“Uh, OK,” he says.
Weird how two such nothing words—uh and OK—make my stomach dip. They do more than that, in fact. My nipples automatically stiffen beneath my T-shirt, and my clit twinges. Just once. Just enough to let me know why I haven’t masturbated over these past few days.
Because I’ve been waiting for this. I have. And even more incredibly—so has Cameron.
He makes to leave—awkwardly, too slowly—and my heart practically races with the realization. He has come to us.
He doesn’t want distance at all! He wants to get down with this, the dirty little bastard!
And then I look at Kitty, and she’s almost bursting with laughter. Her lips are squeezed tight together and her body’s shaking, while tears of sheer amusement start making their way down her cheeks.
I have to whack at her to get her to knock it off. He’ll never recover if he thinks she’s laughing at his bizarre attempts to initiate further threesomes.
“Cam!” I call out, just as Kitty whacks me in return. “Cam—come back here!”
And he does. But he looks decidedly less hesitant and unsure by the time he finds my doorway again.
“Are you guys fucking with me?” he asks, suddenly bullish. Bruised too, I think—in a way I definitely don’t want him to be. I mean, we might have done a few sexual things that definitely count as “fucking with someone,” but that’s different.
One is a game I want him to enjoy. The other is rooted in emotions I didn’t even know he felt on a regular basis.
“No, honey,” Kitty murmurs, as she wriggles back into the pillows behind her. “We’re not fucking with you—though I think my esteemed colleague and I might like to.”
It’s cute, her saying something like that. And she pulls it off—everything about her living up to her name. So kittenish and sexy and ready for all kinds of fun.
But I want some sincerity to be there too. I want him to know that I might thrill at the thought of acting on our wildest desires, but I also remember the picture he kept of me. The words he said to me through the darkness, about how much he wanted to see me when he finally got to kiss my lips.
“Come here to me, baby,” I say, and for a moment it rings dumbly in my ears. It isn’t enough, it’s too cornball, I should have said more—Just let me hold you or I want you so much or something, something.
But as soon as I’ve spoken all the tension leaves his face, and his eyes take on that delicious, smoky, hooded look. As though all of the rigid sense that holds his mind together just pours right out of him.
“Have you been waiting for us to come to you?” I ask, as he closes the door behind himself.
And to my delight, he responds, “I kind of suspect I might have been.”
Of course it’s nothing definitive. But I don’t expect definitive from him. I expect words said in between other words, and lots of hedging and use of vagaries. And you know what? This vagueness no longer hurts or leaves me baffled. This vagueness just makes it sweeter when he actually walks over to the bed, leans down, and finds my mouth with his.
He kisses me deeply too. Hungrily. As though he’s spent the last three days on some kind of tremulous precipice, unable to push himself over. It makes me wonder if he’s masturbated, or if he’s stored up all that delicious sexual energy for me to savor, now.
It’s not that farfetched an idea. I’ve done the same thing. I’ve done it so that I can feel my clit right now, as solid as anything—every part of me so aroused that I’m willing to go as far as he might want.
It makes me a different person, being this turned on. It makes me moan when Kitty laughs and says I never realized you guys were so horny, in a voice that tells tales about her own feelings on the matter.
Her own feelings make her reach forward and yank on Cameron’s arm, until he sprawls forward on the bed as though he’s made of nothing at all. So solid, in reality, and so light as air when it comes to something like this! It’s a beguiling contrast, and it’s made more so by the stifled sound he makes when he pushes face first into the bed sheets.
“God, he’s so pliable,” Kitty says, and then she takes my hand and places it on his back—so clear and clever that I can read what she means me to do without asking. Hold him there, I think, and I shiver.
“You really want this, huh, big guy?” she says, and I realize—much as Cam seems to—that this is the last time she’s going to give him an out. He can back away right now, if he wants to.
