“He’s going to make me come now, I think. But I don’t let the idea penetrate to those deeper recesses of my mind—the ones that always tell me no, don’t, stop. I hover on the edges of them instead, as a rough and heavy hand slides down over my swollen dick.”
God, he thinks about men doing stuff to him. He thinks about some woman—some woman who is most likely me—forcing him to accept a man’s hand on his body. On his cock. All over his cock, stroking and pumping and, oh Lord, I think I might pass out.
But I hold myself together. I keep my expression aloof.
Or at least, I do until he says: “I can feel I’m going to come almost immediately, because it’s not the right thing. It’s not a woman’s hand, soft and smooth and feminine. It’s a man’s. He’s too big and squeezes the base off my shaft too tightly, and just when I think I can’t take anymore he slides his palm over the slick head of my cock, and rubs there softly.”
And then I just can’t stand it. I scramble across the bed as he forces himself through another paragraph, each arrangement of words getting firmer and more sure the longer he goes on. By the time he’s talking about this strange man sucking the swollen head of his dick, his voice is as clear and liquid metal as ever.
Though it wobbles a little, when I echo the man in his story.
It doesn’t take much. He doesn’t try to stop me. I just yank his pajama bottoms down and his thick cock springs free, already hard and leaking at the tip. I swipe my tongue over the slit, for starters, and he bucks his hips.
But he keeps on reading. It’s like hearing my favorite song playing over the top of what I’m now doing, all the fucks and cocks and comes running through me as I suck him deep. I want to choke on him, to feel him lose it in my mouth, and a sharp realization comes with those desires.
I’m not confined to telling him what to do. I can also tell him to do things to me.
“Fuck my face,” I tell him, and he hesitates. Of course he does. But when I put some steel in my voice I feel his hand go to the back of my head. I feel his fingers comb through my hair.
And then his hips rock forward and his cock slides over my tongue—not quite rough but certainly exciting.
“Can I stop, now?” he asks, and at first I think he means the thing he’s just started. His hand is tight in my hair and I can feel him bristling with the urge to thrust, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s always saying stop when he wants to go. He’s always running when he wants to stay.
Only then I realize—he means the story. He wants to stop reading the story. And though it’s glorious to hear and I’m slick between my legs because of it, I tell him yes. I don’t want stories anymore—I want the real thing. I want sucking and fucking and every dirty thing imaginable, and I guess I’m still thinking that when the bedroom door suddenly swings open.
I must be, because I don’t throw a sack over both of us and pretend we’re not doing what we’re obviously doing. My face doesn’t heat and I don’t let Cameron go when he immediately tries to make me.
I just keep very still, and right in the middle of this stillness I let my tongue curl out to catch the very tip of his cock, in one long, lovely lick.
“No, don’t,” he says, and his hands push at mine—the ones I’ve bunched into the material, at his hips. Of course the thing of it is—Cameron could easily force me away if he wanted to. He’s as big as a brick wall and twice as solid. His hands seemed to span the entirety of my head, when he finally dared to hold me and fuck my face.
But he doesn’t make much of an effort, here. He just kind of scrabbles at my clenched fingers, while Kitty stands in the doorway, watching.
To her credit, she doesn’t even try to go with some casual, breezy sort of thing. No Hey, what are you guys doing in here? No bubbly innocence. She just eyes us both like a person with a camera, bursting in to catch the dirty duo in flagrante delicto.
Only she hasn’t got a camera, and after a moment she stops simply standing there. She comes right in, and closes the door behind her.
“I told you. You never share things with me anymore,” she says, finally, and my body definitely jolts. I mean, there’s just such a double implication of the word share, isn’t there? It could suggest how nice it would be, to have a friendly little chat about the person you’re fucking, with your best friend.
And it could suggest something that makes Cameron very, very uncomfortable indeed.
“You are a big one, aren’t you?” she says, and it’s not just Cameron who shivers with arousal, this time. Slickness floods my already slippery slit, just to hear her talk in that naughty, teasing tone.
Of course I’ve heard her use it before. Through the darkness in our dormitory, as some guy panted between her legs and I pretended not to hear. But I can’t pretend right here and now. I can see every detail of her clearly: the way her little mouth has curled up into a smile on one side. The hand she has on her chest—like some oldie-timey lady getting ready to swoon.
Though everything about her is pretty far from swooning, I know. It’s Cameron who looks like he’s about to fall over, and for the second time he tells me “No.” As though he suspects some sort of plan behind all of this, some little scheme me and Kitty cooked up while he was busy being normal and decent.
Which seems crazy, until I think of his story again. The one he knows I read.
“What’s he saying no to?” Kitty asks, but oh she looks as though she understands, all right. Her mouth is now the very definition of the word tease, and she takes a step closer for every single one he tries to take back.
“He’s not saying no,” I tell her—though I swear, I try to stop myself. I try to feel jealous or weird about all of this, I do. It’s just that it won’t come, and before I can get a proper grip on myself more words spill out: “He has a safe word for that.”
Cameron snaps his gaze down to me, teeth clearly gritted, suddenly. And I guess it looks like anger, on him—his fingers press tight into mine and his body locks, like he’s about to do something bad.
