Claim Me, Alpha StepBrothers

~Olive~ Picture this? f*****g both your stepbrothers. The twin sons of the ruthless bastard who killed your dad. Crazy as f**k, right? Please don’t call me a w***e or insane, okay? Like, seriously shut the f**k up with that judgmental bullshit before you even start. If you feel insulted f*****g close the book. Anyways. Well buckle the hell up, because this is my story raw, filthy, and I’m about to drag y’all on one long f*****g ride. But right now? Before we even get into all that twisted crazy s**t, here I am ass up high like some cheap porn star, face smashed into my pillow, getting absolutely railed by my stupid ass boyfriend who thinks he’s giving me the best d**k of my entire life. Like, bro really believes he’s out here changing lives. “Ahh..fuck yeah, baby! Take that d**k! Oh s**t, your p***y’s so f*****g wet for me tonight—yeah, just like that!” Wet? Oh my f*****g god, is he for real right now?? Like, genuinely?? My v****a is throwing the biggest Sahara Desert party ever drier than a week-old cracker, drier than my patience for this man, drier than the damn desert after a hundred years with no rain! The only thing even a little bit wet is the nasty, sticky sweat dripping off his hairy balls, sliding all down my ass crack with every single one of those sloppy, off-beat thrusts. It feels like warm glue and pure regret just getting smeared everywhere. Ew, ew, ew. I’m literally cringing so hard inside. I’m biting this pillow so f*****g hard my jaw is aching, forcing out these fake moans like my life depends on it. “Mmm—yeah babe, just like that… oh god yes…” (Biggest lies ever. He’s nowhere near the spot. Not even in the same city as the spot. I could probably scroll t****k right now and he wouldn’t even notice the difference.) I think counting will help. Ninety-seven. Ninety-six. This dude really believes he’s packing heat. He told me it was “ten inches, baby, I swear.” Trust me, y’all ….it’s four. Four pathetic, overconfident inches of d**k that’s been swinging around like it’s a lightsaber since 2009. I can feel every single vein, every ridge, and the sad little mushroom head that keeps trying (and failing) to find my G-spot like it’s playing hide and seek with a blindfold on. One time he measured it once in front of me with a ruler and everything, squinting like he was doing advanced math, then announced proudly, “See? Almost ten!” Bro, that ruler was clearly in centimeters and you still came up short. He’s going harder now, face scrunched like he’s solving quantum physics with his d**k. I bite my lip so I don’t yawn directly into his open mouth and ruin his “big moment.” Ninety-five. Just c*m already, you overconfident gremlin. Ninety-four. He throws in that awkward little circular grind he thinks is “pro technique,” moaning louder like he’s winning an Oscar: “Yeahhh… feel that, baby? I’m so deep right now—owning this p***y! You’re mine tonight!” I have to clench my jaw so hard I almost crack a tooth to keep from laughing out loud. Deep? Sweetheart, you’re barely past the entrance. I could probably fit two fingers alongside you and still have room for a snack. Owning it? Please. I forced out a fake moan again “Yeah baby. f**k. I love your d**k!” “Babe,” Eric pants into my collarbone. “Babe, are you close?” I am so close. I am so close to losing my f*****g mind. “Mm-hm,” I say. “So close, baby.” I am not close. I have never been close. I have, in eleven months of dating Eric Levi, finished exactly twice, and both of those times were because I finished myself in the shower afterward while he was downstairs eating leftover lasagna. Eric is an i***t. Eric is a sweet i***t. I am going to miss him approximately as much as I miss my retainer. Ninety-four. My phone is buzzing on the nightstand. Ninety-threee. My phone is buzzing on the nightstand and I can see the name lighting up the screen and it is MOM in all caps and a little heart emoji because I am eighteen years old and I love my mother more than I love anyone alive and I have a heart next to her name like a girl who hasn’t been disappointed yet. She doesn’t call at ten p.m. She texts at ten p.m. She calls in the morning, with coffee, in the kitchen, in her ugly purple robe. She does not call at ten p.m. “Eric.” I push his shoulder. “Eric, get off.” “Almost..” “Eric.” He lifts up like a confused Labrador. “Babe, what..” I am already reaching for the phone. I am already half off the bed. I am already naked and walking toward the bathroom because something in my stomach has gone cold and I have learned in eighteen years