“And then she turned around, and that warm pulse of arousal he’d felt while stroking her silky things over his body became a sharp kick. A warning—if he didn’t do something soon, he was going to spurt in his jeans just like that.
“She looked more amazing than he’d ever imagined. He could see it now—the clothes she wore were too shapeless. They hid the full, perfect curve of her hips and the neat way they nipped in at her waist. The slight swell of her belly looked smooth and warm and infinitely caress-able, and though her legs didn’t have a lot of length, there was something about them—something sweet and inviting.
“She’d barely be able to get those things around his big body, and the thought was exciting. As though she was both solid and real, easily grope-able and always promising a soft sensuality, but also small and quite fragile.
“The contrast made him want to groan, and he put a fist to his lips. She’d started taking off her bra and any moment he was going to get to see her breasts—the object of many of his fantasies. He’d often imagined covering her in something slick, then easing his swollen cock between those two soft mounds, but the image was so much clearer, here. It was so close he could almost taste it, but he resisted.
“He didn’t move, or make a sound. Not even when she suddenly slipped a hand beneath the material of her panties, and rubbed slowly over her almost visible pussy.”
He looks up from the story, then, but I can’t look back. Mainly because I’ve covered my face with my hands and am only watching through the cracks between my fingers. Of course, I still know he’s grinning. He’s grinning underneath his stupid designer stubble and, when he continues, he sticks his tongue, lewdly, into the hollow cup of his cheek.
Then Cameron interrupts in a suddenly heated tone, and I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m starting to lose my ability to make sense of things.
“Maybe you should tell a different story, Wade,” he says, almost like a warning, but Wade just kind of winks at him and carries right on.
“She was wet. He could tell she was, because even from all the way over in the bathroom, he could hear the slick sounds her fingers made as they parted things he wanted to part, and did things he wanted to do. The urge to open the door and just go to her went through him, but he held it in check. She’d never forgive him, if he revealed himself now.
“Not now that she’d spread herself out over her bed, fingers busy beneath the thin material, free hand on one plump, gorgeous breast. From this vantage point, he had a complete view of the place between her spread legs, and when she frigged herself a little more vigorously or slid two fingers inside her tight pussy, the strip of material covering her mound slid to one side to reveal little tantalizing glimpses.
“He couldn’t help sliding a hand over the pulsing ridge of his erection. At first he went with something small and unassuming—the heel of his palm pressing down hard and almost cruelly. But once she started moaning and squirming on the bed, those little glimpses of glistening flesh getting clearer and clearer, he couldn’t stop himself.
“He’d never particularly thought of himself as a sexual person—he rarely felt anything above a mild arousal and masturbation wasn’t top of his list of fun things to do—but the heat coursing through his body was undeniable, irresistible. It was as though a strange force had gripped him, and was inciting him to slide a hand inside his jeans and stroke over his stiff and swollen cock.”
I swear to God, I jump right out of my skin when Cameron interrupts this time. Even Kitty jolts a little, in the middle of doing whatever it is she’s doing—that’s how loud he suddenly is.
“I really think you should stop now, Wade,” he says. But Wade doesn’t.
“It took only the slightest touch—just his thumb on the slippery tip—to bring him off. He felt it like an avalanche, like something breaking inside him, uncheckable pleasure jerking upward from his straining cock to some place low and deep in his gut. Great spurts of come covered the insubstantial cup of his hand and then flowed messily outward, to stain the inside of his jeans. He could feel his body straining, strung too taut, while all of her cries of pleasure echoed every sound he wanted to make.
“It was only afterward he realized these sounds had made him bite down hard enough to draw blood, on his still-clenched fist.”
He puts the pages aside, but nobody says anything. It’s as though he hasn’t finished, as though there has to be more, despite the buzz of relief that seems to be going through all of us, to have heard it come to an end.
And yet when Kitty sits up quite suddenly—blouse partially unbuttoned and blonde hair a mussy halo around her head—and says: “So did she catch him?”
I’m echoing the sentiment inside. It’s the first thing I want to know, and it feels weird to understand that this is the only time I’ve ever been so desperate to get to the end of something Wade has written. As though all of his other stories somehow pale in comparison to this—whatever this is.
“Tune in next week to find out,” he says, though I’m sure he’s lying. There are no more words left on the page. He’s drained them all dry and left us wanting more, even though I’m clenching my nails into my palms with the weird awkwardness of all of this and Cameron is bristling to the right of me, somewhere.
I glance at him and he looks…I don’t even know what he looks like. Pissed on Cameron isn’t the same as pissed on anyone else. He doesn’t frown or grind his teeth, though I can see he’s pulled his lower lip right into his mouth in this mean sort of way. And I think his cheeks are a little flushed, even though that seems impossible.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him blush—so I guess that’s it. He must be embarrassed, in some fashion. I’ve never heard him talk about sex frankly, and he certainly doesn’t seem to want to talk about it now. In fact, before Kitty’s even done pressing Wade for more, Cam has gotten up out of his seat and left the room entirely.
And I can’t help glancing after him, as he goes.
