Telling Tales

by Charlotte Stein

  “You like that part, huh?”

  “There are a lot of parts I like in this particular story,” he tells me, and this time he succeeds in sinking his teeth into my flesh. Close to my shoulder, hard enough to sting—but oh, then he licks over the mark he’s made and all I can think of is how he’d looked, with the bite marks all over his smooth, upturned ass.

  “Like the bit when Corin gets forced by those three guys?” I ask, suddenly breathless. He’d seemed so bullish after I’d read it out, that I have to know how he feels about it now.

  And he doesn’t disappoint.

  “Let’s say—it’s certainly gotten more interesting now I know where my prostate is.”

  I laugh, shocked, and tell him, “I think I’ve warped you.” But he doesn’t let up.

  “Your words have warped me. There are whole days when I can’t think about anything but the way your stories used to make me feel. The way they make me feel now.”

  God he’s glorious when he talks like that. It makes me imagine stupid stuff, like flowers unfurling and birds flying and, Lord Almighty, how ridiculous is it to be thinking of someone so massive and masculine like that?

  Very ridiculous.

  I run my hands all over that massive masculinity, instead. He’s pretty much naked—just a towel still half-around his waist, from the shower he took before he woke me—and I uncover various parts of him.

  The heavy, rounded shape of his shoulders, in particular, before moving down to his solid chest. He twists as I run my hands over things, but he doesn’t try to stop me. I don’t think he’d ever try to stop me now, which is so freeing I can’t even say.

  I just get to tug at his tight, sensitive nipples until he breathes hard and unsteady, then maybe slide down to the thick outline of his hipbone, beneath his honeyed skin. There are marks there for me to uncover—strange, shadowy marks that I don’t understand, at first.

  But then I realize and have to take an extra sharp breath. The marks are the bruises Wade left behind, when he fucked the man I want to fuck, right now.

  “Sometimes,” he says, as I stroke over each finger imprint.

  “I imagine how I’d tell my father about how I really am, inside. Not upstanding, not reserved, not worthy of the Lindhurst name. But I can’t ever imagine telling him how I got those bruises. I can barely believe how I got those bruises.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I tell him, because that’s the first and truest thing that comes to mind. They make me want to kiss them, and I do. I kiss them while he’s still gazing down at me, half in that world he grew up in, half out of it.

  More than half out it, I think. After all, he moans when I lick over each shadowy mark. And when I stroke my hand down over his side, he turns as though there’s something more he wants me to do.

  Like maybe get a nice handful of his ass, and squeeze. Though I have to say—I don’t expect him to blurt out some words, when I do it. And I certainly don’t expect the words to be so lust-choked either.

  “Ohhh God, I wanted it to be you.”

  I glance up at him, but his eyes are tight closed. The way they were the night before, when Wade first…did that.

  “Wanted what to be me?” I ask, because I’ve genuinely got no idea. I swear to God, I don’t.

  “What he did to me. I wanted it to be you.”

  My mind draws a blank again. Probably because I’m an idiot, but also because…well…I don’t have a cock. I can’t do what Wade did to him. I mean, maybe I could if I had something, but it’s possible that he just means—“Like this?” I ask, and then I run my finger between the cheeks of his ass. Just like I did the night before, only with a touch more suggestive pressure.

  “Uhhhh yes,” he says, both syllables so drawn out that all I hear is one long burr.

  But that’s not the best part. No, the best part is how he looks, suddenly—completely abandoned, mouth open and pressed against the pillow, eyes closed. And when I reach over him to get the little bottle of lube that’s still on top of my bedside drawer, he gets worse.

  His tongue flickers out, to wet his lower lip. His big body twists beneath my hands, then goes stiff when I spill a streamer of liquid between the cheeks of his ass.

  “Are you really gonna do it?” he asks, to which there’s only one real answer.

  “Don’t ask,” I say, and then, oh then I slide my finger down through that hot groove, to the tiny tight circle of his arsehole.

