Make Me (8 page)

He waits, I think, until Brandon is in that state of dazed complicity. And then he slides his sweatpants down one-handed, and says the words that will probably haunt my masturbation fantasies for the next one thousand years: ‘You want to suck something else?’

Oh God, something
else
. And he’s clearly not talking about his big toe. You couldn’t possibly mistake what he’s saying, because the thing he’s just revealed isn’t exactly overlook-able. It’s bigger than I remember, and thicker, and it juts out from the nest of oddly dark hair at his groin like an accusation. Like a
command
.

Do it.

And Brandon
does.

He doesn’t hesitate, or shoot a surreptitious glance at me. He just pours off his chair and onto the floor, then takes that heavy, swollen prick into his mouth – so greedy for it he doesn’t even stop to catch his breath. It’s almost embarrassing for me to watch, because I know I’ve never gotten up this level of sloppy enthusiasm. He sucks so hard and so wetly I almost wish I had a cock so I might know how incredible this must feel.

Though Tyler does, at least, give me some approximation. ‘Yeah, make it nice and wet. Do it just like that – suck me off, you little cocksucker.’

And he also says some other things, too. Things I do not know how to process – I mean, does Brandon enjoy being talked to in such a brutish, mean sort of manner? Somehow I can’t imagine he does … until I realise he’s actually jerking off, as he swallows Tyler’s cock.

He’s got his hand inside his pants, but even that’s not enough. After a second of frantic rubbing, he pulls his cock free and jerks at his own stiff length as he laps and sucks at Tyler’s. I swear, all I can hear are the thick, slick sounds of fucking, and all I can see are hard cocks being pleasured, and then Tyler says, ‘You want some, Maisie?’

And I float up, out of my body, to watch all of this from someplace safe. I have the overwhelming urge to check over my shoulder, just in case there’s another hotter, dirtier girl lying on the table behind me.

I know there isn’t. There’s just me, and Tyler, and Brandon, and Tyler is fucking Brandon’s face with his meaty cock, and Brandon is moaning and sucking and stroking himself, so really, who’s the odd man out, here? I’d practically be a social pariah, if I didn’t at least nod my head. And maybe fumble my way off this table, until I’m somehow on my knees, too.

I’ve got a close-up, then, of Tyler’s cock easing in and out of Brandon’s mouth. All that slick spit greasing the way. The flicker of his tongue over the flared head, just before the whole thing sinks back in. It’s delicious, unbearable – and yet when Tyler forces his friend back and exposes all of that thick length, something clenches low down in my belly.

I think it’s nerves. Or arousal. Or a mixture of the two. And it comes again – harder – when Tyler offers his dick to me. I’m going to taste Brandon on him, I think, deliriously, but the idea doesn’t stop me. I want to do this dirty thing, even though Brandon echoes some of my concerns a second later.

‘You don’t have to be a part of this,’ he says, but that’s both the problem and the allure of it. Being a part of something – something sexy and forbidden and full of delicious promise.

A little piece of me wants to say no and end it. But most of me wants to say yes.

Yes, I think, and then I lean forwards and part my lips around the sweet swell of his cock. Slow, at first, but, oh, when he groans for me, when he gives me a sound that has as much abandon as Brandon usually does, I can’t stop myself descending into frantic. I suck hard, licking and licking to get more of that taste – different to Brandon’s salt-sweet cock, but with a hint of his mouth at the back of it – greedy for it before I’m even sure I want to be.

Though I’m surer after he speaks.

‘You want it? Huh? I’m gonna do it in your mouth.’

Yeah, I’m sure then. I glance up at him and he’s near shaking, face as flushed as Brandon’s, nipples making tight little points through his shirt. It’s arresting to see him like that but even more so to feel him this out of control, and I push for a bit extra.

I want him to fuck my mouth, I realise. I want him to be rough with me the way he was with Brandon, but he holds back. Just a little. Just enough for it to surprise me when his head goes back and his hips jerk forwards, and his thick, creamy spend floods my mouth.

‘Ohhh yeah,’ he tells me. ‘Keep going, keep going, I’m coming.’

