The Things That Make Me Give In (7 page)

Brett is still soft and slick inside her ass when his friend gets there, lacing her tits and her open mouth with tiny stripes of come. They make delicious patterns on her skin.

And then, oh, then, they clean her, their tongues working into every crack and crevice before finally coming to her tender clit, lapping at it gently in unison, just as they had promised. Their fingers work inside her pussy and her ass, stroking every last drop of their come from her body, coaxing a fresh spurt of her own cream for them to taste.

She moans long and loud for them, pressing their faces to her aching cunt, giving up everything to all of these lovely questions and answers, and the games they play to make them easy.

‘Why do you have to do that?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘Do what, my darlings?’

‘Act like you don’t like us. Do you really not like us, Lacey?’

‘We can be different. We try to do exactly like you want.’

‘And you do, you do,’ she tells them. She pets them. She kisses their still gleaming foreheads.

‘So how come you have to act like you don’t like it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Because it’s fun, my boys. It’s more fun for me, that way.’

They both look so confused. They looked the same way the first time she instructed them in how to fuck her at the same time. How they could all play together – wouldn’t that be nice? And they do think it’s nice. They’re so boisterous when it’s game time, so suddenly clever. They tick all the right boxes and raise their hands at all the appropriate times.

Of course, Brett almost got it all wrong when he offered to take her blindfold off. Too nice, no good, bad boy! And sometimes they almost forgot when to touch what and how. But other than that, it was a very good show all round.

And if they’re sometimes confused afterwards, that’s OK too. Because they’re her big dumb tons of fun. They’ve probably forgotten whatever they were confused about before, anyway. Like goldfish, who think Iraq is in France and don’t understand it when coach says anything other than ‘Get the ball and run’.

‘What game can we play tomorrow, Lacey?’

‘Yeah, what game tomorrow? Can we do Twister, again? Please?’

‘Yeah, please?’

She strokes the soft fine hair on their heads as they look up at her with their big lunkhead cow’s eyes. So sweet and trusting, her boys. What would she ever have done if she hadn’t found them, trying to jerk off in the men’s locker-room showers, asking each other what they’d do if they finally got to have sex with a real woman.

Women can be so unkind to big stupid jocks. It’s not their fault that they have more muscles than brains. More cock than brains, too.

‘No, my darlings,’ she tells them, as they shelter her lithe little body with their big solid ones. ‘No, tomorrow we’ll play something different. Tomorrow I think we’ll try Spin The Bottle.’

It’ll take an age to explain the rules, but as today’s test has proved – oh, it will be worth it.

TODAY, IT’S HIS
turn. He knows it’s his turn, though I think he’s hiding from me. But a deal’s a deal and we pricked our thumbs and put them together and now we have to. It’s sworn in blood, too bad, bub.

But then I find him in the bathroom – just the boring old bathroom, brushing his teeth, half starkers – and giddy excitement bubbles up inside me. He isn’t hiding at all. He’s giving me his best sleepy, sultry look, over a mouthful of foam and fire-engine-red toothbrush.

He brushes the vanilla milkshake skin of his belly, his chest, just to say to me: look how hot I am. Look what a studly young body I have. Aren’t you glad I swim every day?

And I am glad. I’d be glad if he got just a little bit fat, though, and then maybe I wouldn’t have to make stupid deals with him. Though I don’t think that it’s stupid, not really. Nothing is stupid with him. And I think I’d make the deal anyway, whether he was fat or not.

I want to.

I want to so much that I stroll up behind him, and rub my groin right up against his ass. He’s only wearing these little thin pyjama bottoms, and I can almost feel his skin through them. I practically hear him swallow.

‘What are you going to ask me to do first?’ he asks, and he puts a hint of laughter and some tension in his voice, for spice.

‘Oh, I see. Worried now, are we?’

But he just shrugs in that amiable sweet way he has, and I see his face in the bathroom mirror. Always smiling and open, completely open. The only time I’ve ever seen him look serious is when we had to hide out in that old abandoned warehouse at the edge of town, just as the rain crashed down. And we had sat by a dusty window on tarpaulin, and listened to it make music on the tin roof.

And he had leant in and said, ‘I love you, Lois. I love you with all of me.’

