Telling Tales (19 page)

Then Kitty says, loud and clear: “Go on and do it.”

Of course I’ve got no idea what she means. She could be talking about pinching her nipples with clothes pegs, for all I know—she’s kinky enough for just about anything.

But Wade isn’t, apparently, because after a second he lets out a little frustrated breath, and tells her no.

“No—I want your cunt,” he tells her, and I can’t think what she offered him instead. Her mouth? Her ass? Something I don’t really want to process, right now?

But then I have to process it, because I feel Cameron panting against my mouth, eyes as wide and round as moons, and when I twist I can just about see Kitty’s hands on Wade’s cock, as she sheaths it in a condom she probably got from
my
bedside drawer.

Then slicks him with lube she
definitely
got from my bedside drawer.

Of course I have to ask Cameron if he’s OK. I don’t give a shit about Wade—I care about Cameron and, by God, Wade is doing something absolutely filthy to him right now. I know he is—I know it before he says a word to me, though they spill out of him when I hold his face and ask.

“He’s…” Cameron starts, then squeezes his eyes tight shut before he can get out the rest. “He’s scissoring his fingers inside me.”

I think it’s the dirtiest sentence I’ve ever heard another person utter. Never mind Cameron, who started trembling about five minutes earlier and has now reached critical mass. I can feel his cock against my thigh, so slick and swollen it’s like getting stroked by a baseball bat coated in engine oil.

Though I’ve no idea why a baseball bat would be coated in engine oil. And it’s beside the point anyway. It’s beside so many, many points. The primary one being: Wade is going to fuck him. Wade is going to put his cock inside Cameron and fuck him, and even more thrilling/insane/terrifying—Cameron doesn’t look like he wants to choke out his safe word, in answer to Kitty’s absolutely disgusting persuasions.

“Mmm, yeah, make that little arsehole nice and slick. You want to fuck it, huh? Go on, go on—God you’re making me so wet,” she says, while I try to keep Cameron focused on me. If he focuses on me, he can say no. He can tell me what he really wants, how he really feels—but apparently how he really feels is this: “Oh Jesus, yeah, right there.”

I’ll be perfectly honest. It’s not me who makes him come out with that. And then Wade jerks his hand in the exact same way, again, and oh it’s definitely not me who’s pushing Cameron past the point of no return.

I think Wade is hitting his prostate, and when I manage to curl and look up at Wade’s face—all red with determination and something like bitter anger—I know for sure. He’s tormenting Cameron, absolutely tormenting him, and in that moment I so want to tell him to stop.

I want to make Cameron say his safe word, for God’s sake—which just seems crazy. Though it’s crazier that Wade is almost certainly pushing his cock into Cameron’s body, right now. I know he is, because Cameron chokes out a sob and Kitty moans that she’s going to come all over her own hand, and Wade can’t seem to say anything at all.

He just falls to jerking against Cameron, sloppily, until Cameron can’t seem to take it anymore. But that’s OK, because neither can I. There’s a guy getting fucked on top of me, and he’s got his curled fingers right up against my G-spot and, oh Lord, that’s heavenly, it’s unbearable. “Cam,” I gasp, while he shoves and manhandles me up the bed.

Of course, I only figure out why he’s doing it when I feel his tongue lashing over my clit. And then after I can’t figure out anything anymore. He’s got his hands on my ass and he’s pressing his face hard against my spread pussy, and all I can think of is how it must feel to have a prick sliding against the nerve-rich opening of such a tight little place, how it must feel to be opened and separated.

But all that does is make me realize something incredible: Wade is fucking Cameron, before he’s fucked me. I’ve never had Wade anywhere between my legs, but he’s right there between Cameron’s. And he seems to be enjoying it too, after a moment of panting and thrusting and hot wet slapping sounds.

His breathing gets shaky and his thrusts get jagged, and then I hear Kitty say in an almost relaxed sort of voice: “You gonna come, baby? You gonna fill him with your load? Yeah, that’s it. Spurt in his ass.”

Because she knows, apparently, what gets Wade going more than anything. I don’t know when she learned this information, but judging by Wade’s hoarse moans it’s a solid source. They ring out loud and clear, these moans, and I’m reminded of how much I would have paid to hear them, once upon a time.

But now all I can feel are the sounds Cameron is making, right into the swollen folds of my pussy. His frantic gasps as he licks and laps at my clit, followed by long, luxurious moans that burr through me, too heavily.

He’s going to come, I think—he’s going to come just from the feel of a big, fat cock in his ass—but I’m not sure I believe it until it actually happens. His mouth mashes messily against my stiff little bud, and then a second later I feel something slippery and hot splashing against some part of my leg.

I can’t mistake it for anything but the thing it is. It comes in rhythmic pulses, so intense and glorious that I can’t help myself. I call out his name as great surges of pleasure roll through me, cunt clenching around his still-working fingers, body shaking under the pressure of it all.

