Page 7 of The Order of Disorder

They know what to expect. This isn’t the first time.

Billy didn’t build a powerful and fearsome motorcycle club out of nothing because he’s dumb. He’s strategic. This isn’t just about asserting his dominance. It’s about showing the club that he owns me, that he can’t be disobeyed. It’s about humiliating me, objectifying me, and displaying me like a dog that’s beendragged back to heel. Because if he’s willing to debase and humiliate me, then he’s willing to do anything to any of them.

He removes his hands and starts undoing his jeans.

“Take your shorts off,” he says.

My heart sinks, but my body doesn’t move.

His hand grips my jaw. “I said, take them off.”

Around us, the people watching move in closer. I stand and slide my shorts down in front of all of them.

I can feel Silas’s eyes on me, but there’s no way I can be defiant. Billy wouldn’t just punish me, he would savor every minute of it. If I displease Billy he’ll throw me to Silas just to teach me that I have no safety here.

Billy, ever the exhibitionist, lowers his jeans just enough to free his cock—rock hard already—and then he pulls me into his lap.

“Ride me,” he says, low and commanding.

I hesitate, and he slaps my ass.

“Ride me.”

I straddle his lap, and he groans as I sink onto him. The room itself seems to exhale. Silence, worshipful and watchful, falls.

But I don’t make a sound.

Billy grips my hips and starts pumping into me, fast and rough. Like I’m just a fleshlight with a pulse.

I stare past his shoulder, eyes unfocused, and try not to see all the eyes watching. The slack mouths. The hands reaching into pants.

Someone catcalls. Another voice says, “Fuckin’ hell, man. I bet she’s nice and tight.”

Billy laughs and grabs my hair in a fist, pulling my face toward his.

“You’re mine,” he huffs in my ear. “Forever.”

Then louder, for the room: “I will always own this fucking cunt.”

More laughter. Somewhere behind me, the sound of flesh smacking.

Billy pulls my hair, making my head tilt upward, his other hand digging into my hip.

He’s close. I can feel it.

“Come on, baby,” he pants. “Show ‘em what a good little bitch you are. Let ‘em see you come.”

I never come with him. But I’ll fake it. Anything to end it.

I perform a moan. Roll my hips. Arch my back.

“Fuck…” he groans. “That’s it. Fucking take it.”

“Please, Daddy,” I purr, imitating his guest from last night.

His whole body tenses, his jaw clenches, and then he comes with a low, broken groan.

Someone whoops. A woman moans.