Telling Tales

by Charlotte Stein

  And I think he reads some of this on my face too.

  “No, no—look—you need to get changed, and I probably should get changed…everything’s cool, OK? We’ll meet downstairs.”

  It does not sound as though everything’s cool. I can feel myself fidgeting, suddenly, even though I don’t mean to. I mean—he shouldn’t feel bad. I’m the one who fucked up; I’m the one who pushed him.

  “Cam, I just want you to know I’m really sorry about all of this. I know it’s probably, like, messed up our friendship or—”

  He stands up then, real suddenly. So suddenly that I almost take a step back, and not just because of his impressive height. It’s also because, well, uh, how should I put this…

  “No, our friendship isn’t messed up. I just didn’t want to stand because now you can see I have a huge erection.”

  He makes a little voila gesture, which drains some of the tension in the room. Some, but not all. Because now we’re kind of half-laughing and I guess it’s funny, but it’s something else too. It’s drawing attention to the real and obvious fact that we’ve just kind of talked about sex for ten minutes, and before that I spent a lot of time reading a dirty story he wrote.

  “Listen…Allie…” he starts, and for one wild second I imagine him asking me for something. He could. I mean, I wouldn’t say no. His cock looks absolutely amazing through the barely-there material of his sweatpants, all thick and solid and pushing right up against the things confining it, and I can just picture him groaning and pumping his hips as I take him in my mouth.

  But unfortunately, I can’t even conjure up the imaginary words he’d use. Will you suck me off just sounds too crude. Please go down on me too polite. There’s no middle ground with him—I can’t find it.

  “None of this means anything, you know?” he finishes, but all I can see behind my eyes is that big, thick cock and all I can think about is how it would feel, sliding into me.

  “I…have had feelings for you. But I totally understand how you feel about Wade. Totally.”

  It doesn’t sound as though he totally understands anything. Hell, I don’t understand anything anymore either. I came here so sure—of my feelings, at least—and now everything is mixed together and upside down.

  I look up at Cameron, and my stomach actually does this weird woo-woo thing. I mean, I always knew he was handsome—beautiful, even—but this is different. This is Tenar and Ged and secret stories and, dear God, I want to know more. I crave more, and not from Wade.

  “We’ll talk more later,” he says, finally, and that’s that.

  ***

  But the problem is—he doesn’t want to talk more later. In fact, by the time the next day rolls around and then the next, I’m fairly convinced he’s actively avoiding me. We’ve all fallen into a comfortable routine by this point, of course we have, but his routine consists of running from 6:00 a.m. to a million o’clock, and then finding every room in the house where I am not.

  It’s like an elaborate game of hide-and-seek that I haven’t been invited to play.

  And I don’t want to go looking for him, anyway, because that would just seem weird and desperate. I mean, he might have spent the last five years pining for me, but it’s only a might. I don’t know the whole story yet and, even if I did, I think I’d still feel pretty pathetic and horny.

  I’ve never thought about cock so much in all my days. I find myself pacing outside his room at night, wanting to go in and just say hi, how are you, but with the subtext being, of course: let me get you off.

  My brain isn’t even subtle about it either. Suddenly I’m one of the girls in his story, pinning him to the bed. I imagine holding his hips down as I suck him off; I think about him struggling and squirming against all the things he thinks aren’t normal.

  Is it blowjobs he’s bothered by? I can’t imagine it is. It’s probably something a little more perverse and sexually confusing, like a finger in his ass. Yeah—he mentioned that in the story. I bet he thinks about things like that, then writes three million lines of boring computer code as punishment.

  Jesus, why is that hot? Not the computer code stuff—the other stuff. The punishing, disturbed, finger-in-his-ass stuff. All I’m doing is thinking about it while lying in bed, and my nipples are stiff. My clit feels huge and swollen, and my mind is already mentally reaching for the vibrator I should never have packed.

