Telling Tales (14 page)

“So why did you?” I ask, even though there are a million other things I want to ask more.
Do
it
for
me
, I think.
Jerk
off
right
in
front
of
me, so I can see the glorious sight you denied me all those years ago.

“I think you could make me do just about anything,” he replies, right in the middle of my already hot thoughts. I’m suddenly boiling with the idea of him with his hand on his cock, watching me make myself come—God knows where.

God knows when.

And then he goes and says something like that too. It’s like a match, striking—I don’t mind admitting. It’s like my insides are suddenly alight, even in the cold mist of early morning.

“Good,” I say, and I say it fiercely. “Because I want to make you do anything. Right. Now.”

***

It’s weird, climbing the stairs together. Like we’re going to our deaths, or something—only in reverse. I suppose it’s because I’ve never done anything like this before, never come in after a date and led the guy I’m with upstairs. Tentatively taken our clothes off, you know.

All the kinds of stuff that happens on TV, but never in real life. In real life my dates are like miniature battles with my own inability to make conversation, and once they’re done and I’m sweaty and raw and bloodied from the fight, the guy will occasionally smash his mouth onto mine.

Somehow, I don’t think Cameron’s going to smash his mouth onto mine. I see him looking behind us instead, listening for the sound of the radio blaring in the study. The sound of Wade, being nowhere near us.

And then once we’re in his room, he shuts the door so carefully. Like he’s not sure if he should or not. Like he’s not sure if this is really going to happen, and is door shutting acceptable? Will I think he’s presumptuous?

I want to tell him he’s not presumptuous enough. He’s so big—he could just rip my clothes right off me. He could do anything he fucking liked, though maybe that’s the point. Why should he need to prove he can, when he’s so clearly and easily capable of it?

“What do we do now?” he goes with.

I swear, he couldn’t have asked a better question if he’d lived to be a thousand. It sounds so much like the words I would say that for a moment I’m sure there’s an echo. And I’m also sure that he makes me utterly giddy.

“Wanna get on the bed and roll around?” I ask, and oh he gets very close to grinning. Very close.

“Just like that, huh?” he says, but he’s a bit behind. I’m already clambering onto the big blue four poster, and for once I’m not in the least bit concerned about how my skirt is rucking up to show my enormous ass, or whether it’s cool or not that I’m wearing non-matching underwear.

It’s hard to do any of that normal stuff, when he looks like his seams are bursting. When he does something awesome like going to yank off his sweatshirt, before pausing mid-material wrestle.

“Do you…want me to take my clothes off? Or is that…too fast?”

I think about his cock in my mouth, the night before.

“We’re a little past too fast, don’t you reckon?”

He swallows visibly. Lets his gaze wander over my breasts, my almost spread legs, my face—before reining it back in.

“I don’t know. I’ve never gone too fast in my entire life. Usually I’m still at dinner and dancing at this point.”

I can’t help asking. He still has his elbow stuck in his sweatshirt.

“You take girls out to dinner and dancing? Do you visit the drive-thru afterward?” He flinches then, but I think I’ve hit the nail on the head. He’s not just like a politician. He’s like a politician from the 1950s. “Are you courtly? Do you give them courtly kisses on the wrist?”

Of course, as I say this I reach forward and put a hand between his legs. So I feel it takes some of the mocking sting out of it, you know? And if it doesn’t, well. He can have my other hand pushing up underneath his sweatshirt, just for good measure.

“Fuck,” he says, and I’m again reminded of how lewd it is, to hear Cam swear. To see his face sagging as I stroke him, nice and slow—in a way I’d never usually dare to. I can feel almost everything through the loose material of his sweatpants, and all of it weighs heavy and solid in my hand. The swollen outline of his tight-as-anything balls, the curve of his cock, and then just to be extra rude—I push two fingers down, down between his legs, and right over that strip of skin there.

Of course, he jerks. In fact, I think he starts jerking on an almost continuous loop. And he makes a little noise too, so that I just have to look up at him.

I’m not disappointed, when I do. He has one hand in his hair, and he’s watching what I’m doing avidly. Mouth open, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling—the works.