Only the thing of it is—he doesn’t say the word. He doesn’t say the word that will stop this. And though Kitty squeals and dances a little closer, his erection doesn’t flag.
“A safe word,” she marvels, as though she’s never heard the term before—even though I know full well she has. “So, like, he could say no, while meaning yes?”
I think he tries to keep his expression simmering somewhere around anger, but if so he utterly fails. The moment she says no meaning yes, his eyes flicker wide and his body jerks toward me, that grip he’s got on my hands turning to water.
Somehow, I’ve got the feeling that she’s going to be much, much better than me, at this.
“Like, say, if I were to run my hand down over his ass in a way he wanted to pretend he didn’t like…”
I can’t even imagine what it is she does. It makes him put a fist into his mouth, at the very least—though from where I’m sitting it hardly looks like anything. She just runs a hand down behind him somewhere and then he’s clenching all over, even something as stupid as a pretend protest completely lost to him.
“Is that nice?” she asks, with just a hint of giggle in her voice. “I think he likes it, Allie!”
And it’s true, he does. A fat bead of precome wells up in the slit at the tip of his cock, and when it overflows and spills down the solid shaft she makes another giddy sort of noise. I can’t stop myself thinking, deliriously, that he had her so right—that it was her in his story, alongside me. It was her, all mean and innocent at the same time, and now she’s going to twist everything upside down and inside out.
“Oh that’s so nice of you, Cam,” she says, and I feel my cheeks heat for him. I know what she’s going to point out.
“Giving us something to lick up, like that. You want to lick it up, Allie?”
Our eyes lock, in that one burning moment. And th
en she asks, and it’s as though she’s communicating something to me. Something underneath the words, about the level of my consent.
“Or shall we both do it?”
Cam sags against my hands, his body practically fizzing. When he puts one heavy hand on my shoulder, it feels as though he wants to squeeze me down to nothing. Like he could just force this all away from him if he really tried.
Not that he seems to want to.
“I’ll hold him,” I tell her, and he groans my name. His eyes are closed, but I can almost feel him focusing on me. “And you suck him off.”
Kitty sighs, then—all bliss. I watch her sink to her knees by the bed, slowly, slowly—not like the jagged actions of the girl in the story, but no less arousing for it—and then she leans toward him. Mouth open, hands by her sides.
It’s like I’m one part of the body, and she’s the other. Like we’re two people strung tight together by the same purpose.
When she murmurs that he’s so thick, and long, and stiff, I’m the one who feels it.
And then she licks a wet stripe over the head of Cam’s cock, and I’m sure I can feel that too. The sensation of being stroked like that, and of stroking—it zings through me, hot and strong, and though I try to get away from it, doing so proves impossible.
It’s like the stories and Cam’s strange will and Kitty’s teasing mouth have hold of my sense and my vocal chords, and both combine together to say all kinds of wicked things.
“Yeah, suck him good,” I tell her, but it’s Cam who reacts.
“Ohhhh God I’m really close,” he blurts out, as she laps at the gleaming swollen head of his cock. But I’ve got to remember that I’m in control here—even more so than Kitty, really, because I know the safe word and she doesn’t—and I have to call the shots.
I have to show him that it’s me doing this, all me.
“Stop,” I say, and yank her back so suddenly that two sets of blue eyes flash wide at me. Their expressions mirror each other so closely that it’s comical, for a second—like two kids having their favorite toy snatched away.
But then I explain, and two pairs of bright, startled eyes become something heated, and wanting.
“We don’t want him to go off too quickly, do we?”
I think she likes that idea almost as much as I do, because her grin broadens and suddenly I can see all of her neat little white teeth. She runs that pink pointed tongue over both rows of them, mouth so close to his cock she could kiss it, if she had a mind to.
But she doesn’t. She plays along with me, instead.
“That would be such. A shame.”
“Exactly.”
“I mean, you’ve hardly even gotten to taste it,” she says, still big-eyed. Still full of musing innocence, in her tone. Though I’ve got to say, she’s pretty far from musing innocence in her words. “Here…want to try?”
She strokes him lightly, tugging him ever closer to my waiting mouth. Of course I put on a show of nonchalance, and barely let her graze my lips with the slick red tip, but I can’t deny that inside I’m boiling.
It’s the noises Cameron’s making. Those little stunted ahs are long gone, and in their place is the kind of filthy guttural groaning that only porn stars make. His hips roll toward the clasp of something that isn’t there, over and over, and when I lap at the slickness coating the head of his cock he breathes out in a tense rush.
But more than that, he finds his voice.
“More,” he gasps out, then after a tense and desperate moment: “Suck my cock.”
It’s like hearing Jesus curse somebody out.
“You want me to make you come in my mouth?” I ask him, and he visibly balks at the more graphic version of his demand. So I make it firmer, surer—not a question. “I think we should just kiss around the head of your cock, and see what happens.”
“Oooh, yeah,” Kitty says, because she’s amazing. She’s amazing, and it takes nothing at all for her to simply lean in and curl her tongue around that sweet spot on the underside of his prick, while I lick over that juicy slit.
