“Stop asking. Don’t ask. Just tell me.”
Of course, my immediate instinct is to ask another fucking question. Something along the lines of—Is that what you like? You like to be forced, rather than make the decision yourself? But really, there’s little point. And besides, I know the answer by now. I know it so well that instead of another question, some entirely different words come to my lips.
“Spread your legs,” I order him, and he does it. Just like that. He spreads his legs and I stroke further, harder, more. I get right between his legs—almost to the groove between the cheeks of his ass—and he moans unashamedly.
It’s the latter word, I think, that gets me. Unashamedly.
For a second he’s not a politician from the 1950s, or someone who lies about how often he masturbates. He’s just a horny little fucker, trying to get more contact on various parts of his body.
By the time I get my hand all the way up inside his shirt to the tight little peaks of his nipples, he’s trembling. His tongue keeps coming out to wet his lips, and he’s breathing almost completely through his nose.
I pinch one small nub, and then fight the urge to ask a question.
“Tell me how it feels,” I say, instead, and oh the response is almost immediate. No hesitating, no blundering. Just a rush of words that go up and down the harder I pinch.
“It’s amazing when you do it hard.”
I trap his nipple between thumb and forefinger, in response. Tug at it, until he makes a sound like a whine.
“Yes, yes—just like that,” he says, and when I do it again his cock kicks against the material of his sweats.
“Tell me what else you want,” I say, because by God I’m getting the hang of this no questions thing. It’s easy, once you know how.
“Uh…uh…” he fumbles. He strokes his hand through his hair again, then squeezes a clump at the back into his fist. His eyes flicker back and forth, searching and searching for something.
“Tell me,” I say, fiercer this time. I squeeze the root of his cock as I do so, hard enough to hurt, and the ensuing grunt is exactly the same sound Wade made when he came all over my face.
But Cam doesn’t go over.
“Uh…I want to…” he starts again. Then when I mouth the shape of him through the sweats, he finishes with a flourish: “I want to return the favor. I need to return the favor. Right now. Before I come in my pants.”
A fresh rush of liquid floods my slit. I feel it happen, though I know it’s not for the words “return the favor.” I know exactly what he means, but it’s the come in my pants that gets me.
All I can imagine, for a moment, is him jerking and groaning as he spurts against the material. As he soaks it, and makes himself all messy, and then afterward maybe he could look all shamefaced and awkward and ohhhh God.
What’s wrong with me? Where has this kink come from? It’s got to be the worst kink in the world. Most women don’t fantasize about a guy creaming his pants. They fantasize about the opposite of that, of stallions going on forever and ever, shoving at them and fucking into them and—“Can I go down on you? You must be so worked up by now. Unless, you know, this doesn’t turn you on—which it might not. No one says you have to be turned on because you gave someone…oral sex. Or touched them, through their—”
“Cam—I’m really turned on, trust me. I’ve soaked my panties. I need to come so badly, I think I’ve started hallucinating.”
He makes a little desperate sound then. A greedy sound, I think.
“Then tell me to,” he says and, oh Lord, I’m lost. He’s clearly mad, but that’s fine. I don’t give a shit—I’ll tell him to do whatever he wants me to, and you know what? I’ll love it.
“Lick my pussy, Cam,” I say.
And then he just goes for it. He just goes for it, the way I had imagined him doing only a few minutes earlier. His arms tangle with my legs, briefly, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed by his size. He gets a knee on the bed and just looms over me, frankly, but I won’t say it isn’t exciting.
It’s incredibly exciting, and especially when he actually pushes his hands up my skirt and finds the elastic of my knickers.
He’s not clumsy about it, that’s the thing. He’s rushed and blustery, and the moment he gets a hold of my knickers he yanks too hard, but it isn’t clumsy. It’s raw and good and I think I actually moan when he practically rips my underwear off.
God, I must look a sight down there. I don’t think I’ve ever been this wet in my life, and the moment my knickers are gone I can feel the slippery liquid running between the cheeks of my arse. I can feel it sliding over my agonizingly sensitive clit, whenever I move my legs.
And I can see how greedy his gaze is, when he finally gets my legs apart and sees my cunt all spread open for him.
“Oh, Jesus,” he moans, then lower, hoarser: “Look how swollen your clit is.”
I blurt words out in response. Him being dirty like that makes me.
“Then get to it,” I say, and oh man there’s something so arousing about him just doing it. He simply stoops down—big hands spanning my thighs—and tastes me, he actually tastes me.
As though I’m a particularly interesting vintage that he needs to just dabble his tongue in.
Though he doesn’t dabble for long. I see his tongue—long and red and oddly pointed—flicker between the folds of my sex, and then his eyes roll closed and his entire body sinks down over me and suddenly I can’t see anything at all, except for the top of his head.
But Jesus, can I feel it. Oh, it’s like I’ve never had someone’s mouth on me before. And he doesn’t just put his mouth on me either—he doesn’t just lick or suck or do that weird swirly thing my last boyfriend seemed to think was so awesome. He buries his face right into me, knee deep, and when I let out a little cry of absurd protest he goes for more. As though I’m going to stop him any second and he needs to take all he can while it’s on offer.