“Sensitive, there?” I ask, then stroke again. Just once, nice and firm.

He moans in reply.

“You’re so
easy
,” I tell him, and his eyelids sink lower over his eyes. His hips are rocking, just a touch.

Only then he says: “I didn’t used to be.”

“No?” I ask, as I roll the heel of my palm over his balls.

I like the little hitching sound he makes, the best. The one that’s almost a little
ah
, but not quite. His lips move around it, and his chest rises to push the necessary air to his vocal chords, but no real sound comes out.

It makes a flood of warmth go through me. It makes me squirm against the bed until my panties feel soaked and my clit feels as stiff as his prick looks, and I’m just waiting for more. I need more.

“I mean, I’m not. When I’m not around you. I barely even thought about sex, until I met you.”

“And then after you met me?”

“I started…masturbating too often.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know. Twice a day?”

“That doesn’t sound like a lot.”

He presses his lips together tight, then grinds the words out.

“OK. Maybe…maybe more like three or four times a day.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing here?”

This time, his frustration gets the better of him.

“Stop
asking
. Don’t ask. Just
tell
me.”

Of course, my immediate instinct is to ask another fucking question. Something along the lines of—
Is
that
what
you
like? You like to be forced, rather than make the decision yourself?
But really, there’s little point. And besides, I know the answer by now. I know it so well that instead of another question, some entirely different words come to my lips.

“Spread your legs,” I order him, and he does it. Just like that. He spreads his legs and I stroke further, harder, more. I get right between his legs—almost to the groove between the cheeks of his ass—and he moans unashamedly.

It’s the latter word, I think, that gets me.
Unashamedly.

For a second he’s not a politician from the 1950s, or someone who lies about how often he masturbates. He’s just a horny little fucker, trying to get more contact on various parts of his body.

By the time I get my hand all the way up inside his shirt to the tight little peaks of his nipples, he’s trembling. His tongue keeps coming out to wet his lips, and he’s breathing almost completely through his nose.

I pinch one small nub, and then fight the urge to ask a question.

“Tell me how it feels,” I say, instead, and oh the response is almost immediate. No hesitating, no blundering. Just a rush of words that go up and down the harder I pinch.

“It’s amazing when you do it hard.”

I trap his nipple between thumb and forefinger, in response. Tug at it, until he makes a sound like a whine.

“Yes, yes—just like that,” he says, and when I do it again his cock kicks against the material of his sweats.

“Tell me what else you want,” I say, because by God I’m getting the hang of this no questions thing. It’s easy, once you know how.

“Uh…uh…” he fumbles. He strokes his hand through his hair again, then squeezes a clump at the back into his fist. His eyes flicker back and forth, searching and searching for something.

“Tell me,” I say, fiercer this time. I squeeze the root of his cock as I do so, hard enough to hurt, and the ensuing grunt is exactly the same sound Wade made when he came all over my face.

But Cam doesn’t go over.

“Uh…I want to…” he starts again. Then when I mouth the shape of him through the sweats, he finishes with a flourish: “I want to return the favor. I need to return the favor. Right now. Before I come in my pants.”

A fresh rush of liquid floods my slit. I feel it happen, though I know it’s not for the words “return the favor.” I know exactly what he means, but it’s the
come
in
my
pants
that gets me.

All I can imagine, for a moment, is him jerking and groaning as he spurts against the material. As he soaks it, and makes himself all messy, and then afterward maybe he could look all shamefaced and awkward and
ohhhh
God
.

What’s wrong with me? Where has this kink come from? It’s got to be the worst kink in the world. Most women don’t fantasize about a guy creaming his pants. They fantasize about the
opposite
of that, of stallions going on forever and ever, shoving at them and fucking into them and—“Can I go down on you? You must be so worked up by now. Unless, you know, this doesn’t turn you on—which it might not. No one says you have to be turned on because you gave someone…oral sex. Or touched them, through their—”

“Cam—I’m really turned on, trust me. I’ve soaked my panties. I need to come so badly, I think I’ve started hallucinating.”

