Page 7 of CurVy 13

“No clothes for you. Isn’t that the way this goes?”

The way what goes?

I don’t understand.

To humiliate me?

“This game is going to play out a little differently to the usual, ‘you run and if I catch you, yada, yada.’”

Two eyes, deeply set into metallic hollows, roam my body. I can’t see his expression but feel heat deep inside my tissue. A burn from embarrassment. The scorching of being debased. I won’t let it win.

“Instead of you running and me hunting you,” he says, amusement dripping from his deep tone. “I’m going to switch the lights off and stalk around in the shadows. If you can get to your phone, I will let you use it, but if I get to it first, I’m going to pin you down and fuck you to the most terrifying orgasm of your life. You’ll cry and come, hate it and love it.”

I can’t hear him, drowning in the fact I’m nude, confused by thirteen, reeling over all the details I should memorise for when I get to my phone.

Dark belt buckle.

Tattooed fingers.

Six-four-ish, maybe.

With all my body exposed to him, my insecurities snatch my attention again.

I don’t even let Oliver see me completely naked unless I’m lying under him. Lights off. That’s the only way I can come, the only way I can enjoy myself. Not that I’ll enjoy myself…

This isn’t a game.

This isn’t fun.

Lesson learned.

He is suddenly low in front of me, a metal mask prowling up my body.

“Did you hear me?” I can see his lips through the wide, sad curve. They are the only thing human about him. I imagine they’ll be the only soft thing, too.

What? Shut the fuck up.

Nothing is soft.

I recoil into the beanbag, wishing to disappear as his encroaching body hovers over mine. His two glossy eyes sweep over me again, my arms knotted around my torso, hiding as much as possible.

Then he pulls his phone out and snaps a picture of me.

I gasp in horror. “No!”

He buries his phone in his back pocket and leans in a little closer, his breath rushing through the gap in the mask. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t share that.”

“Never. That’s for me.” He hums through a pause. “You need a pet name. All the heroines in your dark romance books have pet names. What was the one I just read? Kitten? I like it, but it’s not you. Plus, I don’t like cats. How about pup? My sweet, excitable, rolling little pup. It matches the flamboyant girl from your TikTok. The self-assured and sassy one who bounces her sweet tits around for strangers. Wanting to be praised. Wanting a belly rub.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t care.”

Play cool.

Run out the front door.