  I do it slow, slow—or at least, I intend to. But he’s so shockingly relaxed that I just slide right in without really meaning to, all the way to the webbing between my fingers.

  And it feels so different than the way I’d expected it to, even though I had no idea I’d been expecting anything at all.

  It’s slick and smooth, really smooth, and when he clenches around the intrusion it’s not half as tight as I had thought it would be. But it’s definitely hot, and he squirms and moans as much as I’d imagined, and when I rub and stroke he tells me in no uncertain terms: “Yes. Yeah—right there.”

  And then I can feel it—a little bump inside him, so small it’s almost nonexistent. But, oh God, it makes him jerk and gasp when I press against it, and I can feel his cock brushing against my breasts, as stiff as anything.

  I glance down and I can see it, swollen and stiff and so big, so mind-bendingly big. It almost feels wrong to want it inside me suddenly, because I’m sure it’s going to half-kill me. I’m sure, and yet I’m slick anyway, thinking about it sinking all the way into my body. I want him to grab my hips the way Wade grabbed his, and shove into me with just that right amount of good, good pressure.

  Like the pressure I’m applying now, over his prostate. The pressure that’s making him shiver all over like a man who’s just been plunged into a vat of icy water. And then he tells me God, God, ohhhh you’re making me do it, and it becomes an absolute necessity to do what I’m craving.

  “Fuck me,” I order him, and for a moment he does nothing. He doesn’t obey or even give me a sign that he’s heard me. But when I rub myself against him—that ever-wet cock sliding wet trails over my tits—he seems to come around.

  He focuses on me, laser-like suddenly, and this intensity only gets stronger when I tell him what I’d really like, more than anything:

  “Fuck me while I fuck you.”

  He moans, then, hands suddenly greedy on my body. When he yanks me up the bed it’s almost like the night before—like he’s suddenly realized he’s capable of manhandling someone, and needs to exercise that privilege right now.

  But I also note that he doesn’t do anything to disturb the slick finger I’ve still got in his ass. It’s a struggle to get a condom, to get me beneath him, to maneuver our bodies into something like a sexual position with this seedy penetration going on at the same time, but he manages it.

  He’s really quite dexterous, when he wants to be. And he seems to know it too, because he bursts out a little laugh halfway through proceedings. As though he understands how clever and careful he’s just been, and all in aid of something so filthy and ridiculous.

  “You like that, huh?” I ask, but he just strokes a hand over my upturned face. Grins at me with all of his teeth, the way Wade would—only without any trace of smugness. He’s happy, I think, and that sings through me like nothing else.

  “Here, let me,” I say, but I think that was a mistake. Getting the condom on him is like trying to squeeze a melon into an opening the size of a golf ball, with no lube and no end in sight. And I have to do it one-handed too, because my other hand is still seeing to him and, oh Lord, are we never actually going to have sex?

  I’m pretty sure we’re not, until he decides to help me out. And then I just have to watch the dark space between our bodies, as he works the thing on. Slowly, really agonizingly slowly and with all of these glorious frustrated sounds coming out of him, at the same time.
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  They get louder too, when I wriggle my finger inside him. He even gasps out a No, don’t do that for me, just before he runs his big, fat cock down over my belly and then finally, oh finally between my legs.

  There are several problems along the way, however. One is that I’m spreading my thighs as far as they’ll go, but he still feels too massive to get them around him. And the other is a much easier to fix but far less likely to actually be resolved any time soon sort of problem—he doesn’t seem to want to stop stroking my clit with the swollen head of his cock.

  And I’ll be honest—I don’t really want him to stop, either. It feels absolutely incredible, so soft and hard at the same time and ohhh, just the right amount of slippery contact. Just a good, sweet slide over my stiff bud, until I’m shuddering and probably rubbing and fucking into him too hard and, oh man, oh man–

  “Stop, stop—you’re gonna make me come!”

