Her skin prickled.
It wasn't a thought, not at first. It was a memory living in her muscles.
Weeks ago. Just weeks.
The bass rattles her teeth, a physical presence in the humid, sticky air of the frat house. Red Solo cups litter the floor. Above, strings of multicolored LEDs cast shifting, feverish light on the swarm of bodies grinding on the living room floor. She's never been anywhere like it, and a nervous energy buzzes just under her skin, more potent than the fruity punch someone just pressed into her hand.
She weaves through the throng with a dancer's economy of movement, a curtain of honey-blonde hair swinging behind her. She feels a dozen pairs of eyes on her, on the sliver of toned midriff exposed between her striped blue tube-top and the low-slung waist of her grey sweatpants. She just smiles, a flash of bright blue eyes, and lets the rhythm take her. This is it. This is college.
The night blurs. Hours bleed together in a smear of cheap beer, shouted conversations, and bodies slick with sweat. The roaring party shrinks, the crowd evaporating until only the embers remain.
Now, the LED lights seem to expose more than they illuminate, casting long shadows in the suddenly cavernous room. The air is stale. Only a handful of them are left—a tight knot of frat brothers, their laughter echoing a little too loudly in the quiet.
And her. The last girl.
She's curled on a worn couch, the room tilting in a pleasant, syrupy way. The guys are all watching her. She feels it more than sees it—their gazes lingering, their jokes punctuated by quick, shared glances she can't quite decipher through the alcoholic haze. The game had started as a laugh, a way to keep the dying party alive. Silly truths, easy dares.
Then the circle lands on her again.
"Dare," she announces, the word thick on her tongue. She wants to prove she can hang.
Jake leans forward from the armchair across from her, a slow grin spreading across his face. The others shift, their bodies angling toward her. "Alright, Angie," he says, his voice a low purr that cuts through the music. "Tickle challenge."
A few of the guys snort with laughter.
"We tie your wrists to the stair railing over there," he continues, pointing with his cup. "You have to last ten minutes without saying 'Mercy.' You crack… we decide the penalty."
The group hoots, the sound sharp and hungry. A thrill, sharp and cold, cuts through the warmth of the punch in her veins. She flushes, laughing it off.
"Pfft, easy," she scoffs, pushing herself up from the couch. "I'm super ticklish, but I can handle it. Let's go!"
The staircase groans as they guide her toward the railing, the wood smooth and unyielding beneath her palms before the rope tightens, not enough to bite, but enough to make her pulse jump. The fibers whisper against her wrists as they secure the last knot, her arms stretching overhead, the tube-top clinging to her ribs before inching up just a little more. A draft teases the sliver of skin now exposed. She arches, testing the give.
Jake's thumb hovers over his phone screen. "Now."
Tyler's fingers strike first, slipping up the underside of her arm. She jerks, her laugh sharp and surprised, but before she can steady herself, Jake is there, his fingers grazing the dip of her waist, then pressing in. The world narrows to sensation: the scrape of calloused skin, the heat of bodies too close, the LED lights smearing into streaks of color as she twists. Her ribs ache from the force of her own laughter, her legs kicking wildly in the loose sweatpants, her hair whipping across her face. The camera flash sears her vision, capturing the way her body betrays her with every thrash.
"C'mon, Angie," someone slurs, the words thick with something she doesn't want to name. "Dance for us."
She does. Not the controlled, practiced moves of the studio, but something desperate, her spine arching, her bound wrists straining against the railing as if she could outrun their hands. Her laughter is a wild thing, gasping and raw, tearing free with every jab to her sides. Five minutes in, and her skin is alive with goosebumps, her muscles trembling from the effort of staying upright, of not giving in.
Her nails dig into her palms, the word mercy clawing its way up her throat.
She swallows it down.
Until she can't.
The word bursts out of her, half-laugh, half-sob, her body folding even as the ropes hold her fast. "Mercy—mercy—" The admission burns, her cheeks flaming as she sags against the railing, the rope the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
The guys cheer, triumphant, but all she hears is the ragged rasp of her own breathing, the way her pulse roars in her ears. Jake's voice cuts through the haze, low and satisfied: "Told you we'd break you."
