Page 100 of The Game
“I will only ask this once, Alice,” I say with utter seriousness. Her jaw tightens, her eyes shifting, her muscles tensing. Tristan smirks at me from under her, sated but prepared for more—prepared to make her scream her pleasure to the night. “Are you ours?”
Her brows pull together, her puffy, moist lips parting, confusion plain on her face before she nods. My brows drop lower as I quirk my head to the side.
“Consider this carefully. There is no going back after tonight, understand?”
She shivers again, but a steely glint enters her eyes, that fire that formed while she was away from us flaring to life.
“You know I am yours,” she hisses before she turns it back on us. “Are you mine?”
Tristan chuckles, hand snapping up to wrap around her pretty little throat, clamping down so hard she turns a delicious red almost instantly, her eyes widening as I bring the blade to her cheek, scraping it gently over her heated flesh.
“I’ll paint the inside of your cunt with my cum every fucking day I live,babochka. You know we’re yours already,” Tristan hisses, rubbing the head of his cock over her asshole. He relents pressure on her throat, and she gasps. I smirk at my twin before my eyes swish to her watering ones.
“Once we start, my littlebabochka, there is no stopping. If you want to be a Stefanov, you will take your pain and your pleasure in equal doses, because choosing us is choosing your death sentence.”
Her eyes harden, and Tristan’s lubed cock begins to press into her tight asshole. Her jaw drops, but her eyes remain locked on mine. Teeth gritted, she hisses her answer as he pushes into her.
“Then kill me. Yours are the only hands allowed to take my life.”
My body floods with pleasure, and a sick smile curls on my lips.
“That’s a good girl. Try not to move. We want our artwork to be as beautiful as you,” I say. Nostrils flared, she seems to understand what is about to transpire, and Tristan sinks his cock fully into her ass, keeping still as he stretches her. She sighs and then whines, and his arms tighten across her upper body, keeping her planted. Moving up, I press the tip of my knife over her heaving ribs, eyes flicking to hers. She’s trembling slightly, but there’s a steeliness to her gaze I’ve never seen before, and when she gives me a small nod, I sink the tip of the knife through her delicate skin, piercing her as a trickle of blood escapes and runs over the hills of her ribs.
“Fuck,” Tristan groans, eyes feasting on her blood, fingers and palm skimming up her side to play in it. She grits her teeth, pinching her eyes closed, resting her head back on Tristan as I carve the name that has been swirling in my mind since the day I tasted her perfect cunt for the first time. We always seemed to know, my twin and I, that we’d make it to this point someday. We just never knew how quickly it would come. What we share with her now has not seen the light of day since our mother died.
She does her best to stay still as I carve her flesh, branding her as ours, and Tristan soothes her soft cries with Russian lullabies, lips at the side of her head, his hips slowly beginning to languidly pump his cock in and out of her ass.
Blood runs down her side, coating her silky skin in beautiful swaths of crimson that has my cock rising and aching, desperate to plunge into her. I make my work as quickly as I am able, and as I rise on my knees, grinning wickedly down at my lines, I pass the hilt of the knife to Tristan’s eager hand. Stroking my cock as she pants and withers, straining to see what it is I carved, he keeps her planted, hand snaking up to cup her throat. “Take his cock, Alice, take us both as we brand you.”
He flips her onto her side, and I situate myself in front, collecting a wad of spit, circling it around the head of my cock as I raise her leg and push into her tight, full channels. With him in her ass and me squeezing into her cunt, she moans. Tristan positions the tip of his knife on her ribs as well, this time on her right. Her pussy pulses around my cock as I saw my way inside, and my grin grows all the more biting.
“She likes the pain, brother.”
He snorts, and she cries out as he digs the knife deeper into her flesh, permanently scarring her with our type of love. Blood coats all of our skin now.
“Of course she does,” he pants. “Loving us is pain, is it not, littlebabochka?”
“Y-yes,” she whimpers, neck straining as she grits her teeth, chest heaving.
“Shh, baby,” I say mockingly, stroking my bloody finger over her supple cheek. “The more you cry, the faster I come, and I want us to fuck you and fill you at the same time.”
Her eyes pinched closed, nostrils flared, she nods. My eyes flit to Tristan’s carving just as he’s finishing with a flair. Grinning at his own work, he casts aside the knife, and we both roll so he’s on his back, our little Alice sandwiched between us, impaled on our cocks, her blood coating our skin now, too. The sight makes me shudder in filthy delight.
His hand encircles her throat and clamps down while I pry her lips open, thumb tucked under her fighting tongue as I rise up, spitting a wad of saliva into her pretty little mouth. “You’ll take all of us,” I warn, and she nods with a whine as I release her face. Backing out my cock, I slam back into her so hard she screams. We set a punishing pace, working our cocks in rhythm into her tight little holes, slipping on her blood, our cum, our spit. Time and space is warped. I do not know how long it is that we use her body, our flesh slapping, our grunts growing more primal with each stroke into her.
She climaxes so hard that she cries, choked sobs as she spasms and her cunt paints our cock in her juices. We begin to lose count of how many times she comes. We fuck her until there is nothing left, until she’s broken in our hands, able to be rebuilt into the queen we’ve always known her to be.
But one thing remains as we spill our cum in her, as we paint her insides, marking her as ours from the inside out.
Laying in a connected heap, panting and exhausted, we smooth our hands over her pliable, used body, praising her for being so good for us.
And as my fingers skim over the congealing lines of her fresh wounds, I grin anew.
There, in Cyrillic on both sides of her torso, are our true names, the names our father gave us. Names we put to rest the day our mother died, the day we ourselves were reborn and shaped into the monsters we now are. No one will ever know them. Those that do died. The only person worthy of our true selves now bears them like a brand, for she is ours.
“Ours,babochka,” Tristan growls. She whimpers and nods.
“Yes, forever,” she whispers hoarsely in response. Gently, my fingers sticky with her blood, I brush a few stray hairs from her forehead and speak as night casts us all in an eternal type of darkness.