Page 34 of Piggy

Grayson

Weeks pass. I’ve earned five grand, but barely keeping the bank at bay. I’m trying. For her. For Atticus. Sixteen-hour workdays. It’s all I can give her.

Charlotte’s top of her class. She’s thriving.

And me? I’m unraveling.

I’m a walking zombie.

When I arrive home, I expect her curled in bed or sprinting toward me like always.

But she’s on the couch, still, tense, eyes locked to her phone like it’s holding a loaded gun.

“Charlotte?”

She flinches, snaps the phone face-down onto her lap. “Oh! Hey, babe!”

Too quick.

She jumps up, forces a kiss on my jaw, but I don’t lean down.

I’m already reaching. Already unlocking her screen.

One swipe .

One breath.

Blink.

Meghan’s roped up. Tits bound so tight they’re purple. She’s slapped. Spit on. Bleeding in streaks that look like cracked glass across her thighs.

Her hair is wet, and her face stained with permanent marker. Arrows point to her mouth with “FEED ME CUM” scribbled on one cheek. “FUCK HOLE” on the other. She’s panting, drooling, jaw hanging open in a silent scream. A complete mess.

Men hover around. Faceless. Waiting their turn to fill whatever hole isn’t occupied.

But Meghan’s eyes, they’re fixed on me.

Like always.

I remember that day. While the camera zoomed in on her ass, she glanced up at me and touched her tongue to her bloody nostril, just to make me laugh. Always pulling that shit. Trying to carve out a world where it was just us, even in a room full of cameras and cock. Hard to hate a girl like that.

Then the camera pans to us, and like the pro she is, her expression flips from playful to desperate. She claws at my mask. I snap her fingers back, and one dislocates. She cries out, beautifully, a performance we’d choreographed down to the whimper.

The scene is fake. The pain isn’t.

And although I’m masked, I was a fan favorite. They knew my style, my body, my cock .

Unfortunately... Charlotte does, too.

I shut the phone off. My jaw clenches.

She’s frozen. Silent. Her eyes brimming with glossy horror.

“Just fucking great,” I grumble, beyond annoyed she found this. “Why are you watching this?”

She cowers, looking at me like I am Satan himself.

She squeaks: “I wanted to see what you liked. I couldn’t find one with you unless I subscribed to Meghan’s OnlyFans... so, I finally did.”

I stare.

I didn’t want this. Didn’t want Charlotte to look at me with that face. Like I’m pure evil.

Now, her eyes hold a different kind of fear. Not the sexy kind. The ‘ he’s gonna kill me ’ kind.

She adds, careful and small: “Why did you do those mean things to her? To any woman?”

I squint.

“Because I wanted to.”

She gasps and backs away. “You put her face in the toilet! You must hate women.”

I pause, trying to think clearly, like I am imagining this. I shrug, so damn confused. “I mean, come on. You know how I am. But you also know I love you.”

“I didn’t—” She chokes back a sob. “I didn’t know you really hated women.”

Charlotte didn’t say it back .

Like it’s so easy for me to say ‘I love you’ to a girl. She just keeps poppin’ off, pointing at her phone.

“That’s like... so bad, Grayson.”

“Duh.” I look around, still lost. This can’t be that surprising.

I step forward, but she shuffles back.

I groan.

I’m so goddamn tired. This is the last thing I want to talk about when I get home.

“Could you leave?” she blurts.

Did she just—

“I need a little time to think.” She holds herself and looks at the carpet.

I have to coach myself down.

This is Charlotte. She doesn’t know shit. She didn’t mean that. She’s confused. She isn’t Meghan or like other girls.

Don’t punish her.

I grit my teeth.

Okay. Fine.

I peel off my shirt and blow past her to the shower. I’ll eat dinner and pass out. Deal with her bullshit tomorrow.

Yeah, that’s the plan.

“Hey! Wait,” she persists, talking back like she has any right.

I spin and snatch her fucking arm. My grip is steel on her dainty flesh.

“Charlotte. You’re pushing me. Stop .”

“I didn’t mean to,” she says too quickly. “It’s just—”

“You saw Meghan,” I interrupt. “And now you’re scared?”

She nods.

“That’s good.” My voice is ice cold. “Now you’ll think twice before asking me to leave. Or looking up things I told you not to.”

She stares, shame and fear flickering behind her eyes.

I step closer. The devil in me rubbing his palms together.

She stiffens as I brush a strand of hair off her cheek, slow, almost tender.

“Meghan wasn’t scared. She begged for it,” I murmur. “You think that video was bad?”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a tiny shake of her head.

I lean in, my voice low, hot against her ear. “Just imagine being in the same room. Close. Chained. Naked. Forced to watch while I wreck her like I used to. Would you cry, Charlotte? Or would you beg to take her place?”

She gasps, small and helpless.

But I feel it.

The shift.

When I leave the room, she finally shuts up.

After showering, she has dinner ready. She sits across from me, quiet and obedient.

I grin. Got her. My pet again.

But as I eat, I keep glancing at her like she’s a dog I just broke. Still wondering if she’ll bite... or if she’s planning to run.

To ruin me for good.