He makes a little desperate sound then. A
greedy
sound, I think.

“Then tell me to,” he says and, oh Lord, I’m lost. He’s clearly mad, but that’s fine. I don’t give a shit—I’ll tell him to do whatever he wants me to, and you know what? I’ll
love
it.

“Lick my pussy, Cam,” I say.

And then he just goes for it. He just goes for it, the way I had imagined him doing only a few minutes earlier. His arms tangle with my legs, briefly, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed by his size. He gets a knee on the bed and just looms over me, frankly, but I won’t say it isn’t exciting.

It’s incredibly exciting, and especially when he actually pushes his hands up my skirt and finds the elastic of my knickers.

He’s not clumsy about it, that’s the thing. He’s rushed and blustery, and the moment he gets a hold of my knickers he yanks too hard, but it isn’t
clumsy
. It’s raw and good and I think I actually moan when he practically rips my underwear off.

God, I must look a sight down there. I don’t think I’ve ever been this wet in my life, and the moment my knickers are gone I can feel the slippery liquid running between the cheeks of my arse. I can feel it sliding over my agonizingly sensitive clit, whenever I move my legs.

And I can see how greedy his gaze is, when he finally gets my legs apart and sees my cunt all spread open for him.

“Oh, Jesus,” he moans, then lower, hoarser: “Look how swollen your clit is.”

I blurt words out in response. Him being dirty like that
makes
me.

“Then get to it,” I say, and oh man there’s something so arousing about him just
doing
it
. He simply stoops down—big hands spanning my thighs—and tastes me, he actually tastes me.

As though I’m a particularly interesting vintage that he needs to just dabble his tongue in.

Though he doesn’t dabble for long. I see his tongue—long and red and oddly pointed—flicker between the folds of my sex, and then his eyes roll closed and his entire body sinks down over me and suddenly I can’t see anything at all, except for the top of his head.

But Jesus, can I
feel
it. Oh, it’s like I’ve never had someone’s mouth on me before. And he doesn’t just put his mouth on me either—he doesn’t just lick or suck or do that weird swirly thing my last boyfriend seemed to think was so awesome. He buries his face right into me, knee deep, and when I let out a little cry of absurd protest he goes for more. As though I’m going to stop him any second and he needs to take all he can while it’s on offer.

I swear, I never understood the term “eating out” until now. Licking pussy isn’t anything like eating out. There’s no chewing involved, and only the barest minimum of swallowing.

Or at least, that’s what I thought until Cameron Lindhurst decided to go down on me.

I think my back arches so violently that a vertebrae pops. Something makes a sound, at the very least. And when he spreads me open, oh God, when he licks over the flesh he’s made all smooth and taut with the pressure of his two scissoring fingers…I come close to a sob.

And I get closer still the moment he sinks those said same fingers right into me, all the way to the hilt.

It’s his knuckles, you see. They’re immense and…I don’t know. Brutal, somehow. And every time he slides his fingers back and forth, I can feel those big, bolt-like things dragging over some place inside me that didn’t previously exist.

I’m babbling his name before he’s even gotten around to licking my clit. Though I have to stop, after a moment, because the sounds I’m making are drowning out the sounds he’s making and oh, he’s definitely making them.

A great rumbling purr works its way up his body and out of his mouth, and it hums against my swollen flesh so exquisitely I could cry. And then just as I’m recovering from that, teetering on the brink of a glorious orgasm, he licks some tender place just to the right of my swollen clit and, dear God, I’m shaking.

I’m shaking all over in great spasms, as though arousal now makes me have some kind of fit. Though in my defense, I
have
been denied too long. I think I was starting to forget what another person’s hands on me felt like, and I’ve
definitely
forgotten what a tongue feels like.

Though I don’t think I’ll ever forget
this
tongue. He licks all around my clit in tender little strokes, so careful that I’m left completely unsure as to how he’s doing it. How is it possible to touch everything
but
my swollen bud? It feels immense, it feels like it’s throbbing, oh God, I just need him to touch it.