I’d never make this deal with any other guy, I swear it. I don’t think he’d make this deal with any other guy, either. But that’s a whole other set of twists and kinks.

Some of which I might explore today, my whole day, spread gloriously before me. I’ve planned it out, though, every inch of it, as I know he has his day. And yeah, it might have been cool to go spur of the moment, give it that extra kick of the sudden and unexpected.

But it’s enough that it’s going to be sudden and unexpected to him.

I bet he knows what I’m going to ask for first, however. It’s the one he’ll never do. The one he balks at. Every. Single. Goddamned. Time.

‘You’re a stranger,’ I say, and then I wait, right on the edge of my seat, for him to say the magic sworn-in-blood word.

I know he hesitates. He teeters. His tongue touches his upper teeth. So maybe we’re not there yet. Maybe we don’t trust each other enough; maybe he’s afraid. I know I am. My heart is suddenly rattling in its cage.

‘Yes,’ he says finally. ‘Yes.’

Of course, he knows my fantasy inside out. I’ve told him it enough times, when all wrapped up in each other, sticky and hot and trembling. I think it excited him, the idea, though only because I was telling him a dirty story.

Sometimes he likes me to read out a bit of the latest steamy
thing I’m reading, just to get himself all worked up. And I try, for him, I do.

But until now he’s never tried this for me. It makes him nervous, I know. Once we did something like this routine in a bar, him playing the hottest guy in there, hitting on me. He couldn’t stop laughing and being his usual gawky self – it fell apart quickly.

But now it can’t fall apart. And it can’t be something small and safe. There’s no point in demanding he say yes to something if it’s small and safe and about to fall apart.

I get back into bed – all fresh and fragrant and not like I’ve just been asleep, but we’ll allow the artifice – and I snuggle right down. I’m too excited to actually snooze, but I think I do a good approximation.

Eyes closed, no peeking, Lois.

And then, oh, then, I hear him creeping into the bedroom.

He’s a big boy, so it’s hard for him. But he’s limber and determined – I hope – so he manages. He manages exactly as I had described. No foul-ups. No half-baked attempts.

I’m already wet. My nipples are hard points beneath the silk of this flimsy shift thing I know he likes – hey, I have to give him something, right?

I’ll admit it – I’m worried it won’t give him a rise in quite the way I’d like. It wasn’t so long ago that his watch snagged my hair while we were really fucking each other like lunatics, and it didn’t hurt and it wasn’t a mood-killer for me, but it was for him.

Of course, he recovered quickly. He’s a horny fucker, and no power on earth can make him lose it for long.

But I suppose wondering if he will adds that extra tension. He could lose it. He could call the whole thing off.

But even as I’m thinking so the covers at the end of the bed stir. The mattress dips just a little. I can hear his breathing, just a touch unsteady, and I wonder what I look like to him: dozy and contemporary, just waiting to wake up into chick-lit land,
or Renaissance and romantic, hair spread dark and thick across the pillow. The turn of my cheek, one dewy eyelid closed.

I don’t think I’ll look lovely, exactly, but soft. Inviting, maybe. I tremble at the thought of myself.

It’s just as I imagined – the stranger, finding my bedroom door open. Unable to resist slipping into my bed. Doing things to me while I’m still oblivious. Of course in real life I would probably notice right away, but in the fantasy . . . oh, in the fantasy I want to stay oblivious for as long as possible.

When his big hand closes over my ankle, I almost give a little scream, it’s so real. Fantasy shifts into reality and back again, leaving me unable to hold on. I had thought that I might break, and laugh, but that’s not the case – he’s too quiet. Too stealthy. Too good.

His hand slides up, to my knee. All these little sensitive nerve endings glitter and stand up in its wake. His breathing gets heavier and heavier, making a hot cocoon beneath the covers, and the nerve endings appreciate that, too.

Now his hand is on my thigh – two hands on both of my thighs. He pushes them apart so that he can make his place between.

I cheat, and help him. I have to. I’m about to burst with excitement, not just because of the scenario but for the little present I’ve made for him. He probably won’t be able to see it in the dimness under the covers, but he’ll feel it soon enough.