“Ohhh I’m coming,” I think I manage to gasp out, but it’s much easier to just go with the word I want to say most of all.

“Cameron,” I say. “Cameron.”

And yes, I know how this would seem if I was writing a story about it.
Subtext
, Professor Warren would say, and I’m sure he’d be right. Wade just fucked Cameron while Cameron fucked me, and there’s probably supposed to be a lot of metaphorical bullshit in there about how that really means I still want to fuck Wade, or that I need a barrier between me and Wade before I can do it, or fuck—I don’t know.

But the truth is: this isn’t a story. It’s not a tale I’m telling. It’s real and there’s only Cameron’s name on my tongue, Cameron’s arms around me, Cameron shuddering through every big breath as he presses his face to my thigh, my hip, my belly.

Then he looks up at me, long and slow, and I’m so grateful I can’t help myself. I think it before I even know it’s a part of me, that I want to feel it, that it’s as real as the story I’m not telling.

I
love
you
, my mind shouts out, and though it should be terrifying it isn’t. It’s only terrifying to discover that I don’t have the courage to say it—just like back in college, and all that time I wasted over someone as nothing as Wade.

I’ve opened a little crack in him, I think. So it doesn’t seem like too much of a hardship to just slip under his skin a bit. To just ask him a couple of questions that have been burning in me for the better part of the last twenty hours.

Questions like: “Was it too much?”

He’s lying on his stomach—in my bed now, not his—with the latest chapter of “Hamin-Ra” in his hands. The one in which the Queen declares to Corin that she loves him above all things. You know—just to underscore the point to him in great big bold lettering. Just to ease myself into the idea of telling him, in a way I could never tell Wade.

It’s you I love
, I think at him, but it’s no more effective than it was last time. It won’t come out of me and he can’t seem to read between the lines. Mainly because he’s an impenetrable fortress when he wants to be, and the sign above the giant fortress-y door says
I’m never going to believe you because you just spent the last five years loving the wrong guy.

And
then
you
let
him
fuck
me.

God, I really hope that’s just me inventing thoughts to go inside his labyrinthine and mysterious mind.

“Was what too much?” he asks, because he’s labyrinthine and mysterious, I guess. He’s leading me down the corridor that takes me back to the beginning again, instead of the one that takes me to the heart.

“The stuff we did, Cam. The stuff. You know.”

I say “you know” because I can’t bring myself to go with “and then Wade shoved his dick up your ass.” I mean, that has to be causing him some conflict, right? How come he doesn’t look conflicted?

Wade sure does, and he was practically a sexual mountain climber before all of this. If you’d put the pair of them side by side and asked me which one would be comfortable fucking a man, I’d never have gone with Cameron. Never never never.

And yet he
looks
comfortable. He looks content. He looks like someone who’s probably realized he’s gay and is now just putting the final touches on his plan for a civil partnership with Wade Robinson.

“Ah,” he says, and I practically sag with relief. Until he finishes with: “You mean the re-plastering of the downstairs hallway. Well. It certainly seemed a
little
excessive.”

I flick his shoulder.

“Come on, Cam. Yesterday you had someone’s cock in your ass.”

It sounds even ruder when I say it out loud. But he doesn’t blush, or shrug me off—the way he had when I first tried to make him talk about sex or his feelings or just anything at all. It’s like…I don’t know. Like something’s let go, inside him.

“Wade’s cock,” he says, and there’s something so devilish and triumphant about the grin he shoots me that I have to say. I just have to.

“If you tell me you’ve been holding a torch for him too, I’m going to kill myself. Then kill you.”

He laughs, then, half-burying his face in the pages he’s still holding. It’s a good sound to hear, I have to say.

“No!
No.
Absolutely no torches are being held for Wade.” He looks up at me, as the laugh dies down. Eyes slowly moving from amused to something soft focus and sweet. “Just you. Just you, and anything you want to make me do.”

I put a hand in his hair, for that. Stroke through the thick strands until his eyes drift closed, and he presses into my touch.

“I didn’t make you do that,” I say, but he keeps on rubbing against me—like a cat in heat, I think.

“No…but you make it easy.”

“Easy to do what?”

“All of the things I never knew I always wanted.” He pauses then, while I catch my breath. By the time he starts talking again, I think my pounding, love-addled heart is back to normal speed. “You make me feel normal.”

“You
are
normal,” I say, but for the barest second he doesn’t look convinced. And though he then goes on to pull me down into his arms, that idea is troubling. So troubling that I can’t quite shake it—not even when he starts telling me how much he loves the chapter I’ve just written.

He even goes into the reasons why. Because it’s
dirty
, he says, with the kind of relish I never thought I’d see from him.

“Tell me how,” I say, and he bites at my hand. So playful, suddenly, so not the guy I thought he was.

“Because she gags him.”

He snaps at my upper arm, this time, and I wonder what he’s angling for exactly.

“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.

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.