“Little fawn,” he insists. “Spread your legs when I speak to you.” She whimpers. He’d like to tell his brother to fuck off. He’d like to pull her over this table and thrust deep in her throat again. Instead he pushes her knee until it’s pinned against the wall and he can smell her dripping down to the chair. Yes, he’ll lick the chair too. He’ll scrape the fucking paint off of it.