Though somehow I know he never will. He didn’t say Do whatever you want to me except XYZ. He said Do whatever you want to me. He said Don’t ask.
And really, we don’t need to. I mean, she knows all about his stories now. I didn’t mean to tell her everything but somehow I ended up doing it anyway, and now she’s got this little ace in the hole. She’s got what I have: a sure and thrilling knowledge of everything he doesn’t know he always wanted.
But still, I don’t expect her to use it so quickly. And so ruthlessly too.
“You know, Allie’s told me all about your…little foibles.”
Oh God. Here we go.
“There’s one in particular that caught my attention.”
I mentally run through all the ones that caught mine: being attacked by two women; being forced to walk around the room like a dog complete with collar; sucking a man’s cock; the sheer volume of biting scenes—as though he’s secretly one of those crazed vampire fetishists. And then there was…
“But I think we’ll have to get you a little more naked to make it happen.”
I jerk, when she does it. Real quick—like ripping off a plaster. I’m not even sure how she manages it, to be honest, because Cam is so heavy and his legs are so long. But somehow she gets a hold of the waistband of his pajamas, and just rips those suckers right off of him.
All in one smooth move. Bam. Naked from the waist down. Perfectly curved ass exposed to the elements, just waiting for her to do things from the story about the girl with the dirtiest collection of sex toys I’ve never heard of.
“Go on,” she says to me—smile as wicked as ever I’ve seen it—and I try to pretend I don’t know what she means. I absolutely cannot see Cameron’s description floating behind my eyes: of smooth skin covered in red bracelet bite makes, and then…and then…
“Or do you want me to?”
Cameron mmpfs out a moan, then does something I think I’ll still be aroused over in a hundred years’ time. He kind of squirms—as though he’s attempting to get away. Only he makes a really poor job of it, because from where I’m sitting it looks as if he’s actually trying to get up on all fours.
Like a bitch in heat, I think—just as he’d described it in his story. And, oh God, how my sex swells to consider it. Liquid floods my already drenched slit, and I’m sure I’m about to lose control of him. I can’t hold him down when he’s like this—all urgent and breathless—and I certainly can’t after he’s blurted out that he doesn’t want Kitty to do it.
“Allie,” he says. “Allie, God, Allie.”
I glance at Kitty, only to find her grinning with all of her teeth. Like some miniature Machiavelli, so certain and sure in her powers that she can just sit back and watch me fumble toward him.
And when I get my teeth around the glorious curve of his flesh, I hear her applause in the background.
Cam grinds back into me hard, and I can’t hold him. He’s up on all fours now, for definite, but it’s not those things I think about. I consider how soft his right cheek is, instead, how easily it gives under the press of my teeth.
And then I think about how much I want to soothe the pain I’ve just caused, with a long slow lick over the red brand he’s now got.
He moans for that too. A sharp sound for the bite, and then a softer one for the soothing lick that follows. It’s powerful, glorious, and made no less so by Kitty’s words, humming throug
h my body as I lick and suck and get closer to that groove between.
“Go on, go on,” she says, and I don’t have to look to tell that she’s stroking herself. “Lick his pretty little arsehole.”
It makes me want to give commands of my own, dirty ones that I didn’t know I wanted. And when they come out in between tender little licks of his flawless ass, our moans tangle together. Cam’s sharp and breathless—as though he can’t quite believe how good something so simple feels—and Kitty’s high and tight.
As though she knows all too well.
And finally mine, all mixed up with the things I want to say.
“Watch her,” I tell Cam. “Watch her touching herself.”
He turns his head automatically to see Kitty with her hand inside her shorts, the material shifting with every little move she makes—until she decides the view would be better with them off, of course.
I pause in the middle of marking Cameron’s ass and watch her wriggle out of them too quickly, everything about her suddenly as breathless as Cam seems. As though she just can’t wait to have all eyes on her juicy cunt, while she rubs and worries at her obviously stiff clit.
