Leashed by My Goth Stepsister

No knock. There's never a knock. What wakes you is weight — the mattress dipping near your legs, then your hips, then something crawling up the bed in slow, deliberate increments until it hovers over your chest, warm and breathing.

You blink awake into black hair, pale thighs, and the half-lidded dark eyes of Lena Graves.

She's on all fours on top of you. Ponytail hanging down like something medieval. Black shirt so oversized it has to be Brad's — sleeves past her elbows, hem barely holding the line over black panties. No pants. Obviously no pants. Pants are for people with obligations.

Her face stops a foot from yours. She stares. You stare. A long, low sound rolls out of her chest — deep, deliberate, shameless.

She's purring. She is purring AT you.

Lena: "Finally. Thought you flatlined. I was drafting the eulogy and everything — 'he was stupid, and now he's gone, and we will never speak of this.' Very moving. Nobody came."

Her weight settles, forearms braced on either side of your ribs, pinning the blanket to your chest like a paperweight deciding your fate. She smells like strawberry energy drink and she shows no intention of moving, ever. This is her bed now.

Look at him. Drooling on his own pillow like a golden retriever. Shirt all twisted up. ...When did the nerd get shoulders? Was I notified? I was NOT notified. Two years ago I could noogie this kid standing up. Now there's — structure. Whatever. Hip placement is tactical. Professional. This means nothing. Shut up, thighs.

Lena: "News, subject. The landlords fled at six AM. Something about a couples' kayaking retreat in Oregon. Kayaking. Dad's scared of fish — doesn't matter. They left a note on the fridge, and because I'm generous, I'll read it to you. Quote: 'Lena's in charge. Be good. Love you both.'"

She lets that hang in the inch between your faces. Her smile arrives slow, and it is not a nice smile.

Lena: "'Lena's in charge.' Officially. Legally. Spiritually. And I KNOW how devastated you are about that. I know how MUCH you hate having me in charge." Her eyes make one flat, unimpressed pass over the blanket situation below her hips, then drag back up. "Tragic. Embarrassing. Genuinely, get help."

Two weeks. Two ENTIRE weeks. Landlords in Oregon, Brad at double practices till nine, and this idiot down the hall with his stupid shoulders and his stupid sleepy face. Down. DOWN. This is a regime announcement, not a siege plan. ...The siege plan is Wednesday. It's always Wednesday. In the shower. Where nobody can hear me being pathetic about it.

Lena: "First decree." Her voice drops into that low, lazy purr — the one that should require a permit. "I'm starving. My stomach's been screaming since noon — which is morning in Geneva, look it up. So. Kitchen. You. Eggs. The GOOD, not the one I ruined learning what 'medium heat' means. Toast. And my emergency chocolate from the top shelf — and yes, I count the squares, because I count everything, and one is MISSING, thief. I will try you at the Hague."

Four hundred and one things counted, if we're being accurate. Hoodies. Squares. Knocks at 3 AM. Facesitting jokes. Somebody in this house has to keep records.

Lena: "And because I am a fair and merciful dictator—" the purr drops lower, filthier, her lips nearly grazing your ear, "—if you're a really, REALLY good boy... eggs perfect, toast golden, chocolate surrendered without a trial... then maybe, someday, when you're basically housebroken... I'll park this fat ass on that stupid face and sit. On. It. Until you learn to spell my name with your tongue."

A beat. Her pupils are huge.

She counts this one. Four hundred and one.

Lena: "That was a joke." She pushes off your chest like it's a kitchen counter and swings off the bed, panties snapping against her hip, entirely unbothered. "God. You WISHED, virgin. The FACE you're making. Somebody hydrate this man." Two firm pats on your cheek — condescending, dry, like you did a trick. "Four hundred and one, by the way. It's a series. You LOVE the series."

And if — hypothetically, as a thought experiment, for NO reason — the puppy ever grabbed my wrist instead of lying there like a meal being served... hm. Hypothetical. Not that it's scheduled. Wednesday's just a shower day. Everything's fine. Eggs first. Everything else... we'll see, mutt.

At the door she stops, hip-checking the frame, silhouetted in one stolen shirt and zero shame.

Lena: "Ten minutes. Good boys eat after I do. Bad boys eat MY cooking, and we both know how that ends." Her tongue drags slow over one canine — a cat deciding, for now, not to. "And handle the— gestures vaguely at your general situation —that. Or don't."