But he really doesn’t have to explain. Even if he wasn’t spurting all over my tongue, I can actually feel his cock swelling and jerking. He’s trembling, too – little spasms that make me crazy and remind me of how it felt for me to climax so viciously and hardly be able to think through any of it.

I can hardly think now. I drown in the sounds of both my men going over, first in the guttural but reined-in groans that Tyler gives me, and then the much bolder, brighter cries of pleasure from Brandon, as he gives me what I never thought he could. He stands up for his orgasm and instead of tamely splashing my belly or my breasts he coats the place Tyler’s just finished filling.

He covers my lips and my chin and my cheek with his come, until I’m nothing but a used up mess. I’m a cock-sucking slut, too, but that’s not half the insult it used to be in my head.

It’s like a badge of honour, instead.

I don’t know what to do, once it’s done – and that’s probably how I end up taking another shower like a maniac. I stand under the hot spray and have ten imaginary conversations in my head, most of which start with the words
So what do we do now?
And finish with me returning to my monotonous life.

I’m not brave enough for this, I think. I’m the kind of person who started out at college dreaming of being a writer, and gradually eroded that dream down to a journalist, and then a teacher, and finally ended it with what I am: a librarian.

I can sense that I’m going to erode this, too. After all, I did that very thing last time. I took something sexy and risky and great and turned it into something I never wanted to think about ever again.

And now it’s back, with reinforcements.

‘Maisie?’ Brandon calls through the bathroom door and, for this huge moment, I can’t actually answer him. The words make this clicking sound in my throat, as my head floods with the images of all the things we just did. I just
did
them, like it didn’t even matter. ‘You OK in there? I’m just gonna put some clothes on the wash basket, OK?’

No, not OK, I think. You’ll come in and see me naked!

But of course that’s crazy. He just saw me naked about half an hour ago. He saw how pink and tight my nipples get when I’m excited, and how swollen and messy my pussy was. If he strains hard enough, he could probably recall it all from last time, too.

I don’t know why I’m suddenly shy. When he comes in, I find myself moving to the back of the rickety shower, so that he won’t see me through the frosted door. And, once he’s left the clothes, I dart out like a criminal, drying hastily and shoving all the stupid things on, before anyone can catch me.

I feel like a fool, afterwards – and not just because of my still-wet skin and my misplaced embarrassment. There’s also the fact that I’m wearing an old college jersey of Tyler’s, and a pair of jeans of Brandon’s, and both things are so immense on me I can hardly walk. The hems trail off my feet like flippers. I have to roll up the sleeves, just to make sure I still have hands.

And naturally they both laugh when they see me – Brandon in an apologetic sort of way, Tyler … less so.

‘I don’t understand why you didn’t bring anything with you,’ he says, as though it’s that simple for him, to pack a bag full of assumptions and bust down the door of a life you stopped leading years ago.

He should know that it isn’t. I’m struggling just to keep myself here, in front of the bed they’ve both sprawled themselves across. Tyler isn’t even wearing a shirt – he’s just got that pair of sweatpants on, and even that item of clothing doesn’t scream innocence. All I can see behind my eyes is how he looked when he pulled them down one-handed. That move he made … so desperate, and yet so not at the same time.

It’s like he’s somehow above his own desires, looking down on them. And they can take hold of him and do things to him, and even make him a little crazy, but they can’t take away his awareness of what’s happening. He can’t be hypnotised, the way we can.

‘I … um … I just …’ I say, in the absence of the things I really want to mention. Thankfully, however, Brandon saves me.

‘You OK?’ he says, then even sweeter: ‘Sorry about the clothes. Didn’t want to give you your old ones, but ours are obviously much bigger than I’d expected them to be on you.’

That’s the understatement of the year. I have to actually hold the jeans up in one bunched fist, and those hem-flippers aren’t getting any easier to move around in. Plus, that awareness of how naked I am inside the clothes … it’s getting almost vicious, now. When I yank the jeans up the seam slips between the still tender lips of my pussy, and rubs right over my clit.

Which sounds like it hurts, I know.

But it doesn’t.

‘No, no it’s fine. This is great,’ I tell them both, which is true. It’s not a big deal that I’m swamped in clothes – the opposite, in fact. The material protects me when Tyler lifts an arm as though to say,
Come on, come onto the bed and we’ll snuggle
, and I crawl between them like a bomb expert, determined not to detonate anything. Something’s bound to go off, any second – I know it.