on this earth that when your stomach goes cold you answer the phone. “Mom?” “Olive.” Her voice is wrong. Her voice is the voice she had the night Dad died. Bright and terrified all at once, like a bird that’s flown into a window and is pretending it isn’t dying. “Baby. I have to tell you something.” I close the bathroom door. I sit down on the closed toilet lid. I am still naked. There is a small crab-shaped soap on the counter that Eric’s mother bought at a Hallmark store in 2009 and I am going to remember that soap for the rest of my life, I can already tell. “Mom.” I make my voice flat. “What. “I’m getting married, baby” I do not say anything. “Olive?” I do not say anything because there is a thing happening in my chest that I do not have a name for. My mother has not dated since my father died. My mother has not looked at a man since my father died. “Baby, say something.” “Who,” I say. “What?” “Who, Mom.” “Olive..” “Mother.” “I am asking you a question. I am sitting on Eric’s mother’s toilet on the night before I leave for college and I am asking you the name of the man you are about to legally bind yourself to. I think I have earned that information.” A long pause. “His name is Richard.” “Richard what, Mom.” Another pause. Longer. “Richard Hayes.” I do not move. “Olive? Baby? Are you there?” “Mom.” “Mom. Mom. Do you — does he know — does he know who Dad was?” “What?” “Does Richard Hayes know that Dad..” “Olive, what are you talking about? He’s a businessman, baby, he’s in real estate, he,. Olive, are you are you crying? Olive,,” I am not crying. I am laughing. I am sitting on Eric Levi Thompson’s mother’s toilet, naked, with a crab-shaped soap an arm’s length away and the sound of my high school boyfriend pulling on his jeans in the next room, and I am laughing the way my father used to laugh, a sharp barking laugh like a dog that’s been kicked one too many times and decided to bite, and my mother is saying my name on the other end of the phone but I cannot hear her over the sound of my own laughter because the universe..the universe, ladies and gentlemen has decided that the man my mother is going to marry is the man my father was investigating when he died. The man my father called the worst man in America across the dinner table when I was eleven. Richard f*****g Hayes. “Olive, are you laughing?” “No, Mom.” “It sounds like you’re..” “I’m not laughing, Mom.” “Baby..” “When.” I wipe my face. There are tears on it. I do not remember crying. “When is the wedding.” “Saturday.” “Saturday?” “Olive, I know it’s fast..” “Mom, that is three days from now.” “I — I know — Richard wanted..there’s a thing, with the family, with the..” “With the what, Mom.” “With his sons.” I close my eyes. “His sons,” I repeat. “He has twins. They’re your age. They’re at..they go to Ashford too, baby, isn’t that lucky? Richard says they’re going to be so happy to meet you, he says..” “Mom.” “he says the four of you are going to be a real family, he’s so excited, baby, he wants you to come a day early so we can..” “Mom.” “so we can all have dinner before the rehearsal, just the five of us, and..” “Mom, what are their names.” It all started hitting me for real on the phone with my mom. “What?” “The twins. What are their names.” “Oh.” My mother laughs..this bright, happy, bubbly laugh like a girl in love, like a woman who hasn’t been a girl in love in twelve whole years. It makes my stomach twist into knots. “They have these funny names, baby. They’re called Cassius and Crew, can you believe that? Cassius and Cr..” Fuck. I hanged up. Of course those are their names..sharp, arrogant, rich-boy killer names that sound like they belong to guys who break people for fun. Twin Alphas. Sons of the monster whose claws ended my dad’s life right in front of me. And now they’re my stepbrothers. I’m supposed to live under the same roof as them. Breathe the same air. Call them family. I just stand there staring at the black screen. So in conclusion, y’all… this is the beginning of my story. You might be sitting there thinking, “Oh, everything’s gonna end all cute and wrapped up with a bow.” I kid you not—that’s so not f*****g it. Not one bit. Because I’m about to get carried away… and let my stepbrothers f**k me. Yeah. Both of them. And I advise you to stick around. ’Cause you’ll be sticky soon covered in your thick, hot c*m leaking out of your ruined little p***y while I whimper like the desperate stepsister slut I am. See what I did there? Yeah. So it’s best for you to leave now. Or you can stay for a while and who knows maybe love this. Wink.