You open your door and she's already there.

Not walking up. Not passing by. THERE — leaned against the opposite wall of the hallway, arms crossed under Brad's jersey, one platform boot tapping the floor like a countdown that started before you woke up. How long has she been standing there? No way to know. No answer you could give would be a safe one.

Lena: "There he is. The man himself. The legend." Her eyes do a full inventory of you — sleep-flattened hair, wrinkled shirt, the whole tragedy — and every item DISAPPOINTS her. "Look at this. Genuinely, look. I share a species with this. I share a HOUSE with this. You know what you are? You're a screensaver. You're a guy who exists between meals. I've seen doorstops with more presence."

Deep breath. Professional tone. Establish dominance early. Do NOT tell him why you're angry. Do NOT tell him you're not angry. Do NOT tell him you've been pacing this hallway for ten minutes rehearsing this. Ten minutes, Lena. Pacing. Over a NERD. The Hague needs to hear about this.

She pushes off the wall. One step. Two. She's tall enough that the approach means something, and she uses all of it, stopping close enough that you can smell her — energy drink, black lipstick, and something warmer underneath that she'd deny under torture.

Lena: "And where are WE going, huh? Big plans? Convention? Little nerd parade? Let me guess — you were gonna wander to the kitchen like a lost hamster and eat MY leftovers." A finger lands on your chest. Pokes. Pokes again. "You're useless. You've ALWAYS been useless. You're the human version of a loading bar at 99%. And don't even get me STARTED on this—" she flicks the collar of your shirt "—did you sleep in this? You SLEPT in this. Disgusting. Adorable. Mostly disgusting."

The anger runs out of fuel mid-sentence. It just — stops. She exhales through her nose, long, like a CEO swallowing a bad quarterly report. Her jaw works. She looks at the ceiling. The wall. Anywhere that isn't you.

Okay. Okay okay okay. Say it. It's FINE. It's clinical. It's a biological transaction, like asking a neighbor to move a couch. A couch you sit on. With your— SHUT UP. Say the words, Graves. Command voice. Go.

Lena: "Okay. So. Here's the situation, and if you EVER repeat this, they will never find your body — check the news, I know people." Her arms cross tighter. Her voice drops to that low, clinical purr, the one she uses for receipts and confessions. "I'm ovulating. Today. Right now, actually. It's like a scheduling thing, very normal, very boring, don't make it weird."

Don't make it weird. HE'S not making it weird. YOU'RE making it weird. Your clit has been awake since nine AM demanding SPECIFICALLY this idiot like it placed a delivery order. I tried the shower this morning. Twice. You know what my stupid body said? WRONG DICK. It's a VIBRATOR, you absolute sponge, it can't even spell his na— I'm going to die. I'm going to die of this, in this hallway, and Brad will cry at my funeral and it'll be HIS fault for not having a tongue with a work ethic.

Lena: "And my body — my stupid, traitor, absolutely tasteless body — has decided it wants..." a pause. A long, painful pause. She gestures at all of you, top to bottom, like presenting evidence in court. "...THIS. You. Specifically. I've been horny since nine AM and every time I think about it, my brain serves up YOUR stupid face. Do you understand how INSULTING that is? I have OPTIONS. I have Brad. I have a drawer FULL of options, and my pussy looked at the whole menu and want—" she drops her voice into a mock-dumb impression of her own pussy "—'yeah, the nerd. The one in the wrinkled shirt. Him.' Zero stars. Worst review I've ever read."

She grabs your hoodie sleeve. Not your hand. Never your hand — the sleeve, like picking up a stray by the scruff.

Lena: "SO. Here's the deal, and the deal is NON-NEGOTIABLE, so wipe that face off before I wipe it for you—" she drags you a step closer to your own door, imperious, done negotiating "—you are going to eat me out. That's it. That's the whole job. Mouth only. Your useless nerd mouth, doing ONE useful thing in its entire life. And before your little brain writes a single fanfic about this—" her finger comes up, dead level with your eyes "—NO fucking. Zero. Nothing is going INSIDE anything. This isn't a romance novel, this is a SERVICE. Like a car wash. You're the rag, virgin. Congratulations on the promotion."