I swear, I never understood the term “eating out” until now. Licking pussy isn’t anything like eating out. There’s no chewing involved, and only the barest minimum of swallowing.
Or at least, that’s what I thought until Cameron Lindhurst decided to go down on me.
I think my back arches so violently that a vertebrae pops. Something makes a sound, at the very least. And when he spreads me open, oh God, when he licks over the flesh he’s made all smooth and taut with the pressure of his two scissoring fingers…I come close to a sob.
And I get closer still the moment he sinks those said same fingers right into me, all the way to the hilt.
It’s his knuckles, you see. They’re immense and…I don’t know. Brutal, somehow. And every time he slides his fingers back and forth, I can feel those big, bolt-like things dragging over some place inside me that didn’t previously exist.
I’m babbling his name before he’s even gotten around to licking my clit. Though I have to stop, after a moment, because the sounds I’m making are drowning out the sounds he’s making and oh, he’s definitely making them.
A great rumbling purr works its way up his body and out of his mouth, and it hums against my swollen flesh so exquisitely I could cry. And then just as I’m recovering from that, teetering on the brink of a glorious orgasm, he licks some tender place just to the right of my swollen clit and, dear God, I’m shaking.
I’m shaking all over in great spasms, as though arousal now makes me have some kind of fit. Though in my defense, I have been denied too long. I think I was starting to forget what another person’s hands on me felt like, and I’ve definitely forgotten what a tongue feels like.
Though I don’t think I’ll ever forget this tongue. He licks all around my clit in tender little strokes, so careful that I’m left completely unsure as to how he’s doing it. How is it possible to touch everything but my swollen bud? It feels immense, it feels like it’s throbbing,
oh God, I just need him to touch it.
I roll my body in an effort to get closer, get more contact, but he edges away at the last second—like some goddamn tease. I don’t even know where he’s getting the nerve from, to be honest.
But then I realize. It’s not nerve. It’s him urging me to tell him, to force him, to get a handful of his hair and yank.
Of course he gasps against my heated flesh, when I do.
And the gasp folds down into a moan, the moment he hears me do what he so obviously craves.
“Lick my clit,” I tell him, then louder and more desperate: “Fuck me with your fingers and lick my clit, hard and fast.”
It sounds filthy, even to my ears. But he’s pretty far from the politician now. He’s so far away from it that he sits up for a moment, panting and slick-mouthed, his fingers still in me and everything about him saying that he just wants to watch.
He wants to see what it looks like, when he fingers me. And he wants to flutter a hand close to his clearly raging erection too.
God, it looks gargantuan, by this point. I can almost see it throbbing through his sweatpants, and it just makes me wonder why he’s not doing what he so obviously needs to do.
Only then I remember what he said—what he’s said several times to me, in fact, as though trying to impress a really important idea into my lust-addled mind. About how he doesn’t really like to touch himself, how he doesn’t really need to, and Lord just the thought makes my tongue loose.
“Touch yourself,” I tell him, and his foggy gaze flicks up to mine. He still has two fingers in me, sliding back and forth, slow and easy. And yet this is the thing that startles him.
As though I wasn’t going to take the hint.
“Ahhhh,” he says. Probably because he’s forgotten how to make real words. Instead he defaults back to the mediating politician, trying to come up with a safe middle ground without really refusing me. “I really think…”
“You really think what?” I ask, and as I do I work myself on those big, thick fingers. Just a little undulation of my hips—nothing serious.
“I really think I’d rather do this,” he says, sure of himself now. Closed off I think too.
“And if I’d rather you slide your hand over your cock?”
His eyes flutter almost-closed—it’s that embarrassed expression again, only this time it has a hint of dread about it.
“Don’t,” he says, and it’s so heartfelt, so full of a weary sort of pleading, that I’m pulled up short. I mean, I’m not going to force him if he feels so wretched about it, you know? I could never do that to Cam. I could never, I could never, or at least I’m sure I couldn’t until he says: “Don’t make me.”
My breath catches in my throat. And it’s not because he twists his fingers in a very specific and very pleasurable sort of way as he says those words, either. It’s because the embarrassed, torn sort of look leaves his face, and a strange, flat kind of expression replaces it.
I want to call it deadpan, but it isn’t exactly. It’s more like…more like all the will rushes out of him, all of his sense of self, and instead there’s this vast void that he’s just waiting for me to fill up.
And then, of course, there’s the fact that he said Don’t make me. I mean, if you really don’t want someone to do something, you don’t leave those two little words on the end there—as though the person could actually force you, if they wanted to.
Or if he wanted them to.
I reach toward him slowly. It has to be slowly, because he’s crooked a finger and is rubbing very insistently over what I’m now certain is my G-spot. I’ve got no clue how someone like Cameron knows where it is—when I think of him in bed with someone it’s still under the sheets and with the lights off, despite the stories—but he definitely does.
And it’s making it very hard for me to think straight, or test my many theories about him out.