Chapter Three
Of course I can’t sleep. I try, but it’s impossible with Wade’s story on my brain, and then in the kitchen, later on, him hugging me from behind. Him whispering in my ear: Did you like the story?
I felt like saying Nooooo, I hated it. I wish it would die a horrible, untimely death, and then I could just stop thinking about it forever and ever, amen.
But instead I had just gone all hot and cold like an idiot, feeling his much-bigger-than-they-used-to-be arms around me, and smelling his rainy days smell as though no time had gone by at all. Only the thing is, back then he wouldn’t have whispered something like that in my ear. No—I don’t think he would have.
Because…and here’s the kicker…it was definitely suggestive. There was something suggestive about it—I can’t deny that fact. His breath had been all hot and moist against the side of my face and my throat, and his voice had held a little burr of something delicious right down low, right from the deepest darkest place inside him.
My clit had jerked to that sound before I’d even had chance to process it. His hand had spread over my chest—so achingly close to my right breast—and he’d pulled me so tight against him, so tight I could have rubbed my ass into the curve of his body and maybe felt something else that possibly maybe could have been there.
It was there on Cameron, I think. I don’t want to face it too head-on because there’s this weird barrier in my mind, this weird urge not to embarrass him any further even though he’s never going to know I saw something just as he passed me by. But he’s a big guy, and, well, it’s not as though sweatpants hide a lot. And neither does kind of bending over and moving fast.
Christ. Why the fuck am I thinking about Cameron’s possible erection in the first place? I’ve got sex on the brain. I’ve got sex on top of me and all over me and in the tiny grooves between my higher thought processes. Wade has poisoned me with his stupid, ridiculous story and now all I can thi
nk about are cocks and sweatpants and maybe getting up and going to Wade’s room.
A blush storms my entire body whenever I let myself entertain the notion, but the notion is there nonetheless. I mean—that’s what he was saying, right? He was being suggestive. He was suggesting I get up and go to his room in the middle of the night—or maybe slightly earlier than that, because I’m sure he didn’t imagine it would take me three hours to stew over all of this—and maybe talk for a little while. You know, about old times.
And then after all the talking: fuck his brains out. Just fuck and fuck and fuck his brains out. Hell, if he wants me to masturbate on a bed while he spies on me from the bathroom, we can do that too. I’m feeling loose-limbed and lax and up for anything, even as the neurotic side of me tries desperately to cling to my teetering mind.
He doesn’t want you that way, the teetering side says. He was just being friendly.
Only I know there’s something new here, now, and it isn’t exactly holding hands and sharing tales of happy pigs. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s almost as though I can feel it charging through the walls of this house—between his room and my room and probably Kitty and Cam’s rooms too—when I put my hand on the smooth, cool surface above my bed. Like we’re all connected down this great red hallway we’ve picked as our living space, every buzzing molecule in our bodies breathing life into the Professor’s weird old place.
It’s even something weird—like the thought of the lush crimson carpet out there, gathering between my bare toes—that urges me up, and out of bed, and down toward Wade’s room. His is the fourth door on the right—mine is first, then there’s a bathroom, then comes Cam’s room, and Kitty’s picked one of the rooms opposite—and I know before I even get to it that it’s open. I can see a slither of blue through the crack, because Wade’s room is all navy curtains and swirling sky-colored rugs, though it’s not those things I’m paying attention to.
No, God, no.
I’m paying attention to the sounds of people fucking. Obviously, vigorously fucking. And for a long, long, frankly pain-stricken moment, I’m not sure what to do. I could keep going toward the door, clearly, and uncover exactly who’s doing the fucking in question. But that just seems like asking for heartache, because really there are only two options.
Either that weird tension between him and Cam was actually intense sexual attraction and they’re both in there doing each other in the ass, or else it’s the far more likely option. Kitty snuck across the hallway well before I ever even considered it, and now she’s in the middle of a marathon sex session with the object of all my hopes and dreams.
God, I hate that he’s the object of my hopes and dreams. I hate Kitty for one bright, burning, selfish second, because she’s brave and I’m not, and she’s lovely and I’m not, and she doesn’t have to be a eunuch for the rest of her life, and I somehow do.
And then I get to the door with my mind this boiling cauldron of stupid ideas—like how I’m going to barge in and accuse Wade of cheating on a girlfriend he doesn’t actually have, or accuse Kitty of betraying a friend over something she doesn’t even know about, or have some kind of ridiculous meltdown where I say words that aren’t even really English, just the blind tumbling result of my stupid heartache—and I just can’t do any of it. I can see them through the crack in the door, and I have to simply stand there and watch my hero twisting into some pretty incredible shapes with a person who is not me.
I have to watch him lift both of her legs over his shoulders until she’s almost bent double on the bed, and then pound into her as though sex is going to disappear tomorrow. Whoever invented fucking is going to revoke everybody’s license, and from then on we have to spend our days shaking hands or violently waving.
I wish I’d done more than that in the short window of sex we all had. For one far too long and not-quite-agonizing second, I find myself gazing at them with my mouth actually open. Heartache falls by the wayside in the face of this, because by God I’ve never seen a man flip a woman like that. He just gets hold of her hips and somehow she’s on her front, even though I’m sure such a move should have dislocated her hip.
