Why walk and show everyone your perky tits in that tight dress and your peachy ass? Why smile at someone when they walk past you? Why are you not smiling at me?

When I notice my cigarettes are nearly done, I get dressed, pull on my black hoodie and combats, and grab my motorbike helmet on the way out the door. I keep the monitoring software open on my phone as I walk down the flights of stairs, refusing to take the elevator because I’ll lose my signal. I flick through the various feeds, trying to find her, and when I reach the front door, I slip on my helmet and walk out.

My bike is parked right outside. It’s new—a black Kawasaki imported from Japan. Fast as fuck and beautiful to look at. It’s my pride and joy—after Olivia obviously.

I freeze when my eyes lift to find my main goal in life walking right towards me. Her hair flows in the wind, eyes bright, and her hand is wrapped around a basket filled with fruit.

Wait. She’s heading straight for me.

Fuck. My visor isn’t see-thorough, is it?

No. I made sure it wasn’t.

Can she see my tattoos?

She has no idea I got one on my neck, right?

Fuck, why am I sweating?

She has that cute grin on her face as she walks up to the side of my bike, her eyes dancing under the mop of hair hidden beneath the hood of her coat—she’s just pulled it up to shield herself from the rain now drizzling from the sky.

Seeing her up close, conscious and not through a screen, or in my goddamn dreams, knocks the air out of my lungs. As does knowing that there might be a trace of my cum inside her still, that her milky thighs are tender—fucked and fucked and fucked.

Does she know it’s me? Has she figured out that I screwed her while she was asleep? Fuck, I don’t know. I’ll just look at—

“Hey,” she says, her voice like music to my depraved ears. “Do you live nearby? I always see your bike parked here.”

Mmmhmm, go away, Olivia, before I crush your windpipe. Or worse, fuck you in public with your stupid basket of fruit rolling down the street.

“My name is Olivia.” She reaches out her hand, her cheeks reddening as she blushes. “I moved here a little over a year ago.”

Can she fuck off? She’s ruining my plan.

Her hand drops when I don’t acknowledge her existence. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be intrusive. I’ll just…” She turns around, going stiff as she looks for her last word. “Go.”

But I don’t want her to go.

Then again, I’ll fuck up my words, and she might realize who I am.

And if Olivia finds out her darling brother is living across the street, stalking her like he has nothing else to do in his boring life, then she might disappear—or worse, call the cops again and get me charged with fuck knows what next.

Come on, Malachi, I urge myself. Say something.

“Kai,” I say quietly. The fewer syllables, the easier it is to talk.

She stops and turns, confused.

I clear my throat, my lips moving a few times before I get the words out. “My name…” Breathe, asshole. “Kai.”

She smiles wide. “Well hello, Kai.”

Is she… flirting with me? Me?

No, she’s flirting with a stranger. Not me.

Not fucking me.

I want to strangle her.

“Hi,” I say, not bothering with her name because I’ll fuck it up. At least I don’t sound like an old man—my voice is quite deep and what people call “husky,” and I know she likes that.

She smiles again and turns away, walking towards her apartment entrance. I stare at her ass, the sway of her hips, and wonder how long I can hold my breath before I die.

My bones are shaking—I think I might pass out as soon as she vanishes into the building. Being so close to her like this, with her bright eyes and mesmerizing smile, kinda knocks me off my fucked-up axis. I almost want to abort my revenge-fueled mission and tell her I forgive her, that we can be together now that I’m no longer seen as part of the Vize family—yet I still hold the surname on all my documents and bank accounts.

But she was flirting with me, not knowing who I am.

Why does that fuck me off so badly?

I climb onto my bike, turning the key and reveling in the vibrations all over my body. It’s nearly as mind-bending as feeling Olivia cum all over my cock. Seeing her on her knees on my balcony while Dad yells from beneath it. Fucking into her mouth—my first ever blowjob—and seeing my cum on her lips.

Tasting her for the first time with my mouth.

The kiss in her bed—the way she wanted me to grab her throat and choke her.

The way she cried while Dad was bleeding to death under her while I fucked her from behind.

Depraved thoughts have me fighting the urge to follow her into her home.

But then I see her again, heading straight for me with a piece of paper in her hand, and I frown when she reaches it out to me. It nearly blows away in the wind, but I catch it.

“I know this is forward, but I don’t speak to many people.” She hands me the paper. “This is my number, and this is where I’m going tonight. It’s a Halloween festival just outside town. You should come.”

“Thanks,” I say, nearly hissing the word. “I’ll…” I swallow, breathing through my nerves, trying to get this right. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” Her eyes widen. “Awesome! I can meet you outside the main gate at seven? Text me when you’re there?”