“Touch yourself,” I say again, and this time I clasp a vice-like hand around his wrist, as I do.
He goes rigid automatically, and for a second I’m sure I’ve done the wrong thing. He didn’t want me to push him further. He really did want me to stop, and not make him.
Only then he makes that little breathless sound again, and it turns into a strangled sort of moan. His fingers jump inside me, suddenly frantic and fumbling, and when he starts shoving down his sweatpants with his free hand I get very close to coming.
A great swell of sensation goes through me, thick and oppressive, and then I can see his swollen erection. I can see the slickness at the tip, all of it spilling over to run down the length of his shaft.
“How?” he says, so breathless it kicks another arrow of pleasure down into me. “How do you want me to?”
My mind reels. Are there really so many ways to go about this? Just fuck yourself, I want to say, but somehow I doubt either of us could take it. He’d probably come just hearing me say the words, and then I’d come from watching it happen. I can almost see it with my mind’s eyes—lovely thick streamers of his spunk, marking my spread and swollen cunt.
“Just grab yourself and stroke,” I tell him, but only because that’s all I can manage. He has his thumb on me now, sliding ever so slightly between my labia and my clit. Not quite touching, oh God no, not quite touching, but really—does it matter?
“I’m gonna come,” I say, then add what I need to: “Quickly, baby. Do it.”
His eyes roll upward, this time, as he lets out a choked, “Oh, Jesus Christ.” And then finally his hand goes around his cock, while he’s busy not looking.
Not that he needs to. I’m doing enough staring for both of us. I watch him stroke, and it’s a sight to see—if a little slow and ineffectual. He’s not grasping himself tight enough—anyone would know that—and he’s sort of slackening off when he gets to the head too. As though he knows he’ll go off if he lets his palm graze that slippery red tip.
But that’s OK, because then he blurts out: “Say something else.”
And after a moment, he manages to get out the magic words—the ones that have so obviously crystallized inside him.
“Force me.”
They crystallize inside me too. I tighten my hand around his wrist—the one that ends in his pumping hand—and I urge it back and forth—faster, harder. I order him to make his grip narrow and brutal, then bloom bright with pleasure when he starts moaning on almost continuously.
“I’m close,” he tells me, and as he does he runs his thumb right over the tip of my clit, just brushing it. Almost as though he didn’t mean to at all, and it was just the aftereffect of the feeling running through him currently.
He’s jerking and shuddering with it, and the hand he has on himself is making the lewdest sound. So wet and sloppy and like he’s somehow found a gallon of baby oil to douse himself in, even though there’s nothing. There’s nothing and, oh God, oh God, when he pressed down on my clit like that—when he worries it beneath his thumb and groans that he needs to do it—I stutter under the pressure.
“Ohhhh God I’m coming, oh God, right there,” I tell him, while he gasps almost identical words. He forces them out and then the first spurt hits my inner thigh. Another gets all the way to my pussy, to the place he’s rubbing and stroking through the most glorious orgasm I’ve ever experienced.
It goes on forever—and by the looks of things, so does his. For one long moment he really gives in to it, massaging his cock through his protracted climax, coating me in thick strands of his come.
And I watch it all—I watch his cock as it leaps and jerks in his fist. I watch his face, when it slackens and goes blank with pleasure. He’s so beautiful, in that moment, so not himself. Lost in a maze of sensation he didn’t want to experience, and unashamed about wanting to coax every last drop of it out.
Though it’s easy enough to tell, when sense comes back to him. His hand drops from his cock a
lmost immediately, and his eyes take on this busy, where the fuck did I put my sack and washcloth look.
That’s Cam, I guess. Not even able to enjoy the afterglow.
“Come on,” I say. “Just lie down with me for a second.”
And I confess, I do it more out of frustration with him than anything else. I just want him to relax, to give in, to stop being so uptight about everything, but it’s only when he goes very still again, that I realize something both shocking and delicious.
He doesn’t just want me to have power over him sexually. He wants me to have power over everything.
Chapter Ten
“Why do you like it?” I ask, before I know I’m going to. He’s lying on his back, almost sprawled—but it took him a good ten minutes to do so. At first he had put his back up against the headboard and hugged his knees to his chest, as though doing so really counted as “lying down.”
Then gradually I had coaxed him into a slouch, and then a leaning-on-one-elbow kind of thing, and finally this. Sprawling. Of course he had pulled his sweatpants back up and so he’s still fully clothed—which had definitely made me want to test out my newfound authority, I have to say.
But hey—baby steps. Baby steps.
“Like what?”
I’m surprised he asks. I mean, there’s only one answer to that, isn’t there? And judging by the way he’s stroking his thumb over his brow—almost shading his eyes in the process—I think he knows what the answer is going to be.
“Being forced,” I say, but to his credit he doesn’t flinch. And he doesn’t look away either.
“Is it really that big a deal? I mean—I wouldn’t call it a…ah…fetish, or anything.”
“You think there’s something wrong with having a fetish?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It kind of is.”
He does look away this time. Pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and makes a little unhappy sound.
So it’s surprising to me, when he answers anyway.
Telling Tales Page 14
