SWNOVELS Lords of Pain: Chapter 1
Three Years Later
There’s a knock at the door. “Yo, Killian, time for our first interview.”
“Yeah, give me five minutes.” I grimace. “Maybe ten.”
“Martin isn’t going to wait ten.” It’s Tristian’s voice. He must have just returned from the job on the South Side. “And neither am I.”
I look into my dresser mirror, taking in the rippling hard muscles I’ve spent the last three years refining as starting quarterback on the Forsyth University football team. My body is a work of well-crafted art, and I’m not even talking about the ink covering my arms and chest. It’s designed to dominate. My eyes then shift down to the girl in front of me, bent over the flat surface. Between her big, possibly fake tits, the gold charm from her sorority necklace bounces with every thrust of my hips. Her teeth bare down on her bottom lip.
“Five minutes,” I say again, but it comes out in a grunt that Tristian may not have heard. I don’t give a fuck, slamming into her harder. The mirror bangs against the wall, and the girl—I think her name is Cheryl, possibly Sherry—lets out this sharp, pained whimper. I smirk at her reflection. “That hurt, honey?”
“Y-yes,” she squeaks, brows squeezing together. “A little.”
I grab a bunch of her bleach-blonde hair in my fist and yank it back, growling, “Good.”
It’s getting harder and harder for me to come without a little pain added to the mix. I’ve been pounding into this girl for forty minutes and only now do I feel the tingle in my balls that lets me know that my orgasm is finally building. That whimper, the pinch of pained upset on her face, is swiftly getting me there.
I close my eyes and set my rhythm. Despite the blonde under me, my mind conjures up long dark hair, pale creamy skin, and blue eyes filled with just as much hatred as fear. The ache in my cock builds, tension coiling tighter with every thrust. I reach around to—maybe Shanna’s—chest and grab her tits, pinching her nipples between my fingers.
“Killian, stop,” she begs, trying to pry my hands from her flesh. She squirms, twisting in an attempt to get away, and that finally triggers the orgasm. I pump into her hips, slamming hard and violent into her from behind. Her cunt squeezes around me. Well, as tight as her well-fucked pussy can manage. I’m in the middle of my final thrust when the door opens, Tristian’s head popping inside. His eyes go to the girl’s tits first, then up to my face.
“Killer, all the applicants are downstairs. We’ve put this off long enough. We have to find our Lady before the semester starts tomorrow, so stop fucking around.”
Placing a hand on the sorority girl’s back, I pull out roughly, leaving her bent and breathless across the dresser. My dick feels nearly raw from taking so long. Maybe if her cunt wasn’t so worn out, I could’ve come faster.
But probably not.
Blondes stopped doing anything for me years ago.
Four years ago, to be exact.
She looks back at me and scowls. “Jesus Christ, Killian. You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“Yep,” I say, wiping off my dick. I bend and toss her the clothes in a pile on the floor. “You heard Tristian. I have a meeting. Go.”
She gapes and looks at my buddy. Tristian. One of my best friends since as far back as I can imagine. He and Rath and I have been through thick and thin, bad and worse. He’s seen way more sordid shit than my spunk running down some slut’s thighs. He just gives her a sharp grin and shrugs. If she’s looking for sympathy, he’s the wrong one to ask.
A moment later she’s out in the hall, trying to get her panties over her skinny hips and futilely covering tits. Like every LDZ hasn’t seen her naked and spread-eagled already.
Rath squeezes past her in the hall, saying, “You guys need to hurry up, Martin is about to lose it.”
I pull up my jeans and remind him, “Martin works for us. We’re the Lords, not him. He can chill the fuck out for a minute.”
“It’s not just Martin,” Tristian says, clearly annoyed with me. “The Dukes have their Duchess. The Counts have their Countess. Even the Princes have their Princess. We’re dragging ass with finding a Lady. Makes us look weak, Killer.” He says this even as he pulls the pistol from the waist of his jeans, shutting it in the drawer of my dresser. “I did not just spend three hours on the South Side negotiating with two people named Nick and Pretty Nick to have this be our downfall.”
I pull on a shirt, guessing, “Pretty Nick give you trouble?” He usually does. Despite the name, nothing about him is pretty.
“Nothing more than the usual,” he answers, folding his arms.
I rub my chin. “Do I need to have my dad talk to him?”
Rath cuts in, “What you need to do is not be fucking last year’s Lady.”
“He’s right.” Tristian nods. “That won’t fly once we have our own Lady.”
