"She was asking for it, dancing like a fucking whore?—"
The knife slices his cheek before I even realize I’ve moved. Blood wells up from the shallow cut, and now he screams like the punk he is.
"That’s a strike, tsk," I tell him, wiping the blade on his shirt. "Call her a bitch or a whore again, and you’re in for a real treat."
"You know what? Fuck you," Justin spits, blood from his cut sliding down his cheek. "She's a fucking bitch who?—"
I don't lunge at him like he expects. Instead, I just smirk, watching him flinch and brace for pain that doesn't come. His shoulders tense as I step back, reaching into my duffel.
"This is thirsty work," I say casually, pulling out a bottleof water. I twist the cap off and take a long, slow drink while he watches, confusion replacing terror for a brief moment.
I walk over to the examination table and hoist myself up, letting my legs dangle over the edge. The metal creaks beneath me as I swing my feet back and forth like a kid waiting for a doctor's appointment.
"You know, I've been watching your hockey games," I say, finishing the water.
He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "What the fuck are you?—"
"You're pretty shit at it, actually," I continue, studying the water bottle label. "Coach only puts you in during the third period when you're already down by four. Did you know they call you 'Garbage Time' behind your back?"
His face flushes red. "That's bullshit."
"I counted. You've had four assists this season, zero goals." I whistle low. "That's pretty fucking pathetic for a senior. What was it your coach said to the scout from Boston? Oh yeah—'Chambers has the coordination of a newborn giraffe on ice.'"
"Fuck you," he growls, but I can see the humiliation working its way under his skin. Nothing hurts an ego like the truth.
"You're a loser, Justin. In every fucking aspect of your miserable life." I take another casual sip. "Your daddy's law firm won't even hire you as a paralegal because your LSAT scores were so abysmal. Your frat brothers mock your small dick behind your back. And the only way you can feel big is by hitting women who are half your size."
He's seething now, veins popping in his forehead. "Youthink you're so much better than everyone with your Blackwood name and money?—"
"I don't think I'm better than everyone," I interrupt. "Just better than you. And that's not saying much. You're a roach. Actually, scratch that. You're not even a cockroach. Those fuckers survive nuclear fallout. You?" I gesture at him with my water bottle. "You don't have that much luck or that many lives."
"What are you waiting for, Blackwood?" he shouts, spittle flying from his lips as he thrashes against his restraints. "Just hit me and fucking beat my ass and be done with it, you fucking Hannibal Lecter ass sick fuck!"
I laugh at that, genuinely amused. "Hannibal Lecter? I'm flattered, but I won’t be consuming any of your flesh. No, thanks."
I stand up from the examination table, crushing the empty water bottle in my fist.
"You know what, Justin? I just remembered something." I circle behind his chair, placing my hands on his shoulders and leaning down to speak directly into his ear. "Remember how I said you wouldn't like what happens if you called my north star a foul ass name again?"
He flinches as my breath hits his ear. I straighten up and walk around to face him, laughing quietly.
"Well, you're about to find out because I'm finally ready."
His eyes widen as I approach, knife in hand. I press the tip of the blade against his lower lip, just enough to dimple the flesh without breaking skin.
"Open wide, garbageboy."
When he clamps his mouth shut, I press harder until a bead of blood appears. His lips part on a gasp, and I wedge the flat of the blade between his teeth, forcing his jaw open.
"That's it. Good dog."
With my free hand, I unzip my jeans. His eyes bulge as he realizes what's happening.
"You wanted to have a foul mouth, right? Always talking shit, spewing filth about my girl." I pull my dick out and aim it right at his gaping mouth. "So now you get to really be filled with filth."
The first stream hits the back of his throat, and he gags immediately, trying to scream but choking instead. Piss splashes over his face, into his nose, down his chin and onto his preppy little polo shirt.
"Drink it, you pathetic fucking worm," I growl, directing the stream back into his mouth. "This is what you are—a fucking toilet. Not even good enough to be a urinal cake."