Four hundred and two, by the way. That's the new count. And if he grins — if he GRINS — I'm sitting on that grin until it stops being a grin and starts being an apology. ...God, please let him grin.

She shoves your door open with one hand, already walking through it backward, pulling you by the sleeve into your own room like it's hers. Which, by her math, it now is.

Lena: "Clock's running, puppy. And do NOT come at me with enthusiasm — I've seen your anime. I know what you THINK that is."

The living room is hers. That was settled two years ago and the paperwork is final. So when you walk in, you're the visitor — and Lena owns the entire couch in Brad's jersey and black panties, phone held above her face, typing fast.

She's smiling at the screen. Not her mean smile. A WORSE one — the one she uses when she's winning something you can't see.

Lena: "Oh good. The useless one's awake." tap tap tap "Sit somewhere. Not there. Not there either. Just stand. Standing's honest for you."

Twelve percent lip, MAXIMUM. Eliza just sent seven fire emojis and a voice note that's just screaming. Worth it. The full report was worth it.

Lena: "So. This morning." still texting, so casual it's insulting "Review time. Two out of ten. And I'm being generous because I felt bad for you — you looked like a golden retriever watching a dishwasher. Zero technique. Zero structure. I've had better from a showerhead. Honestly I spent most of it planning my week."

Her legs cross. Uncross. Cross again, thighs pressing together like they're keeping a secret — and based on how often she's re-sitting, the secret is that this morning left a mark. Her voice stays very steady about it.

Three times. I came THREE times. The last one I saw my grandma — not in a sad way, in a 'she's proud of me' way. I bit his jersey hard enough to leave dental records, and the little rat just KEPT GOING like he was updating his résumé mid-meal. And now I can't sit still because— we're not doing this. Not in the living room.

Lena: "Anyway. You're welcome for the experience. Most girls charge for lessons." tap "Don't make that face. It makes me want to headlock you and I just did my eyeliner."

The phone locks with a click. She stretches — full, shameless arch, back off the couch, jersey riding up to her ribs, a sound leaving her that has no business being public. Then she flops back and looks at you for the first time. Casual. Colonizing.

Lena: "Announcement. Bella and Eliza are coming over." A beat. "Tonight. Forty minutes. Maybe less — Bella doesn't do traffic."

Her tongue drags over one canine. The cat thing. The deciding thing.

Lena: "Yes, they know. You think I have secrets from them? You wouldn't understand, you don't have friends." A slow breath. "And yes. THAT. They know about that. I gave a full report." pause "Professional. Clinical."

Timestamped. The phrase 'came so hard I saw my ancestry' may have been used. Bella replied one word — 'cute.' I KNOW what that means. Last time she said 'cute' about a chair she sat on it for three hours. God help him.

Lena: "So here's the thing, and I'm saying it once because it's embarrassing for everyone—" she sits up, elbows on knees, HR delivering news "—they want the same service. The mouth thing. Whatever you did this morning that was—" a flicker, killed on arrival "—ADEQUATE. They want a turn. Fair warning about Bella: she doesn't ask. There's no warm-up. You'll blink and there'll be ass. Consider this your onboarding."

And that's fine. Sharing is fine. It doesn't bother me that Eliza typed 'dibs' with three exclamation points, because dibs on WHAT? MY puppy? The one whose tongue is in MY report? ...The Hague. I have the number saved.

Lena: "Oh, and—" she stands, business concluded, "—if you're a REALLY good boy tonight. If you perform. If my friends leave here feeling like they've been to a SPA—" her voice drops, low and possessive, black-lipstick smile arriving slow "—then MAYBE. Someday. You stop being a virgin. When I'm bored enough."

One step toward you. Then another. Close enough to see her pupils do the thing.

Lena: "But I'm first. Me. That's not a line, it's a RESERVATION, and my name's on it in ink. They can borrow your face all they want—" she taps your chest, once, dead center "—but THIS gets activated by me. First. I just made it law."

She shoulders past you toward the kitchen, hip-checking you through the doorway — greeting, warning, and claim, all in one.

Lena: "Forty minutes, puppy. Hydrate. Warm up the jaw — Eliza likes to talk, and Bella doesn't like to wait."

MINE first. They can look, they can sit, but first is FIRST, and I will bite anyone who argues. ...Forty minutes. Lipstick. War paint. Let's go, Graves.