I nod, and she blushes again before heading back to her apartment. I want to crack her skull open and feed her the gray matter of her brain, because what the fuck is she doing inviting a stranger out?

She’s annoying me at the same time as making me nervous. She’s basically asked me—someone she’s never seen without a helmet—on a date. I could be an ugly motherfucker, a predator, or a murderer, and she’s just given me a free invitation to meet with her.

I’m a little lost when it comes to socializing and living normally, but are we not a little old to be going to festivals like this? It’s more like a rave with a fairground that teenagers usually swarm. I’m twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine, and I’m sneaking around, fucking my sister, and planning on going to a Halloween party to chase her into the darkness and fuck her some more.

I mean, I’ll go, but the idea of her so easily flirting with someone has me crushing the paper with her number, squeezing my throttle, and speeding down the street.

I glare at my phone—the new phone I had to go buy because I can’t use my own one. She still has my number after all these years, so she’d know it’s me.

Me: Hey, it’s Kai.

I roll my eyes at myself. Out of all the fucking names, I picked what people tried to use as my nickname? I hate it. It was either that or Vizey growing up, and I hated both. My name is Malachi, nothing else.

I’m surprised she didn’t put two and two together and realize who I was.

The stranger on a motorbike she just flirted with and asked out without knowing who she was talking to.

The phone dings, and I lean back on my bed with my towel around my waist, water droplets sliding down my chest. I just did a workout and ran on my treadmill for far too long, needing to expel some energy before tonight, but I still feel like there’s a lot more left to give.

Olivia: Hi! I didn’t think you would reach out. Are you coming tonight?

Am I so far from reality that I have no idea how to reply? Do I just simply reply “yes” and that’s it? How do I keep the conversation going? Do I ask her if she’s interested in sex? If she’s just looking for a friend? If her pussy is still tender from being pounded on her bathroom floor?

Me: Yeah. 7?

There. Simple and fine and in no way suspicious, right?

I glance over at my desk, my eyes zoning in on her sitting on her sofa, knees tucked up, chewing her fingernails while staring at her phone. She types but stops and throws her head back, as if she’s unsure what to say.

Smirking, I go sit at my desk and watch her fight her own strange little battle. It absolutely does not help my stiffening cock that she’s also in a towel, and that with her knees up, I can see between her legs.

When she still doesn’t reply, still fighting her demons, I type again.

Me: Are you single?

She bites the corner of her lip as she grins, a blush creeping up her throat and cheeks.

Olivia: My boyfriend would be furious if he knew I gave my number to some random biker.

My smile drops, and my brows knit together. She’s… not single? Since fucking when?

Olivia: I’m kidding. I’m not a very funny person. But yes, I’m as single as they come. How about you?

Technically, she’s half single. She’s neglected to mention that Mom’s lined her up with a husband. She also has a brother—me, by the way—who she has a fascination with. I can be cocky about that—she does have pictures of me on her phone, and I have more than enough voicemails as proof.

She fancies me but flirts with the biker?

Me: I don’t do relationships.

I grimace at my own words. I sound like a knock-off Christian Grey, without the whips and red room of sexual pain. Plus, I’m not a billionaire. I shake my head. Olivia made me watch all three movies back-to-back one night when we were teens, and I hated it, but I loved watching her watch someone get fucked.

Olivia: What do you do then?

I drug my sister nearly every night, cuddle her in her unconscious state, clean her apartment, and one time, I stuck my cock in her. I probably shouldn’t say that though.

Me: What do you think?

Olivia: My imagination is a little crazy. I’ll probably overstep and make you uncomfortable if I say what I think.

This is taking a different direction. My little whore of a sister is trying to dirty talk the biker—me, her brother.

Me: Maybe my imagination is crazier?

My gaze is fixed on the screen, the one on my desk, as I watch her chest rise and fall, her knees falling open. Is she… turned on? That easily?

Olivia: Prove it.

Again, I’m annoyed, even though my dick is hard. She’s trying to invoke sex from someone she doesn’t know. She’s parting herself with her small fingers and rubbing her clit on her sofa, and I’m tossing aside my towel to fist my cock, watching her find pleasure.

Pleasure she wants from a stranger.

I let go of my dick and type, refusing to cum unless it’s on or in her.

Me: See you at 7.

The gas mask sits comfortably on my face as I stare at myself in the mirror. With my black combats and black hoodie, the hood pulled up, she’ll never know it’s me.

