Telling Tales (11 page)

It’s filthy. Worse than filthy, probably. After page forty-four it only gets worse and worse—some of it in frantic long-hand, some of it typed—and then I flick to the part where…I flick to the bit where…

God, I wonder what he would have thought of this. I can’t even imagine, in truth. All I can see behind my eyes when I picture him reading it is him looking at me like he wants to kill me, the way he had downstairs only worse, ten times worse. As though I really am the Queen and he just wants to punish me with sex until I die.

Even though that’s insane. He doesn’t want to punish me with sex until I die, for God’s sake. He just wants to…maybe he wants to…oh, I don’t know.

But there is a way I can find out.

Kitty trapped me, but that doesn’t mean I have to stay trapped. Maybe it’s not even a trap at all, but a new and different path spread out before me, one where I’m not closed off or afraid or ready to just give up everything I am so easily.

I think about Cameron turning his face to me, those eyes of his like a storm over the ocean suddenly. Not like something sunk to the bottom of it anymore. And all I have to do is just take this story downstairs and read aloud, to see that look again. I know it’s true.

And so I do.

The
first
one
is
rough, real rough. Not enough to hurt exactly, but certainly not enough to give him what he wants. When the guy’s done he feels sore, and used, and his pulled taut body is yanked even tighter than it was before.

He’s still hard, and that’s probably the worst thing of all about this. That he’s always mortifyingly hard no matter what, and they know it. They know how service to the Queen gets him—so riled he can hardly see straight or speak or do anything but go about his duties mindlessly, with his cock sticking out in front of him—and they take advantage of it, shamelessly.

Last
time
it
was
being
on
his
knees, with their pricks in his mouth. This time it’s worse, it’s worse and it’s better all at the same time, because at least now he’s getting the contact he needs but even so…

Lord, it’s hard to take. Even with everything he’s experienced here in service to her Majesty, he’s never had anyone be…there. And when the first guy had slid an oiled finger all the way in—all the way to the hilt—it had forced him to buck against it. He’d let out a gasp, even though they’d told him to be quiet.

And
then
the
other
two
had
tightened
their
grips
around
his
arms.

He
wonders, half in a fog and half out of it, if they know he could break their hold with barely a flick of his wrists. That he could buck the big guy behind him off, as though said big guy weighed nothing. They probably do, because he’s pretty huge himself and much more thickly muscled than them, but there’s something blissful in the charade.

Like
a
warm
veil, drawn over his eyes. Which he closes, as the second guy says something crude like, “You’re not supposed to come inside him. The Queen will know if you come inside him.”

He
imagines
her
cool
green
gaze
on
him, on something dirty like a trail of jism running down his thighs, and shivers inwardly.

But
Lord—it’s a pleasurable shiver. It’s like that time she told him, “Corin, Corin, how I want to use every little part of you up,” and his stomach had clenched and his cock had lurched and he’d thought, blindly:
I could come just hearing her talk like that.

And
he
could, he seriously could. The tip of his cock is wet, just thinking about it and then feeling someone behind him, stroking over his already used and leaking hole.

“Oh yeeeaah he feels so good. So hot and tight,” the guy says, as he slides a finger in.

But
Corin
understands. These three—they’re just as desperate as he is. Just as teased, just as tormented, and none of them permitted a woman. They’ve had the Queen’s sylph-like assistant sucking them and touching them, just the way he has—and none of them ever allowed to come. It’s just too much, sometimes, and oh Lord it feels like it now.

It
feels
like
it
when
the
blunt
head
of
this
one’s cock nudges against him, seeking entrance. He tries to breathe into it, just as he had the first time—but it’s not necessary. His body’s too eager for it and the way is made slick by the other guy’s come and oh, oh.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“Ohhhh man, oh so fucking sweet,” the guy says, then does some
thing humiliating like slap his ass. He starts pumping almost immediately too, shoving Corin hard against the table they’ve thrown him over,
no thought to the aching and leaking cock that’s still straining between his legs.

But
that’s fine, because Corin feels pretty sure he’s going to come soon anyway. The guy’s cock is thick and hard and every thrust is butting it up against that place inside him, that sweet place, and when he turns his head just a little bit he can see the last guy—the one who hasn’t had his turn yet—stroking over his own prodigious erection.

“You wanna suck it a little?” he asks, and there’s something weird about that. Something weird and uncomfortable about being asked, as though force is now the only thing he understands.

But
then
the
guy
gets
a
fistful
of
his
hair
and
it’s better, it’s better. He’s stroking the tip of his precome-slicked cock over Corin’s lips, and that’s just fine.

“Come on, man, open up,” he says, and underneath the table Corin’s cock kicks. Pleasure jerks through his belly, low and too much.

“Fuck yeah,” the guy pounding away behind him grunts.

“Make him suck it—he goes tight when you make him.”

He
thinks
the
guy
with
the
cock
at
his
lips
doesn’t quite gather what the other one is talking about, but that’s OK. He gets it. He understands totally. When he parts his lips and lets a hot, hard cock sink into his mouth, it sends such a dirty gush of sensation through him that his body clenches, and the guy behind gets a better ride.