It takes nothing for me, either. I’m so wound tight, so slick and swollen between my legs that anything would seem like a good suggestion right now. I want to strip and have them both lick my stiff clit, or maybe ride this fat cock while Kitty sits astride his face or God, God—I can taste her lipgloss on him.
I can almost feel her mouth on mine around the thick stretch of his cock, and when she murmurs into his slick flesh, when she says something dirty and good like Mmmm, yeah, you want to taste his come, Allie? I think I almost go over.
I’ve got no idea how Cameron’s holding on. It seems insane that he’s gotten this far, with two girls pushing him and sucking on him and, oh man, oh man, I think she’s stroking between the cheeks of his ass.
In fact, she’s definitely stroking between the cheeks of his ass, and when she does something completely beyond the pale he lurches forward quite suddenly, his cock sliding along my cheek as though it had been aiming for somewhere warm and wet but will settle for this soft contact.
For the feel of my skin, as his cock jerks upward almost painfully, and a hot stripe of liquid paints my face.
“Fuuuccck,” Kitty groans, as though it’s almost as arousing for her as it is for me. Though I suppose it could well be—she has a handful of him, and when she strokes him suddenly, rapidly, her little fist pumping like nothing else, he gives it up for her too.
He lets her take a spurt of his come in her hot little mouth, before she aims his still swelling prick back at me.
I taste him, then. Salt-sweet and copious, great vicious jets of it flooding over my tongue. It’s electric, impossible and, oh Lord, it’s even better than that when he calls out my name.
“Allie, God, Allie,” he moans, though it’s the sound of his voice breaking in the middle that really does me in. Well—that, and the words he says next. “You make me come so hard, baby.”
As though I’m the only one in the room. As though I’m the mastermind behind it all, the purveyor of his every carnal delight, even though it hadn’t seemed like it at the time. Wasn’t it Kitty?
She’s the one, isn’t she?
I look at her—mouth still slick with his spend, eyes as bright and sharp as a newly minted tack—and I can’t imagine how I could ever equal her, how anyone could write that dirty story about the two girls with me in mind.
It has to be her, I think, but then I glance back up at him and he’s just staring down at me, waiting. Waiting for me to say You can lie down now or maybe Tell me how that felt.
I don’t go with either, however. Instead, I hold his gaze and say the kind of thing I know Kitty will be thinking. I know she will, but that’s OK. Because it’s me. It’s me. I’m thinking it too and I have done all along.
“Well,” I say to him. “What are you waiting for? We deserve a kiss for that, don’t you think?”
Chapter Eleven
I don’t know whether I meant to let things go this way or not. But they have done anyway. I wanted to explore all the facets of Cameron Lindhurst and…well. Kitty’s like the Christopher fucking Columbus of sex.
She even says as much to me, as we’re sitting in Professor Warren’s old bedroom, dividing his button collection into awesome, weird and not-sure-it’s-a-button.
He’s so fucking raw and uncharted, she says. Like new, unexplored territory.
Which I suppose I could take badly. I could see it as a claim on the terra firma I’ve marked with my flag, and I would. I really would, if she didn’t then say things like:
But you get to go there first, OK? You just tell me if you want me to back off—he obviously wouldn’t mind. He looks at you like…like I don’t know. Like you’re some giant diamond he found at the bottom of a cesspool of idiots.
Of course, it makes me wonder what exactly the cesspool of idiots is,
in this equation. Pembroke? Humanity in general? Wade?
I just can’t tell, and I don’t want to ask. I’m too busy just trying to let all of this settle for a while, to give Cameron some space without the pressure of sudden threesomes. I mean, he’s definitely the kind of guy who needs space. He always chooses the armchair on its own, and he likes long runs by himself, and after he’d kissed us both—in a number of sweet places—he had fallen asleep with his body so far from Kitty’s it looked as though he’d erected some mystical force field.
As though he just wanted to forget or pretend or I don’t know. I can’t figure him out. It’s three days later and I still can’t make head nor tail of the Thing We Did, not even when he comes to my bedroom door quite suddenly, at 11:30 p.m.
I mean, he just stands there. And then after a long, weird moment in which he glances between me and Kitty—her curled up by the pillows with a fistful of playing cards, me sprawled across the width of the bed with a story of hers in my hand—he goes with: “I just thought I’d come and say…good night.”
Of course, I think of all the times I’ve heard him hesitate before getting a particular word out, and what him doing so usually means. He’s got another word in his head, instead—one that isn’t good night.
And his hands are sweaty too. I watch him wipe them on his pajama bottoms—this time they’re striped blue and white, instead of all one color the way they were the night before—and then he seems to gather himself. Folds his arms across his chest, you know—that sort of thing.
“Good night then, Cam,” Kitty says, and she gets just the right hint of cheek into her voice. The way she did so perfectly when we all decided to go mad and act out one of Cameron’s wildest fantasies.
Because it was, wasn’t it? I mean, I didn’t really let myself think about it too much, at the time—and I’m certainly trying not to think about it now. But what it boils down to at its core is a desire of his, made flesh.
Telling Tales Page 16
