“Okay,” Peyton said, biting her lip, “dare.”
Two of her friends glanced at each other; the third took a swig from the filched bottle of sickly-sweet coconut rum. “You going to get it out or not?”
Peyton looked back and forth, a little giddy from her own pass at the rum, from nerves and excitement and flirty energy. “Get WHAT out?” she teased. “I’m not going down on anyone for a dare, you guys–”
The friend she had a crush on held up one hand. There was a black rubber collar in it, with a little blinking box attached.
“Dare you to try it on.”
“Oh my god,” Peyton laughed. “Is that one of those things your dad uses to train dogs? You are such a perv!”
“Dare stands,” said her friend, head cocked. “I mean, unless you’re going to puss out.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, I bet it doesn’t even work. Or doesn’t hurt if it does.” She tried putting it around her neck, then had to hold her hair out of the way while someone else helped get the buckle done. There was a satisfying little click when it worked, and then she could feel the light pressure against the sides and back of her neck, cold little nubs of metal warming to her skin. “Tada!” she said. “Okay, my turn, right? UmmOW!”
Her friends were staring at her, a little startled. “Holy shit,” said one of them, “it works.”
“YEAH it fucking works!” a little laugh came bursting out of her, significantly more nervous than it had been before, though the excitement was oddly lingering. “Jesus! I am so making one of you try this on next.” She tugged at it, trying to find the complicated buckle, but as soon as only one of the metal contacts was touching her, the second delivered a warning buzz that made her almost lose feeling in both hands. “Ahh! Shit!”
“You can’t take it off once it’s on unless the remote is unlocked,” said the other friend she had a crush on. “I read in the manual.”
“You read in the–” Peyton stared. “Um, did you guys like, plan this?”
“Truth or dare, Peyton,” was the only answer she got.
“It’s my turn! I get to” SNAP. She yelped again, clenching her fists, drawing her knees up in a protective curl that of course would not protect her. But still the helpless giggle came bursting out of her, even though part of her was starting to think this was very, very bad. “FUCK! Okay, okay, truth!”
The friend she had a crush on–the pretty one, with dark eyes and long lashes, and sun freckles on that bitten lip–said “You really have to put a better password on your laptop.”
Peyton’s heart jerked sideways. “My what?”
“Truth. Peyton. Do you like to watch videos of girls getting hurt?”
She was caught, breath coming fast for so many complicated reasons. “I don’t–why were you–that’s NOT cool to–”
A warning thumb rested on the remote button.
She was so fucking embarrassed. “Okay! Yes! I mean. Sometimes.” She took a deep breath. “Can I have some more rum now?”
“Yeah,” said her third friend, the one she’d sometimes been a little scared of, the one who had been in her dream last week. “But you gotta come over here and sit between us first.”
She stood, unsteadily. Two steps across the room, the next shock came, and dropped her to her knees.
“Oh my god,” she was panting, still laughing a little, on the verge of hiccups. “Oh fuck.”
One of them stood up, leaned down, and took her collar in two fingers. Peyton found herself stumbling forward on her hands and knees, being led like a reluctant puppy, and feeling–weirdly–comforted when that warm hand brushed her neck.
They put her in the middle of the couch, sprawling kind of sideways, one of them pulling her hips back so that her legs fell a little open while the other kept that grip on her collar and pulled her head in close to rest. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth again,” said Peyton, as they lifted the bottle to her lips and let her drink.
“Truth. Are you turned on right now?”
She bit her lip, met her crush-friend’s eyes, wouldn’t answer. SNAP.
This time, when the shock came, she let her hips roll and her back arch a little, and the noise that came out of her was some kind of gigglegaspmoan.
There was a hand on her thigh, then a hand at the top of her leg. There was a hand working its way up her shorts. Peyton closed her eyes and bit her lip and let it ride the soft, fuzzy skin to the dip where the tendon of her leg stood out against the swell of herself, then edge cautiously underneath the edge of her underwear.
“Rules clarification,” said someone. “If she tells the truth but doesn’t use her mouth, does that mean she’s cheating?”
“It means I win,” she said, grinning, and braced herself to get what she deserved.