Page 36 of CurVy 13
“Please,” I whimper; it has no meaning. I don’t know what I want or why the word is dancing through my lips.
“I got you.”
A ball of pleasure inside me grows and grows as he strokes along my clinging walls with long, skilled fingers while relentlessly nibbling the rim around my arse.
He bites down hard.
I shudder violently as my climax rears up from somewhere deep, ramming through me with force.
It’s overwhelming.
This is wrong.
This is disturbing.
I want more.
The feeling arises from a dark place that likes the burn in my arsehole, the pinch of his teeth, the scooping of his fingers, the thumb in my mouth, the darkness, the depravity, the attention—them. And the way they both use my body while I can’t see, while I can’t move… I cling to the sensation as it pours through me.
I let it take me.
I let them take me.
CHAPTER 15
DONNIE
The small single-storey house on a derelict side of town is filled with the scent of herbs and flowers. The wallpapered walls are adorned with frames showcasing happy family shots—people just don’t do that anymore.
“Third day of the trial?” Quinn asks, opening the front door for me and stepping aside. He’s a short guy, disadvantaged in that way, but he’s confident and loud-mouthed, so women like him.
I push my hoodie back, revealing my mask, and stroll in. I’ve become quite fond of my faceless existence.
“Yeah, a five-day trial apparently, but you never know. Could be four. Could be more. They are usually pretty accurate. Been to enough of Dex’s fucking trials to know.”
“The girl is playing ball?”
“The girl…” My mind swarms with images of my Curvy Thirteen riding my cock like her next breath would come from it. And the way my brother looked at her, hell, the way I was looking and feeling. Shit. I clear my throat. “Yeah. Dropped her off about fifteen minutes ago.”
I don’t want to talk about her.
“Was it as easy as you thought? The girl seems to be a bit of slut. Did you fuck compliance into—”
Heat hits my muscles. I slam him against the wall. “Shut your goddamn mouth!”
His small hazel eyes reflect the same shock I feel. “Okay, fuck. My bad.”
“Donald? Is that you?” Kathleen’s husky yet elegant voice comes from inside the house, snapping the tension.
Quinn smiles stiffly. “She’s chatty.”
Releasing him, I groan. I pinch the bridge of my nose and rub up into my eyes. I’m losing my fucking mind over a piece of pussy. This isn’t me.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head once with a small chuckle. “Does she know she’s in a hostage situation?”
Quinn shrugs. “I mean, I told her. The old bat doesn’t give a shit as long as we don’t disturb her daytime TV and keep the prosecco and sliced pears coming.”
“Kathleen. It’s not Donald,” I state, walking into the living room, finding her in a red leather recliner, eyes fixed on some crap on her old, tiny twelve-inch television set.