Telling Tales (16 page)

“You want me to hurt you?” I ask, and he sort of…shivers a little. So I add: “I won’t do anything drastic.”

“So no cutting, then?” he says, and though it sounds as if he’s joking, my heart still flutters inside me.

“I don’t think I could bring myself to really hurt you.” He smiles faintly at that.

“But maybe just a little. Maybe…some punishment. For the things I’ve done.”

“Things?” I ask.

“Come on. You know.”

“No, I don’t,” I tell him, though I’m lying, I’m lying. “Tell me.”

“Spying on you,” he says, after a moment, and I note how careful he is about it. No allusions to anything sexual. No dirtying his mouth with the bad words.

“Say it again, but filthier,” I tell him, and when I do I push hard against his thigh. I dig my heel in, but he just presses right back at me.

“I spied on you while you…” he tries. I can see him searching for the right word, the word that he has to use instead of a euphemism. “Touched yourself.”

“Hmmm,” I say. “I guess that was pretty bad.”

But it’s not true, it’s not true. When I think of the word
bad
I don’t think of Cameron at all. I think of Wade, instead, reading out that story as though he’d written it, instead of just stealing it from his friend’s life.

“So…” he says, then he just leaves the end of his sentence hanging there. Waiting for me to fill it in, most probably—waiting for me to order or demand or all of the things I’m completely not used to doing.

And, oh God, it’s Cameron, it’s Cameron—I can’t hurt him. I don’t want to bite him or flog him or spank him. I just want him to feel pleasure and know that it’s OK.

“So read out this story to me,” I say, and then I pass him his green book.

My arm stays in that position—reaching out to him with his words in my hand—for so long that the muscles start to protest. Clearly he was expecting something a little more…visceral. Something he wouldn’t have to think about at all, while his body and his senses took a pounding.

But somehow, a spanking just doesn’t seem torturous enough.

“You know I can’t do that,” he says, and I think of all the times he fumbled through stories about nothing. Stories about robotic people with no feelings and no desires. I think about how uncomfortable he seemed just hearing someone else read out a story that could have been his.

And I won’t deny it. I go watery and weak inside. My cunt clenches around nothing, and when I squeeze my thighs together such sensations floods through me. I’m wet already, and getting wetter.

“Really?” I say, but I think it’s the eyebrow that does it. I raise my eyebrow and he kind of flinches, expression suddenly tense and smoldering. “Because I could make you read it out in front of Kitty and Wade, if you’d prefer.”

It’s almost comical, the way he shakes his head. It’s just a little movement, as though he realizes mid-gesture that he shouldn’t be saying no.

“OK,” he says. “OK.”

But I can tell he doesn’t want to. When he takes the book from me his hands are shaking, and that little tremor gets worse the moment he sees the story I picked.

I didn’t even need to read it to know it was the right one. Its title is “Further” and the first line is
The
moment
she
makes
him
come
on
my
face, I know nothing will ever be enough.

Oh, he is a bad, bad boy inside, and I want more than anything to make him badder.

“Go on,” I say, and then I push my heel into his thigh again. Only this time, he gusts out a bunch of words for me to delight in, all tumbled one after the other in a great mess of everything he doesn’t want to admit.

“Yes, do that, do that while I do this.”

He needs something to ground him, I think. Hell—I need something to ground me. Cameron Lindhurst is going to read me a bedtime story about a guy coming on his face, and I have to somehow lie here, just listening.

Makes me wonder how long I’m going to be able to resist him. He’s already hard, of course, but it’s only when he pushes out the first words that I really start to notice how good his cock looks, outlined against those thin pajama bottoms.

“The moment she makes him come on my face, I know nothing will ever be enough. It tastes like him—arrogant and jeering as he kneels over me, his cock sliding slackly over my lips. And it tastes like my own debasement, so rich and thick I want to drown in it,” he says, jerking to a halt on some words. Spilling all over others.