I flip a screwdriver in my hand as I watch her through my screens—she’s curling her hair as she sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror at her friend’s house. Is it normal to walk around naked in front of your friend? Abigail, disgustingly, only has panties on, and I try to block her from my vision as Olivia finishes her hair and rubs cream all over her naked body.

I imagine her friend chopped up as she rubs the cream onto Olivia’s back. When she disappears into the bathroom, my sister fixes her makeup, so her lashes are too long, and paints on black lipstick to go with her goth-bride costume.

Her heels are too high—she still won’t be anywhere near as tall as me, but how will she run in them? The game will be over before it properly starts.

The stockings cover her legs to her thighs, and the corset pushes her tits up, the train of the veil streaming down to her ass.

She’s not smiling at herself in the mirror as she inspects her art—because that’s what Olivia Vize is, a piece of fucking art I want to own. I do own. She just doesn’t know it yet.

She looks sad. It could be the hour she spent crying to her friend about me, or while she watched videos of us, or the research she did online that—once again—gave her nothing.

She takes pictures in the mirror, faking smiles from different angles, then she tosses her phone on the bed and sits at the foot of it. There’s music playing in the background, another Taylor Swift song, and she’s miming the words while she waits on her friend.

I grin when I see the necklace she’s wearing—the locket with our pictures in it. It fits with her costume, looking old and rustic. I watched her clip it on earlier, and she stared at the photo of us inside for longer than necessary.

You see how good we are together, Olivia? We could’ve had the world, and you had to ruin it. I was going to give you everything you ever wanted. Now I need to take. I nearly have all of you.

I have your mind.

I have your body.

I have your soul. The fear I instill in you. The pain I inflict when you defy me.

You have a black heart, little sister, but I’ll own that soon too.

Olivia and her friend leave the house, heading to the festival. It’s not too far—I’ve been reading articles about it online. There will be dancing, fairground rides, food, and alcohol, and there’s a corn field that stretches all the way to the woods. I fully intend to make use of that space.

I flip the screwdriver in my hand a few times then tuck it into my back pocket, checking to see if my motorbike helmet fits over my mask, but it doesn’t, so I chuck it aside and settle on using the gas mask instead.

It’s eight by the time I get there. I intentionally made myself late, made her blow my phone up while I watched her through the crowds. She’s sexy—far sexier than watching her through the screens. She’s dancing, drinking spirits, her and her friend laughing and throwing their heads back to the music. She keeps checking her phone for a reply from me, but she won’t get one.

Abigail’s mouth is latched to a stranger’s, and Olivia goes to get another drink, checking her phone on the way. I stay behind her, my hands fisting at my sides when I see the way people are looking at her. At how fucking hot she is.

If I had a gun, I would’ve put a bullet in at least ten people’s heads by now.

With the gas mask on, she won’t recognize me. Not as the biker, and not as her brother. I stay close behind, watching as she pays for another drink, sipping it as she walks off to the side. Her heels click on the concrete, the sound softening as she carefully leaves the dancing side of the festival and heads towards the fairground.

Some of the costumes are impressive, and some are downright ridiculous. Before I was in prison and shut off from the world, I never saw the big deal about Halloween, but my sister has always loved it. She likes to be scared, and I guess the entire theme of this holiday is to be scary.

Fine, I’ll be scary.

She rounds the corner, and I see my opportunity to pounce. I pull the screwdriver out from my back pocket, closing the distance between us and grabbing the hair at the back of her head, then I press the screwdriver into her back and shove her between two broken tractors.

Olivia screams, but it’s muffled as I cover her mouth. “Shhhhh,” I whisper against her ear, spinning her around and slamming her back against the tractor wheel. I hold the screwdriver to her throat, and her pupils are expanding, her breaths uneasy, but the glaze in her eyes tells me she’s enjoying this.

I tilt my head. “Kai,” I say, and she relaxes a little. “This,” I start, digging the point of the screwdriver against her pulse, “is what I do.”

Will she notice how broken my words are? How badly I say them?

She bites her lip. “Hmm. What now?”

I smirk under the gas mask, easing off her neck and dragging the screwdriver down her chest, scraping her skin.

She’s never heard my voice as Malachi. She can’t see my face or my hair color or any of my tattoos with my gloves on. The only thing this version of me has in common with my true self is my height.

I stare at her for a moment. So beautiful. So fucking mine. “I’ll give you a head start.” My voice is rough, but I somehow manage to say those words without stuttering or overthinking the articulation of each syllable. I tip my head towards the cornfield. “Run, little stranger.”

