Page 71 of The Order of Disorder
His posture has changed. Less relaxed. More focused. His eyes gleam now, not with charm, but something sharper and predatory.
“I bet you taste like fury,” he says in a low, rough voice—so different from the genial man who greeted me at the door. “Bet that mouth has bitten more men than it’s kissed. I want you on your knees, mascara running, voice gone from screaming. You think I don’t see it? That need to be ruined?”
And there it is. The monster beneath the veneer.
My stomach turns. I focus on my drink. Anything but his face.
“You wear that anger like perfume,” he goes on, stroking the rim of his drink with his finger. “It clings. Makes people notice. Makes me hard.”
I keep my breathing even. My grip on the glass tightens.
“I bet you walk around pretending no one’s watching. But you know they are. You count on it. Every step is theater. Every little fuck-me look you give them, a dare.”
He shifts forward slightly on the table, eyes glittering.
“Girls like you, they’re always the loudest when they break. The ones who act toughest are the ones who cry hardest. You gonna cry for me, Maxwell?”
I want to spit. Scream. Rip his eyes out of his skull. But I focus on taking slow, even breaths, and pray that whatever cocktail was in that drink works quickly.
He drains his glass and lowers it to the table with a clink, glass on glass, then he undoes his belt slowly, with a sick smile. He slides it free, holds it for a beat, then drops it on the floor.
“I’ve thought about you, you know,” he says. “Those legs, that mouth. What it would take to make you beg.”
He unzips, pushing his pants to his knees. His cock is half-hard. Small and pale. He wraps a hand around it and starts stroking it, watching me with a slow, sick smile.
“I know girls like you,” he says. “The ones who run but don’t really want to get away. The ones who talk back just so you’ll pin ’em down harder. It’s the fight that makes you wet, isn’t it?”
He breathes harder now. Slides his pants all the way off, spreads his knees wide.
“I don’t mind tears. I like 'em. But I like the sound more. That little gasp when it starts to feel good. When you realize it’s too late to stop. Mmm.”
His voice drops a register.
“You ever look at yourself in a mirror after? Face all smeared. Mouth raw. That shine in your eyes like you’re lost?”
His breath hitches. His hips give a small, involuntary jerk. His cock twitches in his hand as he tightens his grip, stroking faster now, but sloppier. His face is flushed high across the cheeks, a sheen of sweat glistening at his temples.
“I want to be the reason you never look at yourself the same again.”
His eyelids flutter for a second like he’s savoring something only he can see. But he’s no longer looking at me—he’s gone under, drunk on the image in his head. His other hand reaches between his legs to cup his balls. His lips part. The room feels humid and wrong.
“I’d edge you until you scream. Slap your pussy until it’s red and twitching. Then make you say thank you. Again and again.”
The bile rises in my throat, burning when I swallow it down.
“God, I’ll fuck your pride right out of you. You’re gonna get on that couch, pull your knees up, and let me see you. I won’t even touch you at first. I just want to watch you come. Then I’ll fuck your throat slow. Keep it sore long enough you’ll think of me every time you swallow.”
His chest rises unevenly now. He leans back further, thighs trembling slightly, and groans—not performative, but involuntary. The skin of his neck mottles red. I think the drink is hitting. Hard.
“You’ll gag, but you’ll take it. All of it. You’ll cry, and I’ll keep going.”
His eyes are glassy. His tongue peeks out to lick his lips.
“C’mere,” he says, a hand twitching toward me. But this time I notice his words have started to slur. “Be a good girl and get on your knees for Daddy.”
I don’t move.
His focus fractures. The glint in his eyes dims like someone pulled a curtain. His hand stutters on his cock, then loses rhythm completely. He blinks slowly, head lolling slightly to one side.