And I don’t know whether it’s his hesitancy, or his clotted tone, or the words themselves, but either or all ways I moan freely. After all, what use is there for restraint in a moment like this? He cuts me loose with every tense second of his shame-filled resistance, and I can’t deny that I revel in it. I murmur his name, to hear him say: “Of course, she knows. She is smiling as she sits cross-legged at the end of the bed, and her eyes never leave mine. She wants what I want, I think—she wants
further
—and my cock swells to think of it. My cock is like a fist between my legs, and I don’t flinch or stir when the man she’s chosen for me wraps his hand around my length.

“He’s going to make me come now, I think. But I don’t let the idea penetrate to those deeper recesses of my mind—the ones that always tell me no, don’t, stop. I hover on the edges of them instead, as a rough and heavy hand slides down over my swollen dick.”

God, he thinks about
men
doing stuff to him. He thinks about some woman—some woman who is most likely me—forcing him to accept a man’s hand on his body. On his cock. All over his cock, stroking and pumping and, oh Lord, I think I might pass out.

But I hold myself together. I keep my expression aloof.

Or at least, I do until he says: “I can feel I’m going to come almost immediately, because it’s not the right thing. It’s not a woman’s hand, soft and smooth and feminine. It’s a man’s. He’s too big and squeezes the base off my shaft too tightly, and just when I think I can’t take anymore he slides his palm over the slick head of my cock, and rubs there softly.”

And then I just can’t stand it. I scramble across the bed as he forces himself through another paragraph, each arrangement of words getting firmer and more sure the longer he goes on. By the time he’s talking about this strange man sucking the swollen head of his dick, his voice is as clear and liquid metal as ever.

Though it wobbles a little, when I echo the man in his story.

It doesn’t take much. He doesn’t try to stop me. I just yank his pajama bottoms down and his thick cock springs free, already hard and leaking at the tip. I swipe my tongue over the slit, for starters, and he bucks his hips.

But he keeps on reading. It’s like hearing my favorite song playing over the top of what I’m now doing, all the fucks and cocks and comes running through me as I suck him deep. I want to choke on him, to feel him lose it in my mouth, and a sharp realization comes with those desires.

I’m not confined to telling him what to do. I can also tell him to do things to me.

“Fuck my face,” I tell him, and he hesitates. Of course he does. But when I put some steel in my voice I feel his hand go to the back of my head. I feel his fingers comb through my hair.

And then his hips rock forward and his cock slides over my tongue—not quite rough but certainly exciting.

“Can I stop, now?” he asks, and at first I think he means the thing he’s just started. His hand is tight in my hair and I can feel him bristling with the urge to thrust, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s always saying stop when he wants to go. He’s always running when he wants to stay.

Only then I realize—he means the story. He wants to stop reading the story. And though it’s glorious to hear and I’m slick between my legs because of it, I tell him yes. I don’t want stories anymore—I want the real thing. I want sucking and fucking and every dirty thing imaginable, and I guess I’m still thinking that when the bedroom door suddenly swings open.

I must be, because I don’t throw a sack over both of us and pretend we’re not doing what we’re obviously doing. My face doesn’t heat and I don’t let Cameron go when he immediately tries to make me.

I just keep very still, and right in the middle of this stillness I let my tongue curl out to catch the very tip of his cock, in one long, lovely lick.

“No, don’t,” he says, and his hands push at mine—the ones I’ve bunched into the material, at his hips. Of course the thing of it is—Cameron could easily force me away if he wanted to. He’s as big as a brick wall and twice as solid. His hands seemed to span the entirety of my head, when he finally dared to hold me and fuck my face.

But he doesn’t make much of an effort, here. He just kind of scrabbles at my clenched fingers, while Kitty stands in the doorway, watching.

To her credit, she doesn’t even try to go with some casual, breezy sort of thing. No
Hey, what are you guys doing in here?
No bubbly innocence. She just eyes us both like a person with a camera, bursting in to catch the dirty duo in flagrante delicto.

Only she hasn’t got a camera, and after a moment she stops simply standing there. She comes right in, and closes the door behind her.