Run. I wonder if she’ll remember throwing that word at me all those years ago. But if it triggers any memories for her, she doesn’t show it. I step back, my pants tenting with my thickening cock as she takes a deep breath and disappears into the cornfield.

I count to five, ten, fifteen, twenty, and flip the screwdriver in my hand before I chase after her.

Fuck, she can run.

I forgot Olivia used to be a cheerleader and has the stamina of a long-distance runner.

Her heels lie discarded in the middle of the field, and I can hear her little gasps of breath the further we get from the festival. Spooky music plays, the cackling laugh of a monster, and I hear her yelp as she trips over something.

I stop behind tall crops of corn, panting as I grip the screwdriver in my hand. She pushes herself back up to her feet, spinning left and right, wondering which direction would be best. The woodland isn’t far. I could drag her in there, but I quite like this setting. She looks terrified, but also eager, like she wants me to catch her.

The stranger.

Whacking hair from her face, she turns and runs further away from the music, and I smirk as I take careful steps, letting her go further and further, until I pick up my pace. My boots are heavy on the fallen corn, and I see her glance over her shoulder, spot me, and then her eyes widen as she screams loudly.

Damn, my cock is solid, and I didn’t think Olivia could go any faster, but I’m mistaken. Even dressed the way she’s dressed, I need to up my speed to catch her.

My hand fists the back of her veil, twisting into her hair, and she shrieks as I throw her to the side, making her roll over the snapped crops. Instantly, she starts crawling on her hands and knees to try to get away from me.

I grab her ankle, and she kicks me in the face, nearly knocking my mask off. She tries to crawl forward again, but I groan in annoyance and grab her nape, forcing her face into the dirt while I position myself behind her. She slaps at me from behind, but her attempts are useless as I rip off her panties, pocket them, and pull my screwdriver back out.

She goes stiff as I run the sharp, flat tip up her inner thigh, digging it in enough to cause a thin tear on her sensitive skin. Little beads of blood trickle down her thigh.

She’s still, but I can hear her breath hitching as I move the tip to her other thigh.

Her ass is in the air, and I push her poor excuse for a skirt up her back, exposing her to me, and she winces as I let a gathering of spit drip from my mouth, under my mask, landing on her back hole.

She shakes, pushing back against me as I pull the screwdriver away from her thigh, leaning over her body. I let go of her nape and grip her hair, tipping her head back. “Open,” I demand, pressing the handle of the screwdriver to her lips. She parts them, taking the handle into her mouth and flattening her lips. “Suck.”

My cock threatens to rip through my combats as it presses against her, but I refuse to let it free. This is about her right now, and I’m going to make her cry.

I want to make her sob in both pleasure and pain. With fear and horror.

No one can see us way out here—the crops are taller than me, and the music playing is faint. I can hear her heaving through her nostrils as I sink the handle of the screwdriver deeper into her throat, gasping as I pull it from her pretty mouth and slide myself back onto my haunches.

Her pussy is soaked, drenched in her arousal, her ass puckered with my spit. I lick my lips, taking careful breaths as I drag the handle up her thigh, over her ass, then back down to her pussy. I tease her opening, her clit, making her whimper and push herself back for more.

“Kai,” she moans. “Please.”

Kai. Not Malachi. She’s moaning another man’s fucking name.

Then I see her face, the way she looked at me when she told everyone how violent I was, how she wanted to be free of me, how she was scared of me. My anger builds, and I force the handle into her ass instead.

She cries out, lunging forward, but I hold her in place with a large palm on her back.

Her ass grips the screwdriver, and I push it in more, until her greedy hole devours the full handle. Then I let go of it, watching her pulse around the metal trapped there.

“Kneel,” I order, my voice a little rough.

I get to my feet as she glances at me over her shoulder, her eyes wide and wild, the screwdriver hanging out of her ass. She winces as she sits up, a tear sliding down her cheek, and I unbuckle my belt, gripping her hair and dragging her in front of me. “Kneel.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps, whimpering as she gets to her knees. “Can I take it out?”

I slap her across the face, grip her jaw, and free my cock. “No.”

More tears slip out, and the sight of them makes my head throb. Both heads. But mostly the one pressing against her lips. “Open.”

Momentarily, I pause. What if she sees my piercings and realizes it’s me? Maybe it’s too dark for her to see? She’ll definitely feel them in her throat.

I have no fucks left to give at this moment, maybe later.

She opens her mouth, and I don’t give her a second to adjust before I fist my hands in her hair and thrust fully into her mouth, making her gasp around my cock, her throat constricting around the girth, the piercings up the underside of my cock reacquainting themselves with her tongue.