  I bet it’s bigger than he is. But then I remember how he looked—the way his cock had pushed so hard against the material—and I’m no longer sure. He’d seemed so thick, and when I wrestle the vibrator out of the secret compartment in my suitcase, it seems…insubstantial to say the least.

  But it sure feels good when I slide it through the slippery folds of my sex.

  I don’t turn it on—artificial buzzing isn’t the sensation I’m looking for—but I do let the tip just play over my clit, briefly. Just the way a real man might feel if he was over me, seeking entrance.

  And then I push it down, down, down until it’s just poised to slide in, every nerve in my body waiting for the orgasm I’ve denied myself for about five days too long. My nipples are chafing against the rough cotton of my nightie, and when I buck my hips the tip almost goes in. Almost, almost.

  God I’m going to come so hard. I can feel it building already, and it keeps my fingers away from my clit. If I stroke myself I’ll go off, and although I’m full of this frantic clawing feeling, inside, I want to draw this out. I want to picture Cameron fucking into me in some deliciously perverted way—maybe with something in his ass as he does it or his hands tied or, oh God yeah, a gag.

  Only his silence in my head—it makes me realize how much I want to hear him. I bet he’d be so quiet in bed, so full of all the things he shouldn’t say, and just imagining him moaning or telling me what he wants or what he’s doing…it’s enough to make me fuck myself hard against that slick plastic flesh between my legs.

  I bet he’d tell me when he felt his orgasm approaching. A quick and dirty God, yeah I’m close or I’m gonna come. And though I’ve no idea why the thought is so electrically exciting, it is, it is. My clit is humming—just begging for me to stroke it in time to the frantic slippery thrusts I’ve worked up to.

  And I would—I totally would—if Wade didn’t choose that moment to stroll right into my bedroom like fuck yeah! That’s OK! Come right in at seven o’clock in the morning and bug the shit out of me just as I’m about to get off to the thought of someone who is not you.

  I’m not even embarrassed about my flushed cheeks and my obvious breathlessness. Mainly because I can’t feel anything but extreme frustration. Is everything in this house designed to thwart me? I’ve got the horny seducer who refuses to follow through on one side, and the repressed politician on the other.

  “You OK, Allie?” he asks, but he’s grinning while trying to act casual so I know he’s not really expressing concern. He totally grasps what I’ve just been doing and you know what? I don’t give a fuck.

  He’s the one who keeps teasing and fucking with me. These are the consequences, asshole; now just let me get on with what I really need to get on with.

  But instead he just saunters around my bedroom, glancing at things that are not me and my hidden sex toy. He has a ball in his hand, and I watch him toss it back and forth with all the disaffectedness he can muster.

  “I’m sleeping,” I tell him, though it’s pretty obvious I’m not. He must be able to see it clearly when he finally makes his way over to the bed and looks down at me, all swaddled in the comfy nest I’ve made, face flushed, eyes probably glazed.

  I feel red hot under all of this, suddenly, but throwing off the covers is a bit out of the question.

  “You sure?” he asks, and his voice has taken on that same soft, crooning sort of tone he had out by the lake. That he had in the kitchen. That he has all the time, now. Though the real problem with it is not
how it makes me feel or how it sounds, no, no. It’s the idea of him meaning it I can’t shake.

  It’s like he honestly and sincerely desires me, and can’t stop his voice from slipping into something seductive. And the way he looks too—so greedy, suddenly. His eyes are the exact same color as the steady point at the center of a flame, and when he leans in a little closer I’ve got to say—I find it hard to resist.

  “You look a little…feverish.”

  God, he’s like the hero of some ridiculous steamy novel. I almost roll my eyes, but it’s really hard to with a fake cock still pressed deep in my pussy, and my fingers all wet and sticky with my own juices, and my body just ready for anything, anything.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but it doesn’t seem like enough on its own, so I add: “Perfectly cool, if you really want to know. Almost glacial, in fact.”

