Telling Tales

by Charlotte Stein

  I think I worry right through my lower lip. My heart pounds in time with every single no Cameron utters, and by God there are a lot of them. They get louder and louder in volume too, but still, still he doesn’t use the word. He doesn’t try to get up or walk out and I’ve got to say—even I’m willing him to do any or all of the above, by now.

  I don’t want him to be hurt. I don’t want anything to hurt him—not ever.

  “You can’t be serious,” Wade says, in that buttery voice of his—the one he uses to oil his way out of any tricky situation.

  “I mean, I know what you guys were doing.”

  I had wondered. What exactly does rimming sound like, through a door?

  “And there’s just no way I’m going to do that.”

  Thank God, I think, though I’m pretty sure my brain speaks too soon. Because a minute after the words drift behind my eyes, Kitty sinks back onto the bed. All neat pointed toes and Playboy pin-up posing.

  “Well,” she says. “I guess Rudolph won’t be playing any reindeer games tonight.”

  Lord in heaven, I think she’s made out of pure bonkbuster. It’s like Jackie Collins wrote her. It’s like Jackie Collins wrote her as the person I want to marry most, in all the world. I’m sniggering without even meaning to, for God’s sake. Wade is looking at me like he wants to kill me, and I’m still sniggering.

  “Hey, Cameron,” she says, while her devil’s eyes stay on Wade. “You want to fuck me, now? Oooh, no—I bet I know what you want. I bet you want to line me and Allie up on the bed, and then take turns. First you can slide that big, delicious cock of yours in her tight little cunt—and oh, you know she’ll be so tight and sweet—and then you can try mine.”

  I don’t mind admitting it: pleasure gushes through me. And I think it goes through Wade too, because his mouth comes open and his gaze flicks down to Cameron, just as Kitty adds: “It’ll be like pin the tail on the donkey. Only with orgasms.”

  She is very, very bad. And getting badder by the second.

  “And if I do that,” Wade says, after what is possibly the longest pause in history. “If I do…something to him—” Oh God he knows. He definitely knows she means rimming. “—you’ll let me have that?”

  He glances at me then. Something like despair on his face, I think.

  “Will you let me fuck you, Allie?”

  I picture what Kitty described: me and her, lined up on the bed. Waiting to be filled, waiting to be fucked, both of us moaning and begging, most probably. And the thing of it is—all I can see is Cameron. So I suppose it’s doubly cruel of me to say, finally: “Lick him there, and I just might.”

  ***

  I expect him to ask for something more, in return. I mean, me and Kitty are going to get a show. It seems only fair that he gets one too.

  Only he doesn’t so much as demand we snog each other, while he actually puts his face in a place I’ve only been once before. I’ve never even licked someone’s arsehole, prior to this moment, so it seems like an almost impossible ask of a man like Wade.

  But after he’s palmed his face a few times, and maybe taken a few deep breaths, and also ripped off his shirt like the Incredible Hulk, so that me and Kitty are fully aware of how manly he is before he does this…he manages to stroke one hand down Cameron’s extremely solid flank.

  Of course, Cameron bucks like a rough-ridden stallion and tries to get away. But I’ve got to say—he doesn’t try that hard. He gets about as far as a hand on my thigh, gripping tight, too tight to bear, and then he burns a stare right at me until I can’t look away.

  I want to watch what Wade does. I do. It’s just that it’s impossible with Cameron in front of me, his expression so muddled by tension and anger and heated, unquestionable greed that I think it melts me on the spot. He wants this, I think, he wants it in some feral, retaliatory sort of way, and I won’t deny that I take some pleasure in it too.

  This low, mean sort of smile spreads across his face—slow, like burning syrup—and it’s so delicious I want to taste it. I want to taste it while Wade licks long and wet over the rudest place on his entire body, and I do.

  I just lean right down and kiss his mouth, expecting something soft, I think. Something tentative. But in truth I think he passed soft and tentative about three hours ago, because what I get is a lot like having my mouth eaten off.