“I told you. You never share things with me anymore,” she says, finally, and my body definitely jolts. I mean, there’s just such a double implication of the word
share
, isn’t there? It could suggest how nice it would be, to have a friendly little chat about the person you’re fucking, with your best friend.

And it could suggest something that makes Cameron very, very uncomfortable indeed.

“You
are
a big one, aren’t you?” she says, and it’s not just Cameron who shivers with arousal, this time. Slickness floods my already slippery slit, just to hear her talk in that naughty, teasing tone.

Of course I’ve heard her use it before. Through the darkness in our dormitory, as some guy panted between her legs and I pretended not to hear. But I can’t pretend right here and now. I can see every detail of her clearly: the way her little mouth has curled up into a smile on one side. The hand she has on her chest—like some oldie-timey lady getting ready to swoon.

Though everything about her is pretty far from swooning, I know. It’s Cameron who looks like he’s about to fall over, and for the second time he tells me “No.” As though he suspects some sort of plan behind all of this, some little scheme me and Kitty cooked up while he was busy being normal and decent.

Which seems crazy, until I think of his story again. The one he knows I read.

“What’s he saying no to?” Kitty asks, but oh she looks as though she understands, all right. Her mouth is now the very definition of the word
tease
, and she takes a step closer for every single one he tries to take back.

“He’s not saying no,” I tell her—though I swear, I try to stop myself. I try to feel jealous or weird about all of this, I do. It’s just that it won’t come, and before I can get a proper grip on myself more words spill out: “He has a safe word for that.”

Cameron snaps his gaze down to me, teeth clearly gritted, suddenly. And I guess it looks like anger, on him—his fingers press tight into mine and his body locks, like he’s about to do something bad.

Only the thing of it is—he doesn’t say the word. He doesn’t say the word that will stop this. And though Kitty squeals and dances a little closer, his erection doesn’t flag.

“A
safe
word,” she marvels, as though she’s never heard the term before—even though I know full well she has. “So, like, he could say no, while meaning yes?”

I think he tries to keep his expression simmering somewhere around anger, but if so he utterly fails. The moment she says
no
meaning
yes
, his eyes flicker wide and his body jerks toward me, that grip he’s got on my hands turning to water.

Somehow, I’ve got the feeling that she’s going to be much, much better than me, at this.

“Like, say, if I were to run my hand down over his ass in a way he wanted to pretend he didn’t like…”

I can’t even imagine what it is she does. It makes him put a fist into his mouth, at the very least—though from where I’m sitting it hardly looks like anything. She just runs a hand down behind him somewhere and then he’s clenching all over, even something as stupid as a pretend protest completely lost to him.

“Is that nice?” she asks, with just a hint of giggle in her voice. “I think he likes it, Allie!”

And it’s true, he does. A fat bead of precome wells up in the slit at the tip of his cock, and when it overflows and spills down the solid shaft she makes another giddy sort of noise. I can’t stop myself thinking, deliriously, that he had her so right—that it was her in his story, alongside me. It was her, all mean and innocent at the same time, and now she’s going to twist everything upside down and inside out.

“Oh that’s so nice of you, Cam,” she says, and I feel my cheeks heat for him. I know what she’s going to point out.

“Giving us something to lick up, like that. You want to lick it up, Allie?”

Our eyes lock, in that one burning moment. And then she asks, and it’s as though she’s communicating something to me. Something underneath the words, about the level of my consent.

“Or shall we both do it?”

Cam sags against my hands, his body practically fizzing. When he puts one heavy hand on my shoulder, it feels as though he wants to squeeze me down to nothing. Like he could just force this all away from him if he really tried.

Not that he seems to want to.

“I’ll hold him,” I tell her, and he groans my name. His eyes are closed, but I can almost feel him focusing on me. “And you suck him off.”

Kitty sighs, then—all bliss. I watch her sink to her knees by the bed, slowly, slowly—not like the jagged actions of the girl in the story, but no less arousing for it—and then she leans toward him. Mouth open, hands by her sides.

It’s like I’m one part of the body, and she’s the other. Like we’re two people strung tight together by the same purpose.