  I have to say it. I don’t want to go over just yet and I can feel him triggering it, can feel it welling up from someplace low down in my belly. Any second and I’m there, and the slow, easy smile he’s giving me isn’t helping.

  He kisses me with that same slow easiness, and I don’t mind letting him know how good this all feels. I clutch at his shoulder and gasp into his mouth, and all the while I’m thinking about what he said to me under the stairs.

  About how girls say they like a big cock, but really run a mile when one comes along.

  Is that why he’s doing this? Is that why he’s waiting and waiting and, oh Jesus, can’t he tell how ready I am? I’m so ready I think I could take a freight train. I’m so wet I can hear his cock sliding back and forth through my slit, and the thought is exciting enough to prompt me into doing some very dirty things to him.

  I swear, I only meant to fuck him with one tiny little finger. I’m not sure how I end up pushing two in, until his face goes slack and his body judders from head to toe and he says to me, all in a rush: “I think I’m going to have to take you now.”

  God I love how he uses the word take. There are many, many things I hate about his old-fashioned politician vibe, but using a word right out of the porno Cary Grant never made is not one of them. Talk about having me, I think at him. Talk about what a loose woman I am, a fallen woman—I’ll do my hair like Bettie Page and we can run away to the fifties together.

  And just in case it wasn’t clear enough by now: I have absolutely no idea what I’m thinking anymore. I’m delirious, lost on a tide of syrupy-sweet pleasure, and I show it when he finally, finally sinks into me.

  He does it slow, so slow, while I make a sound like something dying. He just feels so solid, going in, so like something scratching a low down deep itch inside me, and then once he’s there he rolls his hips all easy and languorous.

  “God, Cam,” I moan, then louder when he really goes for it. He can’t seem to help it—which is even better, I’ve got to say. His eyes are half-closed and his body is jerking almost constantly, as though I’m pulling tight on some unseen strings without really knowing how I’m doing it.

  Though I suppose I actually do know, in truth. I’m doing exactly what I said I wanted to—fucking him while he fucks me—and it’s clearly too much for him. All efforts at suppressing the sounds he wants to make are gone, and he’s grunting and gasping almost constantly. And when I shove my fingers into him hard, he lurches forward as though I struck him.

  “I’m going to come,” he tells me, so flat and matter-of-fact and yet somehow even more unbearably arousing than if he’d babbled it. It’s like his whole sense of self is just accepting all of this now, like he’s able to take it on board and let it out—no big deal.

  And I love him for it.

  Of course I love him more when he licks two fingers and slides them between our bodies—working hard to get into a good position for it, but getting there just the same—to worry and rub at my clit, but that’s a given. I’m so swollen and so on edge that even the slightest glancing contact pushes me close, and then I feel him clench around my fingers.

  I can actually feel it.

  He’s coming, I think, and the realization strikes through me, hard. My clit swells beneath his slippery touch and that’s it, that’s all it takes—my body bows and my cunt grips at his cock hard and I shout out his name just like I did the night before.

  Only sweeter here, now. Oh God it’s so much sweeter.

  “Cam!” I say, and he pants and groans my name right back at me, cock jerking in my spasming pussy, body one solid, rigid mass between my legs. And he’s so big too—so big I can almost feel it when he swells inside me and spurts, the thought like fire burning over my own orgasm.

  It goes on for too long. I have to stop him—I have to dig my nails into his arm and force him to let me go, though when I do he doesn’t seem to mind. He presses a hot, breathless kiss to the side of my face, instead, that amused sound he made for me earlier still thrumming through him.

  Only then he says: “Sorry.”

  Just like always. As though we’re right back to that place where sex is something to be ashamed of and he’s always got to apologize for everything and, God, I could just kill him sometimes. Doesn’t he know how great that was? Doesn’t he understand, by now?

  He can’t possibly because he says it again, and I swear I’m just about to punch him when he finishes with: “Usually I can go a lot longer.”