  He bites me—he actually bites me—and I can hear every moan and sigh passing through his body and into me. Though it only occurs to me that he’s doing to me what Wade’s doing to him when he licks into my mouth—dirtily, wetly—and finally drags me down until I’m almost beneath him.

  And then he fucks me with his tongue, the way Wade is fucking him. I know he does, because I can hear Kitty moaning that Wade is such a dirty bastard.

  “Go on, go on—lick him right there,” she says, as Cameron all but grunts into my mouth. I think about how aroused he was before, how close to coming, but then suddenly I don’t have to imagine anymore.

  He pushes forward when Wade does something particularly dirty, and I feel his thick, slick cock slide against my thigh. Of course he backs off almost immediately, but that just means I get to see his face again. So flushed, and lust-slack, and mine. All mine.

  “Does that feel good, baby?” I ask, and this time he doesn’t need anything else. He doesn’t need me to demand. He just answers, breathlessly, that it feels incredible.

  While his hands pull and tug at my pajamas.

  “I want you,” he tells me. “I want you.”

  And I swear, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything finer. I help him get me out of my clothes, all in a frantic rush, the strength of whatever Wade’s doing making him sloppy. Hell—it’s making me sloppy. I can hear the slick sounds of Wade’s mouth as he gets greedier and greedier about it, Kitty egging him all the while, and it’s making me so wet that Cameron shudders when he finally gets a hand between my legs.

  He strokes through my silky slit, easy as a knife going through hot butter, and when he gets to my grasping hole he just slides all the way in. Two thick fingers, as simple as anything.

  I don’t even recognize the sound that comes out of me. I certainly don’t recognize the words: fuck, yeah, fuck me now, fill my cunt, fuck, Jesus, I want it, I want it. And then I feel him pushing blindly against the side of my face with his, like an animal seeking comfort, and I can’t stand it. I can’t.

  “Oh yeaaahhh put your finger in his ass,” Kitty says, and I can’t stand that. I don’t want to look—it’s too much. All I can hear are dirty words and the slippery sounds of Kitty rubbing her clit or maybe Wade finger-fucking Cameron the way he’s finger-fucking me, and then something else. Something else that I can’t quite pinpoint—a rustling sound, and the bed creaking.

  Then Kitty says, loud and clear: “Go on and do it.”

  Of course I’ve got no idea what she means. She could be talking about pinching her nipples with clothes pegs, for all I know—she’s kinky enough for just about anything.

  But Wade isn’t, apparently, because after a second he lets out a little frustrated breath, and tells her no.

  “No—I want your cunt,” he tells her, and I can’t think what she offered him instead. Her mouth? Her ass? Something I don’t really want to process, right now?

  But then I have to process it, because I feel Cameron panting against my mouth, eyes as wide and round as moons, and when I twist I can just about see Kitty’s hands on Wade’s cock, as she sheaths it in a condom she probably got from my bedside drawer.

  Then slicks him with lube she definitely got from my bedside drawer.

  Of course I have to ask Cameron if he’s OK. I don’t give a shit about Wade—I care about Cameron and, by God, Wade is doing something absolutely filthy to him right now. I know he is—I know it before he says a word to me, though they spill out of him when I hold his face and ask.

&nbs
p; “He’s…” Cameron starts, then squeezes his eyes tight shut before he can get out the rest. “He’s scissoring his fingers inside me.”

  I think it’s the dirtiest sentence I’ve ever heard another person utter. Never mind Cameron, who started trembling about five minutes earlier and has now reached critical mass. I can feel his cock against my thigh, so slick and swollen it’s like getting stroked by a baseball bat coated in engine oil.

  Though I’ve no idea why a baseball bat would be coated in engine oil. And it’s beside the point anyway. It’s beside so many, many points. The primary one being: Wade is going to fuck him. Wade is going to put his cock inside Cameron and fuck him, and even more thrilling/insane/terrifying—Cameron doesn’t look like he wants to choke out his safe word, in answer to Kitty’s absolutely disgusting persuasions.

