Page 38 of CurVy 13

Tyler licked and fingered me to the longest, most beautiful climax of my life, all while I was in shock.

Then we did something… all three of us. And it wasn’t dubious in nature. It was outright lustful consent—screaming consent—yes.

I understand why I should have kept repeating what happened to me in my mind—I was raped. I was raped, I was raped. Because raped has morphed into forced. Into yes.

And Donnie and Tyler…

They aren’t unwelcome anymore.

Perverted lunatics, hell yes.

But not unwelcome…

By the time I’ve thoroughly diagnosed myself with psychosis, PTSD, and real Stockholm syndrome, the jury is being dismissed for the day, and I’m taking the steps outside the courthouse to the city street below.

“Who is he?” I hear a roar of anger and see Oliver charging towards me, his fists pumping on either side of his hips, his face screwed together in fury. “I saw him, whore! At your house!”

It happens fast.

I’m shuffling backwards when he’s upon me, the back of his hand swinging and connecting with my cheek.

The crack of sound bleeds my ears.

Pain flashes through my skin, throwing my face to the side and blackening my vision.

His slap disorientates me.

I freeze up for a second. Just a second. And he’s grabbing my upper arms, shaking me, rattling the world, the street, the onlookers, back and forth.

“We broke up!” I screech, trying to fend him off as random voices soar around me.

“Hey, man! Go easy.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“Let her go!”

Their words are there, clear and strong, but no one intervenes. Oliver is big; he’s a burly, heavy arsehole, fuelled with a scary intensity. One closed-fist punch from his weighty arm could render a man unconscious or worse.

“You filthy, fat slut.” His words hit my soul. “Everyone told me I was too good for you.”

“Believe them and fuck off!” I raise a shaky hand and tear my nails down the side of his jaw, panting and growling until I draw blood. “Let me go!”

Everything races; moments rush by like a flashing montage of images.

Oliver is suddenly hauled backwards by the collar. A black gloved hand fists the fabric. A ghost-like figure marches him to the fountain, throws his face into the watery depths, and plunges him beneath the surface.

The world slows to an eerie breeze.

I walk forward, and the figure looks over its shoulder, shocking me with gorgeous features, chiselled and angelic, conflicting with a distant, cold, blue gaze that screams of death, pain, and possessiveness.

“Tyler,” I breathe. No. No.

Too overwhelmed by his intent to hurt, he faces forward again, using his strength and singular focus to hold Oliver’s gasping mouth beneath the water as he thrashes.

Bubbles collect around his head.

Vomit stirs in the fountain.

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