  In so amused a tone that I can’t fail to take only one idea away from it: If that was quick for him, what in God’s name would slow be like?

  ***

  When I come around from this doze I seem to have sunk into, he’s reading again. One hand behind his head, as naked as a lord, pages clutched almost as tightly in his hands as they had been when he put on that little show for me.

  The one I feel compelled to ask about, right now.

  “Which bit did you do it to?”

  He still jerks as though I’m catching him up to something. Even though we’re in bed together, and the room smells like filthy, dirty sex.

  “Do what to?” he asks, but I think he knows. I can tell by the way he turns away from me, as though, yeah, being caught masturbating is worse than having someone’s finger in your ass. I mean seriously—where are his priorities?

  “Which bit did you jerk off to?” I ask, and this time he answers more sensibly.

  “When the Queen has Corin tied up, then does all of that…stuff in front of him.”

  I’d be disappointed that he still has to occasionally use one word in the place of another, but I can’t be. It’s part of his charm, I think. It’s part of who he is, and I adore who he is.

  “You like that part, huh?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Because she torments him?”

  It seems like a logical conclusion to come to. His masochistic streak isn’t exactly well concealed anymore, and even if it was there’s other stuff in that chapter. Stuff about being forced and subverting someone’s will and all kinds of things that he seems to have a fetish for.

  But as ever, he surprises me. He turns just when I think he’s going to shy away, and gets his mouth real close to my ear. His breath gusts hot against the side of my face, and I feel a low ache start up between my legs. A good ache, that both reminds me of how thick and solid he’d felt, sliding in and out of me, and of how much I want him to again, right now.

  And then he tells me, he tells me, so low and deep I can hardly bear it: “Because it’s then that you know she loves him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I have to say, I feel bad. I never thought I’d feel bad about something I did to Wade—ever since this whole thing started I’ve been sure I’d wind up hurting Cameron, somehow—but it’s happened all the same.

  He seems…unsettled. He won’t eat breakfast with us. I was getting used to making massive omelets and now there’s a whole big chunk of the
thing we make in Professor Warren’s huge frying pan left over, every day.

  He seems prickly when I corner him too. As though the more relaxed Cameron gets, the less relaxed he is. Makes me want to blurt out something stupid to him, like—it’s OK that you fucked a guy. Nobody’s going to think you’re gay.

  Because by this point, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s troubled about. He’s having a crisis of sexuality, and is now just waiting for me to say some clumsy things to him about his issues—the way I did to Cameron, not so long ago.

  I’m like the Love Doctor. Only hopeless and incompetent and unable to actually use that word to anyone in existence.

  I’m the L–e Doctor.

  “Hey, Wade,” I say, and he jumps as though I ran into the room and hit him with a giant cock. Which I suppose is technically what me and Kitty actually did, two nights ago. He didn’t need any prompting, she said to me yesterday, when I told her I felt bad. I just handed him the condom and he went for it.

  And then she had spelled out the word gay in the air, with her fingers. I’m not even sure how she did it, in all honesty.

  “Hey,” he says. He’s busy cataloguing what looks like a bunch of the Professor’s old student files, and he doesn’t stop being busy when I enter the room. The Box Room, we call this one—though I don’t know why. It has no boxes in it—just filing cabinets and the remainder of someone’s class project.

  A store mannequin with feminist theory buzzwords written all over it.

  “You OK?” I start out, then wince. Apparently, Cameron used up all of my tact, along with my ability to make someone feel better about themselves.

  Though I suppose the fact that I’m not sure I want to make Wade feel better about himself has something to do with my sudden lack of interesting things to say.

  “Sure,” he tells me, but he doesn’t turn around. And all I can think is OK. This is the way things are going to go, I guess. I did that stuff, and now he thinks he’s gay and we can never be friends again, for reasons as mysterious as where that one sock went between wearing and the laundry basket.