  “Mmm, yeah, make that little arsehole nice and slick. You want to fuck it, huh? Go on, go on—God you’re making me so wet,” she says, while I try to keep Cameron focused on me. If he focuses on me, he can say no. He can tell me what he really wants, how he really feels—but apparently how he really feels is this: “Oh Jesus, yeah, right there.”

  I’ll be perfectly honest. It’s not me who makes him come out with that. And then Wade jerks his hand in the exact same way, again, and oh it’s definitely not me who’s pushing Cameron past the point of no return.

  I think Wade is hitting his prostate, and when I manage to curl and look up at Wade’s face—all red with determination and something like bitter anger—I know for sure. He’s tormenting Cameron, absolutely tormenting him, and in that moment I so want to tell him to stop.

  I want to make Cameron say his safe word, for God’s sake—which just seems crazy. Though it’s crazier that Wade is almost certainly pushing his cock into Cameron’s body, right now. I know he is, because Cameron chokes out a sob and Kitty moans that she’s going to come all over her own hand, and Wade can’t seem to say anything at all.

  He just falls to jerking against Cameron, sloppily, until Cameron can’t seem to take it anymore. But that’s OK, because neither can I. There’s a guy getting fucked on top of me, and he’s got his curled fingers right up against my G-spot and, oh Lord, that’s heavenly, it’s unbearable. “Cam,” I gasp, while he shoves and manhandles me up the bed.

  Of course, I only figure out why he’s doing it when I feel his tongue lashing over my clit. And then after I can’t figure out anything anymore. He’s got his hands on my ass and he’s pressing his face hard against my spread pussy, and all I can think of is how it must feel to have a prick sliding against the nerve-rich opening of such a tight little place, how it must feel to be opened and separated.

  But all that does is make me realize something incredible: Wade is fucking Cameron, before he’s fucked me. I’ve never had Wade anywhere between my legs, but he’s right there between Cameron’s. And he seems to be enjoying it too, after a moment of panting and thrusting and hot wet slapping sounds.

  His breathing gets shaky and his thrusts get jagged, and then I hear Kitty say in an almost relaxed sort of voice: “You gonna come, baby? You gonna fill him with your load? Yeah, that’s it. Spurt in his ass.”

  Because she knows, apparently, what gets Wade going more than anything. I don’t know when she learned this information, but judging by Wade’s hoarse moans it’s a solid source. They ring out loud and clear, these moans, and I’m reminded of how much I would have paid to hear them, once upon a time.

  But now all I can feel are the sounds Cameron is making, right into the swollen folds of my pussy. His frantic gasps as he licks and laps at my clit, followed by long, luxurious moans that burr through me, too heavily.

  He’s going to come, I think—he’s going to come just from the feel of a big, fat cock in his ass—but I’m not sure I believe it until it actually happens. His mouth mashes messily against my stiff little bud, and then a second later I feel something slippery and hot splashing against some part of my leg.

  I can’t mistake it for anything but the thing it is. It comes in rhythmic pulses, so intense and glorious that I can’t help myself. I call out his name as great surges of pleasure roll through me, cunt clenching around his still-working fingers, body shaking under the pressure of it all.

  “Ohhh I’m coming,” I think I manage to gasp out, but it’s much easier to just go with the word I want to say most of all.

  “Cameron,” I say. “Cameron.”

  And yes, I know how this would seem if I was writing a story about it. Subtext, Professor Warren would say, and I’m sure he’d be right. Wade just fucked Cameron while Cameron fucked me, and there’s probably supposed to be a lot of metaphorical bullshit in there about how that really means I still want to fuck Wade, or that I need a barrier between me and Wade before I can do it, or fuck—I don’t know.

  But the truth is: this isn’t a story. It’s not a tale I’m telling. It’s real and there’s only Cameron’s name on my tongue, Cameron’s arms around me, Cameron shuddering through every big breath as he presses his face to my thigh, my hip, my belly.

  Then he looks up at me, long and slow, and I’m so grateful I can’t help myself. I think it before I even know it’s a part of me, that I want to feel it, that it’s as real as the story I’m not telling.