Only it doesn’t.

We all just lie there and watch a movie together, while my body hums and hums crazily. Brandon holds my hand and Tyler strokes my hair. Sometimes they shift around and sprawl across me, just like they used to.

But nothing else. They don’t try anything, or say anything, to the point where I start thinking I imagined it all – though of course I know I didn’t.

* * *

These peaks keep really happening, these swells, and, after they’ve receded, I’m left stranded on a beach of TV watching and Chinese take-outs and short trips into town. There are cakes in cute cafés and viewing of sights, as though I am on vacation and Brandon and Tyler are my tour guides. They show me where I can buy clothes, and we take pictures together in a photo booth. In all four I look bright, happy, relaxed.

So why am I tense inside? Why am I in a state of incredible waiting? I keep feeling these words on the end of my tongue:
If you want to again, we can. It can be that kind of vacation, you know?

But somehow I always stop short, as though the carousel has gone around and it’s not my turn any more. Tyler has to say, I think. I see him stood by the railings around the river, looking out over the city as it fades into dusk. And he just looks so … dark. So commanding. Command us, I think at him.

But he doesn’t. And on the third day of this happy vacation, I realise: he’s not waiting to make his next move, he’s waiting for me to make mine.

* * *

It’s the kind of restaurant I’ve never actually been to. The seats are expensive to the point of uncomfortable and the waiter barely speaks. He just gestures impeccably and Tyler seems to interpret his code, and then we all have glasses of wine I can’t drink.

It tastes like the insides of someone’s musty shoe, but I fail to say anything. Tyler’s just made a toast about old friends reuniting, and there was a touch of poetry in there. I’d be the odd man out again if I behaved as awkwardly as I feel.

Even Brandon looks like he’s been carved out of classiness. He’s wearing a suit – this one definitely picked out by Tyler, because apparently Tyler is some sort of clothes-obsessed fashion guru and this time I saw him do it – and his hair has been done just so. It lies in a thick, handsome swatch across his forehead and seems to make him look just a touch older. A touch more weathered.

I flounder in a glittering confection I didn’t want to wear, the neckline of which is digging into my bust. Even the mute waiter has something to say about my cleavage, when he oozes back to the table. I see him glance at everything that’s overflowing, as though I’m some cheap floozy.

Oh, how I wish I were just some cheap floozy, instead of the skittish thing I am. All we’ve talked about for days is, in no particular order: our favourite ’80s cartoons, what we’d like to order for dinner and past relationships we’ve had that didn’t really work out. Brandon disliked a girlfriend of Tyler’s called Cynthia. Cynthia wanted Tyler to buy her a BMW, apparently. And Brandon once had a serious relationship with a girl called Tiffany, but now thinks it’s as hilarious as we do that he could ever think someone called Tiffany could be serious about anything.

And then there was me. I didn’t say anything, because my motley crew of misfits and rejects can’t really compete with someone who wanted Tyler for his trust fund, and a girl who once told Brandon that eating solid foods is bad for you.

And I can’t say much now, either, because apparently we’re talking about real-estate investments. Lord, I just don’t know what to do. How do I interrupt all of this … stylishness? What’s the best way to introduce a topic of this nature, with the optimum of elegance and wit?

‘Guys, you do remember we had a threesome the other day, right?’

Somehow, I don’t think I’ve quite hit the mark I was aiming for. Tyler actually raises an eyebrow at me and Brandon chokes on his wine. Both expressions of surprise are about equal, I think, when you consider the people who are making them.

‘I vaguely recall,’ Tyler says, as he lounges back against his seat. It’s impossible to do so, however. I don’t how he’s managing it, because these seats are like iron.

‘And you don’t think we should have a chat about that? I mean, wasn’t that the problem last time?’

‘I thought the problem was that you disappeared for five years,’ Tyler says. ‘But do go on.’

I think it’s pretty clear that I don’t want to, after words like those. Though it’s not because they hurt me a little – which they do – or that Brandon kind of gasps, once they’re said. It’s more for the surprise of it.