The warmth, the fucking wetness of her throat as I force myself deep, using my grip on her hair to fuck my hips forward, choking her… Her hands fly up to my thighs, trying to push away, but I don’t stop or ease off—I thrust harder, faster, knocking her back a little and making the screwdriver go deeper into her ass.

My balls tingle, slapping her chin as I rock my hips, my head thrown back on a deep growl. She swallows around my dick, sucking, licking, and I pause for a moment and look down at her taking over.

Her eyes are on me, her mascara smeared down her cheeks, black lipstick on my dick. She’s crying, but she’s also rocking her own hips, enjoying her ass being pummeled by the screwdriver. My balls tighten, and as she hums around my thickness, I screw my eyes shut and shove her off me, making her scream when she lands on her back.

I climb on top of her, kick her legs apart, and force my cock into her. The tip of the screwdriver is an inch from my balls, and as I cover her mouth and grab her throat, leaning up so she can watch me in the gas mask, I thrust all the way to the hilt, drawing a painful moan from her.

So pretty, so fucking violent as she slaps at the hand robbing her of air, digging her nails into my skin. She goes rigid as I hammer my cock into her like I’m trying to kill her, hard enough to hurt, fast enough that she must be seeing stars.

“Such a whore,” I groan, the words broken but effective as she glares at me before her eyes roll. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

She’s clenching around me, and it takes me mere minutes of fucking her before she tenses everywhere and screams against my palm as her orgasm smashes into her.

I follow immediately, filling her with every drop of my cum, watching her drift in and out of consciousness from my grip on her throat, her eyes wide from the strangling pressure, her body starting to go limp beneath me.

She just let a stranger fuck her.

Why does that piss me off?

I release her neck and mouth, pressing my hands to the fallen crops by her head, still sliding my cock in and out of her despite it only being semi-hard.

I want to tell her she’s beautiful, that she takes my cock so well, that she was fucking made for me. But I have no idea how to form those words properly without fucking them up, and it only makes me furious with myself and her.

She tries to say something, but she doesn’t get to talk. I don’t want to hear her voice right now.

I pull the cloth from my pocket, the one I already doused with chloroform, and hold it to her mouth while she fights me.

Sleep, beautiful sister.

My cock is still buried deep inside her, shallow thrusts until she passes out completely.

I snatch my mask off and toss it aside, shaking my head and breathing. Fuck, it’s hot in there, and the sweat in my hair is getting itchy.

I pull my shirt up a little and look between us, watching my cock still sliding in and out, inch by inch, both our orgasms leaking from her cunt as I slip out. I gather up what I can from her thigh, and my eyes close on a groan as I sink two fingers into her heat. Keeping my seed inside her is a must—I’ve imagined it too many times to be healthy.

I don’t want to get her pregnant—fuck that—but I like the idea of her being full of my cum. To know that it’ll be dripping down her thighs.

I pull the screwdriver out of her ass, her still body making no movements, tuck it back into my pocket with the cloth, and sigh.

She has blood on her thighs. I cut her with the screwdriver, but they’re not deep gashes—little cuts I lean down and lick clean. The taste of her coppery blood has me licking my lips, needing to taste more. I bite down hard on her other thigh, splitting her skin, and my eyes roll as I taste her blood there too.

I think I’m taking the Halloween spirit too seriously. I’ll turn into a fucking vampire if I keep drinking her blood.

Pressing a kiss to her cunt, I slip my tongue through her hole and taste us both, then I suck a little on her clit and give it a chaste kiss.

Getting her on my bike is going to be a nuisance. I stand up, looking around, and when I spot a fence area near the road, I form a plan.

After covering Olivia’s body with fallen crops, I grab my mask and put it on halfway, then leave her in the cornfield and head back to the festival, grabbing a beer from one of the stalls while I walk to my bike. Smoking, I wait a few minutes before I drive up the side of the field, parking close enough that I’ll be able to carry her there safely.

I kick aside the corn and carry my unconscious sister to my bike, wanting to punch myself in the dick for not bringing my helmet to put on her. I keep her in front of me, my hand slipping down to touch her exposed pussy rubbing on my seat while I drive to an old farmhouse I bought a few weeks ago. Specifically for this moment with Olivia in my possession.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t fall off, and when I reach the dark, narrow road, I smile at the thought of all the fun we’re going to have here. Of the fear I’m going to instill in her when she realizes who’s kidnapped her.

My little captive for the foreseeable future. My darling Olivia.

You aren’t leaving here without me getting my revenge, you traitorous fucking bitch.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.