I roll my eyes at this, not needing them to tell me the rules here. Fidelity when it comes to a house’s girl is a joke. The Dukes, the Counts, the Lords…we fuck who we want, when we want, how we want. The Princes might get off on treating their girl like a princess, but that’s not us.
Either way you shake it, though, fucking a previous Lady is a huge affront—not just to the current Lady, but to the whole system itself. It says she’s worth having outside the context of The Game. It tells her she’s special. Better than the rest of the Ladies. Someone to keep around.
No Lady is any of those things.
“Relax,” I assure them both. “I just wanted to approach this with some post-nut clarity. You two will be panting over the first big-tittied whore who walks into this place, but I’ll be level-headed. We need some new blood. I’m sick of the same, tired pussy.”
Tristian stresses, “We have to choose someone good—someone interesting. I saw the Duchess last week, and she is fucking stacked.”
I scoff at this. “Big tits are nothing.” All the girls are pretty and slutty. It takes something special to really set one apart in this place.
“Choosing a Lady is the worst part of winning The Game,” Rath complains once again.
“Yeah,” Tristian agrees, mouth twisting into a devious smile, “but having one is the best part of winning The Game.”
The Game. The fuel that runs the Lambda Delta Zetas, or Lords, as everyone calls us. Despite the titles, the Lords are the highest tier frat on campus, and the most notorious due to the cutthroat Game played every year. It’s pretty simple, all the frats on campus compete for who gets the most points by participating in a variety of challenges.
Lords always win.
As a result of our long history of owning this town, the Lords reside in our fancy as hell brownstone, complete with custom, individual rooms, a cook, a personal assistant, and of course—the very best-worst part—our own Lady, hand-selected by the previous year’s winners.
Years ago, Tristian, Rath, and I made a pledge to own the Lords by senior year. We made it by our junior year instead. We didn’t even have to work for it—our names were enough to get us to the top—but we did anyway.
The Game isn’t the garden-variety university shenanigans. There’s a lot riding on the line. Reputation. Stacks of money. Careers. Mostly, it’s about proving that you’re the most ruthless, the most heartless, the worst of the worst, the cream of the creep crop. Some frats don’t even bother with it. The Princes treat their Princess like a pampered little show wife. But we know what this Game is all about.
It’s a competition that was practically made for us.
We moved in at the end of the summer, each of us taking a room in the house. Martin is our personal assistant who handles the logistics of the frat. Ms. Crane is the housekeeper and cook. They both come with the brownstone.
But the Lady? Well, that’s a special job, created by Lords decades before. A female college student is hand-picked to live in the house and provide for our needs—all of our needs—as we see fit. In return, she gets special status on campus, free room and board, and the badge of honor of surviving a year with the most merciless guys on campus. It takes a special kind of woman to handle a Lord. It takes even more to handle three of them—especially when those Lords are me, Tristian, and Rath.
Two weeks ago, an announcement was made for this year’s Lady. Martin collected the applications and set up the interviews. All we have to do is sit through them and make a selection, which, according to last year’s residents, is supposed to be a fucking blast.
For them, it probably was. But for us? Well, let’s just say the three of us haven’t had the best luck when it comes to branding a girl as our own. We’ve always fucked discriminately, but these days it’s one-and-done, and it’s easier like that.
Look at what happened our senior year of high school, Tristian finally falling for someone he deemed worthy of the title only to find out she’d been fucking the softball coach behind his back. He plays it off pretty well these days, but Rath and I know how deep that cut goes. Rath has never let any girl close enough to deduce the scent of his deodorant, let alone live under the same roof. And then there’s me, still obsessing about the one who got away. Instinctively, my gaze moves down to the inside of my bicep, to the tattoo I’d gotten Freshman year; a girl with dark hair and big eyes.
If we find a good Lady, it’ll be hard to set her free. If we pick a bad one, then we’ll have to live with substandard pussy for the next nine months. There’s no great outcome here.
“At least we can make them do anything we want,” Rath says, echoing my thoughts as we enter the parlor. That’d be a silver lining if it weren’t already our usual MO. “Whittaker made every applicant give him a blow job last year.”
Tristian and I nod, knowing all too well. The ones who didn’t get on their knees were instantly cut.
“Yes,” Martin says, looking relieved to see us ready for interviews. “They’ve all signed waivers. They’re well aware of the position they’re applying for.”
We each take our seats and Martin escorts the first girl in. She’s blonde, sexy, and wearing six-inch fuck me heels.
I barely glance up before saying, “Next.”