All
there
is
to
it, really.

“Ohhh God, yeah like that, oh suck it, you little bitch—you like that? You like his cock in your mouth and my cock in your ass?”

He
doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t, he can’t—but it’s OK. He doesn’t have to. The guy behind clutches at his hips, suddenly, then moans all long and guttural, before gasping that he’s coming, he’s coming.

And
then
there’s just that hot wet rush inside him, and the guy jerking and jerking almost right over his prostate, it seems.

Still
not
quite
enough
though.

“Hurry up and do his ass,” he spits to the guy with a cock still in his mouth, and is it weird if Corin finds himself thinking the same?

Hurry, hurry,
he
thinks, because he’s slick and raw and right on the edge, and a couple more thrusts of something heavy and hard against that little bundle of nerves inside him will send him right over. It’s bound to.

Especially
when
he
feels
how
big
the
third
guy
is. Bigger than he’d seemed in his mouth. Bigger than the other two and ohhhh he just slides in like a knife through honey. It’s glorious. It’s like nothing else he’s ever felt, and now it’s clear that the other two don’t need to hold him down.

He’s scrabbling at the table and panting for more before the guy’s even started thrusting.

“You want it,” the guy says, but Corin doesn’t deny it. He always wants it. He wants it in the middle of the day and the middle of the night, he wants it when he’s currying the horses and when he’s sewing rents in his slacks. He wants it even when he doesn’t want to want it, which is most of the time.

“Yes, God yes fuck my ass. Just fuck me, fill me up, come on,” he says, and then he jerks back against the guy’s cock because now that he’s free he can.

The
guy
grunts
in
surprise
but
he
doesn’t stop, he keeps right on fucking into him while the other two hoot about how much Corin needs a man to fuck him. Which he supposes is true, even if they don’t know that the man he wants to fuck him is actually a woman.

Your Majesty
, he thinks, and moans into the rough wood beneath him. God, she’d take him so hard, she’d fuck him just like this, and when she let her hand slide beneath his body to wrap around his cock, she wouldn’t do it the way this guy is doing it. Regretful, ashamed, like maybe she’d become sensible of doing something wrong.

No, she’d do it with a hint of triumph in her slick stroke. She’d be aware of how perfectly she’d broken him, and she’d use it against him even as she came apart over his sweat-streaked body.

And
it’s this thought that pushes him those final few inches. He feels his cock jerk in the rough grip around it, and the thick cock in his ass swells just as the guy grunts that he’s coming, and then ohhhhh, bliss.

Hot
waves
of
pleasure
surge
through
his
body, forcing every muscle to contract as they go. His teeth clench tight shut which keeps most of the noise in, but some escapes—his final protracted groan as he spurts onto the ground, and then the little stuttering gasps afterward.

Gasps of relief
, he thinks, because even though this was the worst and most seedy thing possible, it’s given him a respite. A respite from having to dream about her, and never have her.

He
feels
them
slapping
him
on
the
back
and
knows
what
they
mean—yeah, we get it. It’s hard for us too, you know. But they don’t really understand. It’s only hard for them in a peripheral sort of way, needing a woman, any woman sort of way.

Not
like
this. It will never be like this for them.

Because
every
day
he
wakes
up
sure
that
the
agony
has
gone, and every day it hasn’t.

***

It’s only when I’m done reading that I realize something bizarre. Corin hasn’t just
become
Cameron in my head. This story I wrote, over five years ago? It sounds like I wrote it
about
Cameron. It’s like a weird echo of the things he said to me in the bedroom, and the things I read about in his little tale.

With a heaping dose of man love, that is. God, there’s a helluva lot of man love in this thing. I don’t think I fully appreciated how it would all sound until I got halfway through, and now my face is burning and burning and I daren’t look up from the page to see their reactions.

Judging by the silence, their reactions range from flabbergasted to outraged.

“That was…” Wade starts, but Kitty cuts in. Kitty cuts in like a goddamn tornado.

“Holy shit—did you seriously write that, Allie? Did you—you know what? I have no words. Just bravo. Bravo,” she babbles, and then she applauds furiously.

Of course she does. I glance at her and she’s beaming like I just won the Nobel Prize for literature, over a story that would probably get me stoned in at least ten countries, then critically reviled in about seven hundred others.

Did I mention? She’s a peach.

“You’re stupid,” I tell her, and give her a shove, but she just throws her arms around me in response. Squeezes me so hard my ears pop.

“You’re a goddess,” she says. “I knew you had it in you.”

I don’t know what
it
is, exactly. The ability to write dirty, filthy sex? Well, whatever it gets close to it sure seems to have pleased Wade. Funny, because somehow I’d imagined he’d be awkward and uncomfortable about it but no, no. His grin has reached epic proportions, and he’s sprawled back in the armchair to Kitty’s right with his legs apart. As though to say
Yeah, I want you all to know I have an erection. I have absolutely no problems with weird forced man love whatsoever.

I think I go even redder than I was before, though it doesn’t seem possible.

“
Why
did you waste all those years writing about walls that eat people?” he asks. “
This
is your true calling, clearly.”