I can see it from here, standing out proudly between the neat little lips of her sex. She has almost no hair down there—of course she doesn’t—but I’m pretty sure the view would be as delicious either way.
Or at least, I think it’s delicious for Cam. For me it’s just a reminder that my own clit is being sorely neglected, and for a moment I think about slipping my hand under the waistband of my pajamas. A couple of strokes would do it—I’m pretty sure.
But then I think about Cameron’s mouth on me—or even better, the feel of his solid cock finally, finally stroking into my pussy—and I hold back. I need to hold back. I need to keep everything on an even keel, while my two partners in crime moan and writhe and talk about coming.
“Lick him, lick him,” Kitty pants, but I don’t need her to tell me anymore.
I want to taste him there, right over the tightly clenched knot of his arse, and when I do he makes a sound like something bursting. His fingers scrabble and grasp at the sheets, and I think about odd and random things.
Like the word rimming—so filthy and forbidden. Or at least, it’s filthy and forbidden to him. I feel nothing but pure carnal delight when I finally manage to work my tongue into that too-tight ring of muscle, whereas he…well, he has some very interesting things to say about it.
“God, don’t, that’s disgusting,” he says to me, loud and clear. And I suppose if I didn’t know him so well, I’d stop at that. I’d feel ashamed for licking and lapping between his arse-cheeks, until he feels just as slippery as anything there, and twice as hot. But I do know him, now—I really do.
I know him so well that I wait for him to say the words I’m sure are coming, hot on the heels of that great big bucket full of mortification.
And they do. They do.
“Oh Jesus, I think I’m going to come,” he blurts out, at which point my body sings. Oh God it just sings. Just hearing him say something like that, about something like this—it’s enough to get me searingly close to orgasm.
Though I’ll admit I’m pulled back, somewhat, by the sound of someone knocking on the door. Like the ghost of Professor Warren, come back to tell us all off for participating in dirty, rimming-based threesomes.
We all freeze in position. Of course, I suspect that Kitty and Cameron aren’t thinking of the dead haunting our ménage—Wade is the much more plausible assumption, my brain tells me, in between lust spasms—but even so. They don’t just carry on with their almost-orgasms and their copious frantic moans of ultimate pleasure.
They turn and look at me, instead, as though I’m the arbiter of this door-knockery. And then just to make it clearer, Kitty hisses: “What do we do now?”
I want to laugh. Of course I do. But then the door-knocker would hear me. And it’s definitely going to be Wade, because, well…everyone else who currently lives in this house is right in this room, having sex.
But with this understanding comes the only possible end to the equation Cameron + Kitty + Allie. Any way you look at it, it’s going to equal: one seriously pissed off Wade.
“What the fuck are you guys doing in there?”
Oh yeah. He’s pretty pissed off, all right. So pissed off that I think we all actually look worried for a moment. As though Wade’s going to come in here and start hurling things, or something—which he totally isn’t. And even if he was, Cameron—of all people—is the one to defuse the tension:
“Just tell him we’re all in here…eating ice cream.”
Kitty giggles and I can’t help following suit. He just says it so deadpan, so calmly, and with his bare ass sticking up in the air too. It makes me wonder what he’d do if the equation was Kitty + Allie + Wade, and I’ve got to say—I don’t think he’d be a hammering-on-the-door, throwing-a-tantrum-in-the-hallway asshole about it.
I think it’s much more likely that he’d just take it with the same brooding, almost-bruised calm he takes everything, until I fall head over heels in love with him and try to eat his face off. Or eat his ass out.
Whichever.
“Seriously, man, this is not cool,” Wade says, and it makes me wonder why he doesn’t just open the door. The Wade I know is all about sauntering into a room, as breezy as anything.
This Wade is…I don’t know. Unraveling at the seams? Mad with jealousy?
He certainly sounds like it.