  He puts one knee on the bed and all I can think is: You’re now three inches away from the exact place I’m touching myself.

  “Really? Because it looks like you might need someone to give you a hand. You know. Cooling off.”

  This time I do roll my eyes at him.

  “Just go so I can finish doing myself, OK?”

  There doesn’t seem to be much point in denying it now. It’s pretty obvious he knows, even though he tries to pretend otherwise for at least another thirty seconds.

  “I’m shocked, Allie-Cat, real shocked that you would say such a thing. Makes you seem almost sexual.”

  I don’t really want to think about what he means, but I kind of have to anyway. Was that the problem, back in college? Was it just me seeming all prudish or something like it, the way I used to view Cameron?

  How completely fitting. It’s almost some kind of justice.

  “Well, you should know by now I’m not. I’m completely asexual, in fact,” I say, and he cocks his head. Raises an eyebrow.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It’s practically a nunnery down there. Think the whole lot just closed over some time last Tuesday.”

  “Thought as much,” he says, but then he does something that in no way matches the conversation we’re having. The conversation we’re having is apparently about how sexless I’ve always seemed to him, whereas him kind of rubbing a hand down over his own body is all about me getting turned on.

  Because, oh God, it just absolutely sends me. I’m not even going to pretend otherwise, because he runs it right over that hard body of his, and down over the thin but obviously expensive trousers he’s wearing, to the growing bulge between his legs.

  And I just watch the whole thing with my newly heated gaze, until it seems as though it might be OK, to keep right on touching myself.

  “You seem so different, Allie,” he says, just as he did back at the lake.

  And I have to wonder if I seem different now because it’s Cameron who’s lighting me up. My desire for Wade was apparently muffled, closed off, kept down. But whatever this is—it’s rampaging through me like a thunderstorm. It’s busting out of me, even as I’m lying here beneath Wade’s shadow.

  “So…wanton,” he says, and I want to laugh, I do—but I can’t.

  I’m too far gone. Before he’s even finished talking and running his hand down over my almost bare shoulder, I’m rocking again against the thick cock between my legs. I’ve got a finger back on my clit and just the tiniest touch almost gets me there.

  “I almost came in here a million times, you know? Every morning, every night. But after the lake I wasn’t sure you wanted me to…” he says, then just leaves it trailing. As though he’s waiting for me to reassure him on that score.

  He should know that’s not going to happen. I’m too stuffed full with the insanity of this, the suddenness of it, how badly I want him even so.

  “But then I passed by today and I could just hear you. I could hear you. Sounded sooo good.”

  I want to demand to know why it didn’t sound good five years ago, but of course I don’t. Truth is—he’s right. I didn’t make anything to be heard five years ago. I didn’t let him have even the smallest sexual sense of myself—not even in stories.

  “Stick around. Pretty sure I’m going to make some more soon,” I say, and he grins wolfishly at me.

  There’s something so easy about all of this, and I don’t even know why.

  “You wanna come, baby?” he asks, and this time I don’t stop myself. I stroke firmly over my clit the way I’ve always wanted him to stroke me, and rock against the solid length inside me the way I’ve always wanted to rock against him.

  And when I moan and turn my face away he says: “Fuck that’s hot. What are you doing down there—playing with your clit?”

  I moan again, louder this time, but I still hear the sound of a zipper going down over it. It burrs in my ear like a thousand angry bees, and all I can think is God, all these years and this is how it’s going to happen? Like this—this seedy thing?

  Only it doesn’t feel seedy, exactly. It feels like I’m cramming as much food as I can into my mouth before it all evaporates, instead.

  “I’m fucking myself,” I tell him, and he sighs in response. Of course he does. He’s always been a horny fucker.

  “Oh yeah, tell me Allie,” he says, so I do.

  “I’m fucking myself on this big hard cock.”

  He groans—partly in shock, I think—and even though I’m still turned away from him, eyes closed, I can tell what he’s doing. I can hear the slick sound of a hand shuttling up and down a cock.