The guys huddle, their voices a low murmur, shoulders brushing as they exchange glances. Jake's grin sharpens. "Penalty time, Angie." His words hang in the air, heavy with something unspoken.
The rope digs into her wrists as fingers brush the hem of her tube-top. Before she can even process what's happening, the fabric whispers down her arms, pooling at her feet like a discarded secret. Cool air rushes over her bare skin, and her breath hitches—not just from the chill, but from the sudden, sickening lurch of exposure.
She felt a flood of heat; her cheeks burned as the LED lights painted her skin in jagged stripes. She twists her shoulders, instinctively trying to cover herself, but her bound arms only stretch tighter overhead. The movement lifts her ribs, and she freezes—too aware of the way the guys' eyes flicker, the way Tyler's smirk falters just for a second before he looks away.
“Oh my gosh—” The words tumble out, high and breathless, her laugh nervous and thin. She forces a grin, her dancer's muscle memory kicking in—play it off, play it off—but her voice wobbles. “You guys are so mean—” She tries to inject teasing into it, like this is just another dare, just another game. But her fingers curl into fists, her nails biting into her palms.
Jake clears his throat, suddenly fascinated by his phone. "Timer's reset."
The camera flash sears her vision. Angie's stomach twists. She wants to shrink, to vanish, but her body won't obey. Instead, she lifts her chin, her honey-blonde hair swinging as she tosses it over one shoulder—a habit from recitals, from performing. "Seriously, though—" Her voice cracks. She swallows hard, her throat dry. The sticky floor presses against her bare toes, grounding her. "This isn't fair."
Her lower lip trembles, just for a second, before she presses it between her teeth. Her own body feels foreign now, from the way her extroverted spark is dimming under their stares.
She takes a shaky breath, her ribs expanding.
The timer starts.
"Round 2," Jake announces, tapping his phone. The timer glares back at her: 10:00.
Tyler's arms snake through the railing bars again, his fingertips already dancing up her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs. No barrier now. Just skin. Her laughter explodes out of her, high and bright, but her body betrays her—twisting, arching, her sweatpants riding lower with every thrash. Jake's hands join in, his knuckles digging into the soft flesh beneath her ribs, his touch relentless. The camera flash sears her vision. The stocky guy with the phone angles for a better shot, the lens drinking in the way her muscles tense, the way her honey-blonde hair sticks to her damp neck.
"Guys, please—" The words dissolve into giggles, breathless and panicked. She kicks her legs, her bare soles slapping against the floor, but the ropes keep her trapped. Every touch sends a jolt through her, her laughter climbing higher, more desperate. Don't say it. Don't say it. The thought pounds in time with her pulse, but her body is a live wire, her skin too sensitive, too exposed. The timer bleeds down. 05:32. 05:31.
"Mercy."
The word tears free, raw and broken. She sags against the railing, her chest heaving, her skin prickling with the ghost of their fingers. The guys pull back, but the air doesn't cool. It thickens.
Another murmur. Another penalty.
Hands close around her ankles—clumsy, but firm. Her sweatpants peel away, taking her underwear with them. The fabric whispers against her skin before it's gone. The cool air is a slap. She yanks at the ropes, her dancer's flexibility suddenly a curse, her legs too easy to lift, too easy to spread.
The cool air hits her, and Angie's entire body locks—not from the cold, but from the sickening rush of exposure.
"No—" The word tears out of her, raw and thin. Her hands yank at the ropes, her wrists burning, but there’s no give. No escape. Her thighs press together, her muscles trembling, but the guys are already moving, their hands too quick, their laughter too loud.
"Guys, please—" Her voice cracks. She tries to twist away, but the railing digs into her back, the ropes holding her fast. A sob claws up her throat, but she swallows it down, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. "This isn't funny anymore."
The camera flash sears her vision. Angie flinches, her arms straining overhead, her body too bare, too seen. She can feel their eyes on her—not just looking, but studying—and her skin prickles with shame. Her cheeks burn, her stomach twisting so violently she thinks she might be sick.
"Come on," Jake says, but his voice sounds far away, muffled by the roaring in her ears.
She squeezes her eyes shut, but it doesn't block out the sound of their breathing, the rustle of their clothes, the click of the phone recording. She wants to scream. She wants to disappear.
"Please," she whispers, her voice breaking. "Just—just stop."
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