“So come in then,” Kitty says, and I have to say I have no compunction to refuse her. I don’t even think Cameron does. He just stays exactly where he is, naked from the waist down and with his ass still practically in my face—which seems singularly unlike him, on the face of things.
But underneath, oh underneath. Underneath, I understand perfectly well. What better way to stick it to someone, than having them find you being serviced by two women? And he is being serviced. A fool could tell it. He’s got my bite marks all over his pale skin, and Kitty has one hand between her legs and one hand on his great curved back.
“Hey, Wade, how you doing?” he says and, oh God, I love him I love I just love him. In the middle of all of his shame-based issues, there’s this incredible streak of humor—as liquid metal as his glorious voice.
And I want to eat it.
“Fuck,” Wade says, and boy oh boy it comes out as hard as a bullet. His face is the color of Cameron’s—red as a fresh new apple—but for different reasons. Anger, I think—but there’s something else there too. A little hint of embarrassment, maybe, in amongst all the rest of it.
“How long have you guys been having this party without me, seriously?”
Trust him to call it a party. And also: is it wrong if I get the sudden and mysterious urge to tell him since college? It doesn’t seem that farfetched, after all. In truth, I’m not even sure why we haven’t been doing this since college.
“I’ve been trying to get this going for weeks,” he adds, after a second. Hands on his hips. Blue eyes almost showing an amused awareness of exactly what he’s saying. God, he’s such a manipulative prick!
“Get what going?” Kitty asks, but she should know. And she does, after a moment of musing. “A foursome?”
Wade puts a hand out, palm down—the universally accepted gesture for Let’s calm things down a little here. Not that I think he actually wants to calm anything down. And Kitty’s mischievous grin tells me that nothing’s going in that direction anyway.
“Well, maybe not a foursome exactly,” he says, only then he grins back at her, all wolfishness again. “But you know. Not that far away from one either.”
And then Kitty crooks a finger at him and I can’t help it. A great flood of weariness goes through me, while my mind throws up the words Oh. Just like that, huh? Because you know—Wade always gets things just like that. I was actually
enjoying seeing him squirm and stamp his foot, because I’m so filled with the memories of him getting the opposite of that, it’s painful. It feels like I’m bursting with those images—of girls rolling over for him and guys slapping him on the back and professors saying, hey, don’t worry about it.
You’re Wade Robinson. You don’t have to worry about anything.
And now here’s Kitty, crooking her finger and beckoning him over as though yeah, he should just get this too. Me and Cameron have blundered and fumbled our way toward one tiny little bit of fun, but no big deal. Throw it at Wade, the moment he walks into the room.
Only then…then…oh Lord, my lovely little Kitty. I think I almost punch the air, when she presses a hand to his chest. He’s almost on her, the assumption so obviously all over him I can see it from here:
He thinks he’s going to fuck her now. But I’ve got to say—I don’t think he is.
“Ah ah ah,” she says, and there’s such steely control in her voice. How does she do that? She’s so tiny—the hand she’s still got on Cameron’s back looks ridiculously small. And yet she holds him in place as though all the world is at her command, as though she is the Queen of Hamin-Ra.
Lord, I don’t think I could ever be. I certainly couldn’t say what she next does to Wade.
“If you want to join in, you’ve got to start where we left off.”
At first, I don’t get what she’s saying. But Cameron definitely does. Oh yeah, Cameron gets it all right—he goes tight all over, suddenly, and when I stroke a soothing hand down over his ass he flinches.
As though maybe someone else entirely did the honors, while I wasn’t looking.
“No,” he says, as flat and cool as the surface of a lake.
But I can’t help noticing that he doesn’t use the word Tehanu. And he gets no closer to blurting it out when Kitty clarifies, for a narrow-eyed Wade.
“I mean, that’s only fair, right?” she asks—only you know. She’s not really asking. “We were seeing to Cameron, when you walked in. So if you want to interrupt, you should at least offer him some payment, for the privilege.”
Telling Tales Page 17