I wonder if he’ll feel it with his hands or with his mouth. Suspense isn’t agony, it’s ecstasy.

And then his fingertips just ghost over the plump purse of my sex. His reaction is immediate and involuntary, as is my reaction to the sound he makes: a long low groan that forces my hips to lift.

I’ve heard him groan like that before, with that note of surprise and almost despair in it. Like he’s sinking right down into a pit made up of me. He did it back when we were just friends and fooling around, and I felt his erection rutting up
hungrily against my thigh, and decided that what he should get in return for this accidental over-excitement was a lovely long blow job.

Though it didn’t last long at all. I still remember his apology with joy in my heart and a rush and shiver in my sex:
I’m sorry, I’ve just been so horny all weekend, watching you tease me in those tiny clothes
.

The clothes weren’t tiny, and I hadn’t known I was teasing him. But I was only too happy to oblige, once all his cards were on the table.

And look how obliging I’ve been here now. I don’t think it’s one of his particular kinks, but all men like a bit of bare pussy, don’t they? Easy access, I suppose. Or maybe he’s wondering if I’ll ask him to do the same thing, and that’s what’s piquing his interest.

He strokes me softly, reverently. Tests out this new exposed flesh.

I’m betting he wants to look, but that’s not allowed, just yet. I’m meant to uncover him, not the other way around, so he has to be content with mapping my denuded pussy with his fingertips.

And his tongue. He licks me suddenly, first down one side, and then the other, avoiding the slit in the centre. But it’s OK, because he really doesn’t need to hit dead on the target right away. My new bareness is very sensitive and likes his lapping.

I squirm for him. I squirm, and he parts my pussy lips with just the tip of his tongue, made hard and pointed. He opens me up. He’s just trying me out.

I think he might be waiting for me to demand more – he usually does – but he won’t get it this time. He has to make me come alive, he has to make me wake up. This isn’t about teasing.

Or, at least, it isn’t about teasing me. I think it’s already getting pretty hard on him. And I’m sure of it, when he presses his mouth right against my pussy suddenly. His thumbs tuck
into that notch where my thighs meet the beginnings of my mound, and his fingers spread wide, holding me firmly and wholly.

And then his tongue slides and parts and rubs against me, making spirals and twists right where I’m wettest, dipping into my aching-around-nothing hole before making its way up to my clit. My clit that can hardly stand it. He groans again, his mouth vibrating against my aching flesh, and I know why. It’s because my clit is like a bead – it’s stiff and standing up and waiting for his slippery caress.

He gives up his licking for just a second so that he can feel it with his fingers. He strokes gently, curiously, and hot sparks flash over me. He knows I can hardly take it when he touches the tip, the place where my clit is barest and most exposed. But, oh, it feels so good that I only just bite back a moan.

And then he laps back and forth, nice and quick, and eases his long fingers into me, and I come for him, just like that. I almost praise him by name when I do, too. My hips buck and my teeth chatter and I cream for him just the way he likes.

But now comes the best part.

I’m not a very good actress, but it isn’t hard to squeal and try to shut my legs. And I can’t be that bad because, when he shoves the covers off and I feign fear and demand to know who he is and what he thinks he’s doing, he looks hurt and torn.

Torn, I think, because he’s hugely aroused. I guess my bare slippery pussy guaranteed that.

‘No, don’t,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t.’

In response, his expression suddenly flashes into irritated. Sulky, even. It works well and, even better, he snaps at me, ‘What’s the matter? Didn’t you like that? I think you did, and now it’s my turn. That’s only fair, right? That I get my turn.’

It’s exactly what I told him I wanted him to say, but there’s real conviction in his voice. It makes me shiver and shake anew. It makes my legs want to fall open instead of fighting against his big hands as they force them back apart.

‘You can’t even help wanting it, can you, huh? Look at how wet you are. How flushed. Has no one ever made you come with their mouth on your pussy?’

His cock bobs when he gets that one out. I once told him that very thing, after the first time he went down on me. It made him crazy for it. It made him want to do nothing but eat out at the restaurant of Me. It made him say things I’d never heard a man say before: ‘I love licking your clit. I love the taste of your cunt.’

The word ‘cunt’, used by a man to mean something gorgeous and powerful.