  I love you, my mind shouts out, and though it should be terrifying it isn’t. It’s only terrifying to discover that I don’t have the courage to say it—just like back in college, and all that time I wasted over someone as nothing as Wade.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’ve opened a little crack in him, I think. So it doesn’t seem like too much of a hardship to just slip under his skin a bit. To just ask him a couple of questions that have been burning in me for the better part of the last twenty hours.

  Questions like: “Was it too much?”

  He’s lying on his stomach—in my bed now, not his—with the latest chapter of “Hamin-Ra” in his hands. The one in which the Queen declares to Corin that she loves him above all things. You know—just to underscore the point to him in great big bold lettering. Just to ease myself into the idea of telling him, in a way I could never tell Wade.

  It’s you I love, I think at him, but it’s no more effective than it was last time. It won’t come out of me and he can’t seem to read between the lines. Mainly because he’s an impenetrable fortress when he wants to be, and the sign above the giant fortress-y door says I’m never going to believe you because you just spent the last five years loving the wrong guy.

  And then you let him fuck me.

  God, I really hope that’s just me inventing thoughts to go inside his labyrinthine and mysterious mind.

  “Was what too much?” he asks, because he’s labyrinthine and mysterious, I guess. He’s leading me down the corridor that takes me back to the beginning again, instead of the one that takes me to the heart.

  “The stuff we did, Cam. The stuff. You know.”

  I say “you know” because I can’t bring myself to go with “and then Wade shoved his dick up your ass.” I mean, that has to be causing him some conflict, right? How come he doesn’t look conflicted?

  Wade sure does, and he was practically a sexual mountain climber before all of this. If you’d put the pair of them side by side and asked me which one would be comfortable fucking a man, I’d never have gone with Cameron. Never never never.

  And yet he looks comfortable. He looks content. He looks like someone who’s probably realized he’s gay and is now just putting the final touches on his plan for a civil partnership with Wade Robinson.

  “Ah,” he says, and I practically sag with relief. Until he finishes with: “You mean the re-plastering of the downstairs hallway. Well. It certainly seemed a little excessive.”

  I flick his shoulder.

  “Come on, Cam. Yesterday you had someone’s cock in your ass.”

  It sounds even ruder when I say it out loud. But h
e doesn’t blush, or shrug me off—the way he had when I first tried to make him talk about sex or his feelings or just anything at all. It’s like…I don’t know. Like something’s let go, inside him.

  “Wade’s cock,” he says, and there’s something so devilish and triumphant about the grin he shoots me that I have to say. I just have to.

  “If you tell me you’ve been holding a torch for him too, I’m going to kill myself. Then kill you.”

  He laughs, then, half-burying his face in the pages he’s still holding. It’s a good sound to hear, I have to say.

  “No! No. Absolutely no torches are being held for Wade.” He looks up at me, as the laugh dies down. Eyes slowly moving from amused to something soft focus and sweet. “Just you. Just you, and anything you want to make me do.”

  I put a hand in his hair, for that. Stroke through the thick strands until his eyes drift closed, and he presses into my touch.

  “I didn’t make you do that,” I say, but he keeps on rubbing against me—like a cat in heat, I think.

  “No…but you make it easy.”

  “Easy to do what?”

  “All of the things I never knew I always wanted.” He pauses then, while I catch my breath. By the time he starts talking again, I think my pounding, love-addled heart is back to normal speed. “You make me feel normal.”

  “You are normal,” I say, but for the barest second he doesn’t look convinced. And though he then goes on to pull me down into his arms, that idea is troubling. So troubling that I can’t quite shake it—not even when he starts telling me how much he loves the chapter I’ve just written.

  He even goes into the reasons why. Because it’s dirty, he says, with the kind of relish I never thought I’d see from him.

  “Tell me how,” I say, and he bites at my hand. So playful, suddenly, so not the guy I thought he was.

  “Because she gags him.”

  He snaps at my upper arm, this time, and I wonder what he’s angling for exactly.