Page 9 of Tantalized By the Cursed Statue
Imagining that the statue thinks about him is different fromknowingthat the statue thinks about him.
Now that he’s sure the statue is conscious and aware, Nathaniel has to wonder what the big stone man sees in a weird, gangly guy like him.
The statue probably thinks Nathaniel is some kinked-up flavor of insane. And yeah, Nathaniel has to admit that he went a little crazy yesterday, torn between complete panic and helpless euphoria, dashing up and down the hill before cumming in his pants.
Today, Nathaniel is going to keep it together and not disgrace himself. Even though it’s Halloween, the scariest day of the year to cut through a cemetery. As he passes the ivy-covered mausoleum on his way to work, he congratulates himself for not running away in panic. He’s just strolling past the statue, a nice leisurely stroll. Just going to his job, trying his best to ignore his frantically spasming cock…
“Nathaniel.”
He jumps a foot in the air. He is never going to get used to that.
“What do you want from me?” he whispers.
“My beloved is gone.”
Nathaniel opens and closes his mouth.
“My beloved is gone.”
“Well, I’m here,” Nathaniel croaks out. “But I’m not…like, your beloved, or anything. Sorry, I’m str…” he trails off. “How are you talking? Are you using telepathy?”
The statue’s stone eyes seem to pierce through him.“You doubt yourself, as he did.”
Swallowing back a wave of fear, Nathaniel inches closer to him. “Did you put your dick—um…did you put yourself in my backpack?”
His stony gaze grows even more intense.“Yes. And you put your key in my hand. That is my cage around your cock.”
“I’m…not…”
“I don’t ask for anything you wouldn’t willingly give.”
“The curse,” Nathaniel says hoarsely. “I want to help you, it’s just…” he clears his throat. “I just…I’m not sure how you’re going to fit. I’ve tried.Repeatedly. I feel like I’m going insane.”
The statue is silent for a long time. Long enough that Nathaniel starts to wonder again if he hallucinated the statue’s voice.
“I don’t trust as easily as I once did,”the statue finally says.“I refuse to give my heart to another boy who is confused by his own desires. I will not demand that you wear my collar or swear your eternal submission. But if you want to help me, I need proof that you’re not like him.”
Nathaniel’s breath catches. The prospect ofcollaringandeternal submissionshouldn’t make his heart thump and his cock spasm with need; he blames his vibrating chastity cage for making him feel so over-the-top weird. “What does that mean, you need proof?”
But the statue doesn’t answer.
After several minutes of waiting, trying not to stare at the statue’s firm, sculpted body, Nathaniel is forced to accept that the man has told him everything he wants to say. Nathaniel would probably convince himself that he dreamed the whole conversation if the cage wasn’t pulsing like crazy around his dick.
And the statue’s face is pointed in a new direction: down the hill and toward the edge of the cemetery.
Following the angle of the statue’s gaze, Nathaniel begins to walk down the hill. His overheated mind spins in circles. He’s not even sure what to call his relationship with the gigantic stone monolith, but it seems to be leading somewhere big. It could be really good, or really bad. Whatever it is, it’s kinda terrifying and he wishes he could just flip to the last page of the book to see what’s going to happen. Maybe the statue is evil and he’s trying to trick him into getting cursed, too. Maybe by taking his cursed objects, Nathaniel is going to find himself trapped in stone. A living monument to the dead.
And then he’dneverbe able to cum, because this frustrating cage would still be trapped around his stone-hard dick.
Nathaniel is jolted from his thoughts by a strange sight. Across the street from the cemetery, the front door to Old Man Renald’s house is wide open. Debris litters his lawn, and his car is gone.
His heart beats even faster. He knows better than to get himself involved in such sketchiness, he has enough to worry about with the curse. But his memory catches on a certain phrase from a few minutes ago—the statue even said it twice.
Curiosity prickles at his nerves. With a shaking breath, he walks through the door. “Hey, OMR?” he murmurs, “Are you all right?”
Chairs are knocked over. Dishes are still in the sink, and there’s a pile of clothes on his couch. He finds no trace of OMR. He must have left in a hurry.
It’s not until he creeps into his bedroom that he finds something. The note on OMR’s desk is written on old, yellowed stationery.