  “Show me,” he says and I honestly think about doing it. I’ve waited long enough to see him doing something like this, and I can have it if I give him myself in return. I mean, that’s the deal, isn’t it?

  I turn my face and look at him and it’s just like a few nights ago—I can see the start of that rippling, rock hard belly, and he’s shoved his trousers down around mid-thigh in the way I so wanted to do to Cameron. He’s bare and exposed and he’s shamelessly tugging on his frankly gorgeous cock, unfazed by my gaze all over him. By the breathlessness I immediately descend into, on seeing him work himself like this.

  It’s glorious, and yet—just like a few nights before—there’s something remote about it. As though I’m watching him jerk off through a pane of glass, and said pane of glass takes me back five years to things I can’t taste or touch or know.

  “Go on,” he gasps, but I just watch his hand flex along the length of his curved shaft—thinner, I think, than Cameron’s, but almost impossibly long—and draw out little beads of precome every time he gets to the head.

  It jerks a chain of arousal inside me, to see him this turned on. Because he obviously is—his cock is slick and red at the tip and I can see him pulling back with every stroke, as though going too fast or too hard will push him into orgasm—and the thought almost does the same for me.

  “God yeah,” he says. “Work yourself on it.”

  And I do, I do. I pump hard for just a second, just to chase that tingling, surging feeling that takes away the other, less pleasant ones, and then I can’t help it. I call out his name and moan too loudly, body bucking into the first rolling wave of climax.

  All I have to do is brush my fingertips over the slick tip of my clit and that’s it, I’m coming and coming with Wade wavering in and out of my sight line, the thought of his cock and his body and him saying these things to me filling me up.

  And then even sweeter, even dirtier, he groans loud and long: “Ohhhh baby, I’m coming, oh God that’s so good.”

  Just before he does just that, all over my mouth and face. My orgasm gets tighter, stronger to feel him spurt hard against my cheek and over my lips. There’s just something so naughty about it—not like the sweet encounters I’d always imagined finally happening between us—and when I taste him, I can’t stop the finger I’ve got rubbing over my clit. I don’t want to stop—it feels too good. I j
ust want to come and come and come and keep on tasting him forever, and not have to think about any of this.

  Though I do, when he leans down to kiss me. Right in the middle of the shuddering I seem to have sunk into, and with the still-hot stripes of his come all over my face. That’s how we kiss—that’s the first time I kiss Wade. With all of this between us and the suspicion he’s tasting himself at the very top of my thoughts.

  Strange, that I feel almost nothing at all.

  Chapter Seven

  I think Kitty can tell something’s not quite right. But I’m no help on that score, because I’ve got no idea what the not quite right is. I mean, Wade fucked Kitty and then I found out Cameron is in love with me and also kind of weird sexually and then Wade came on my face.

  But apart from that, everything’s cool. Even when we’re all sitting in the living room, talking in awkward fits and starts, everything’s cool. Until Cameron goes to the bathroom and Wade seems to take that as his cue to desert us too, and then I’m just exposed to Kitty’s deadly, deadly questions.

  Which she asks, of course.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  I consider, briefly, that she might hate me and think of me as a betrayer if I tell her what happened with Wade—she did get there first, after all. But then I realize that I’m being an insane person. Kitty once tried to make me fuck her boyfriend while she was fucking him, for God’s sake.

  “Something…went on between me and Wade,” I say, but as soon as it’s out I understand what I really wanted to tell her.

  Something went on between me and Cameron.

  “Yeah, uh, durrrr,” she whispers, and I have to laugh. How is she just this awesome? “A blind person could see that much.”

  I have to say, I’m not so certain about that. I’m not even sure if a sighted person could see what’s going on, because I’ve got two eyes and I don’t know. And then she makes another little comment, all oblivious with one hand in her curls and her gaze on nothing at all, and I know even less.