Of course, I’ve seen things like this in porn. I’m aware that most people have more athletic sex than I’ve ever had. But even so, it’s different when it’s close up. It’s different when it’s only inches away from me, and I can see the look on Kitty’s face when she turns it to one side and bites at her own arm.
She looks like someone who realizes there’s going to be no more sex tomorrow. She looks desperate and blissed out and she’s making this noise—this ah ah ah noise—that I can hardly stand to hear. It forces unwanted feelings through my body, and I know they’re there because I just have to squeeze my legs together against them.
God, what must it be like to feel that way? To have someone pounding into you over and over again, so hard I can see her little cupcake breasts bouncing beneath the curve of her body, and when I dare to flick my attention to Wade I can make out every muscle in his tensing stomach, all ab-tacular and hard as anything and fuck, fuck.
This is too much. Did he look this way, before? He had a good, strong swimmer’s body, I know that much. But I can’t recall him being so hairy or having those ropey, muscular arms or those actual high, firm pecs. He looks so rippling, so hard-bodied—though I suppose the overall effect is added to by the sheen of sweat all over him. It’s as though he slid out of the pages of Men’s Health only five seconds earlier, and I’m not ashamed to admit I can’t take my eyes off it.
Though maybe it’s partly because I don’t want to look at the two most obvious eye-magnets: his cock, and his face. If I look at his cock or his face, I swear I’ll die. He’s saying some pretty dirty things—Take it, take it, you little slut, among others—and that’s enough all on its own. It’s enough to make me press my legs together tighter, tighter, and I can feel I’m sweating through my pajamas, I know I am, I know any second I’m going to touch myself like the guy in Wade’s story.
And then I look up at his face—just as Kitty says something disgusting like Ohhhh yeah, fuck my slick cunt—and of course he’s staring right at me. Of course he is. He’s staring right at me as he fucks her, this look on his face like something the Devil would do on realizing he’s corrupted another innocent soul, and I back right up in a hurry until I crack my shoulder blades against the wall.
I realize I’m breathing hard. Probably hard enough for Kitty to hear, if she takes a second in between ordering him to Fuck her pussy harder, goddammit. I almost laugh hearing my little pixie girl being such a bossy-boots in bed, but then my mind flashes on Wade’s grinning, mischief-lit face again and I’m too shocked to get the sound out. I think I’ll be too shocked to make a sound tomorrow, actually. In fact, I think I’m too shocked to ever make another sound from now until the end of time, because God I don’t know how I feel about any of this.
I can’t even find bitterness, anymore, which seems very odd indeed. Instead I just seem all juiced up with too much sex, and when I try to walk back toward my room all I can manage is a kind of vague slide along the wall.
Of course it’s only once I’m tucked back in my bed, staring at the ceiling like a ghost of myself, that I actually dare to admit what I wasn’t sure I’d seen before.
He beckoned me in. He jerked his head in the universally accepted gesture for “come on in, the water’s fine.” And then he winked, and I broke my back against the hallway wall, before slithering back to my room like the proper little eunuch I am.
Of course, the sleeping situation is even worse now. I catch myself staring at the alarm clock I brought with me—the one I’ve perched, incongruously, on the ornate dresser in the corner of the room—watching the neon numbers flick by, one at a time. 4:36 a.m. 4:37 a.m.
Jesus, what a nightmare. So typical, too—of course he’s fucking Kitty! Of course he is. I come here hoping for one thing, and get a face
full of that instead. With possible weird threesomes thrown into the bargain. And then in the insane aftermath I get my body humming like an overheated tractor, everything between my legs all swollen and heavy and obviously soaked.
In fact, I think I’ve soaked through my pajama bottoms. Whenever I move everything feels wet down there, though I don’t want to move because when I do my clit sparks and my pulse beats slow and heavy all the way through my sex and the urge to masturbate is just incredible.
But I won’t, I won’t, because I’m heartbroken. And because it’s weird. And because I’m going to keep telling myself those two things until I utterly believe them.
God I wish I wasn’t so horny. And so thirsty too. A night of pacing in my head has left me dry-mouthed, and while horny’s worse, thirsty means I’ll have to get up and pass the dreaded room of sex again. No doubt they’re still going at it, only this time the door will be wi-i-ide open and I’ll have to see him perpetrating other insane things too, like doing her in the butt with a dildo while he fucks her pussy with his cock.
Oh, there’s no end to the depravity my mind can conjure up. It conjures it as I’m passing Wade’s closed door, by telling me that it’s only closed so he can nail her up against it. And then when I get to the bottom of the stairs and hear sounds from the living room, it tells me they’re doing it on the sideboard.
The faint noise I can hear? Plates rattling.
Even though it sounds much more like papers being shuffled. And then someone gives what sounds like a little muffled cough and I almost jump right back up five steps all at once, because apparently I’ve turned into this nervous nelly and every little thing makes me want to jerk right out of my own skin.
It’s the house, I think. It’s not just the sex and the weird feelings and the meeting up with old friends. It’s the house, which seems so dark and coated in shadows even with the upstairs hallway light on, and the faint glow coming from the living room.
Telling Tales Page 4