Читать книгу Telling Tales - Charlotte Stein - Страница 8

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 think 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-coloured 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 licence, 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-agonising 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 realises 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 pyjamas, 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 realising he’s corrupted another innocent soul, and I back right up in a hurry until I crack my shoulder blades against the wall.

I realise 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 pyjama 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.

There’s no door to it – just an archway – so really that glow should be more than enough to comfort me. But instead I find myself peering around the arc of the stairs to the passageway that reaches down, down toward the boat room and the stepping stones, as though any second a sex-ghost is going to leap out at me and drag me into the walls.

It did that in my story. Dragged people into walls, I mean. And now I have to think about it while creeping through the house that doom built, too afraid to go forward and too afraid to go back and just desperate for a fucking drink. I’m dying of thirst here, while Kitty and Wade go at it in every available room as though fear is just a wacky concept some nerd invented one time.

Of course I get to the very edges of the archway and then realise I’m not going to be able to get to the kitchen. If I do anything but press against this wall – if I do something mad like cross the hallway to the kitchen’s arch – whoever’s in there is going to see me. And seeing me once was quite enough, thanks all the same.

Especially as it’s not actually Wade and Kitty. Though for some mad reason, I’m holding my breath anyway. In fact, I hold it so tightly and so quickly that for a moment I’m sure I’m going to burst. I clench all over like a giant fist, everything in me rushing to some core I didn’t know I had, because he’s not just sitting on the couch, casually coughing and reading Boring Things About Computers while sipping tea.

Oh, of course he’s not. Why would he be? This is the night of insane shenanigans, like we actually are in some episode of Scooby-Doo, only it’s a version that’s really inappropriate for kids.

Because he’s…well. He’s gone through my stuff, for a start. I left my bag full of writing down here, and Cameron – strange, closed off, always polite Cameron – has actually rummaged through the thing and is reading some nonsense load of old bollocks I wrote about a thousand years ago.

Or at least, he was probably reading it at some point. Now he’s just got it half-crumpled in one white-knuckled fist, and for too long a moment it’s this that I focus on. I can’t take my eyes off it. His hand is just so big, and with everything tensed in such a way it looks as though he could punch through brick. And for some reason that’s all I can think for a good while – about him punching and punching something until his knuckles turn red and a great hole appears.

But then I’m forced to look at other things, as though I’ve somehow been transformed into a perverted voyeur over the course of one night. Someone’s erected a pane of glass between me and my friends, for reasons unspecified, and now I’ve got to walk around with it between us, watching them do weird things I never thought they’d do, my face pushed up against it like a kid outside a candy store.

I don’t even know what the candy actually is, in this simile. I don’t even know what’s going on – was there ground-up tiger blood and ten tons of oysters in that wine we all drunk? Or am I just in the middle of the most crazy sex-dream of my life? Because God knows I never thought I’d live to see Cameron Lindhurst doing anything like this.

Kitty and Wade was bad enough. This is just…overkill. He’s twisted sideways on the couch, long body spread out like a great diagonal slash, still in the clothes he left the room in earlier on. Which I suppose should make the scene before me seem less lewd, somehow, because it’s not as though I can see a great deal of skin. He’s got his jersey ruffled up and I can see the hairy and solid expanse of his stomach, and the sweatpants are tugged down enough to give me a glimpse of the almost coppery fur down there, but other than that he’s completely covered.

Though I confess it’s not the idea of naked that’s exciting me. It’s the hand he has, between his legs. I can see it, even through the barely-there light. He’s got a hand underneath the material of his sweatpants and he’s tugging and rubbing at the second shape I can just make out, and whenever he gets just a touch too frantic with it he presses his mouth into the leather of the couch and, oh God, he moans.

I can hear Cameron moaning. Cameron. Moaning in sexual ecstasy. It seems impossible but he’s doing it, and then even more shocking he suddenly takes that hand out of his sweatpants and licks over his palm. Before returning to the furtive dirty stroking he’s doing, faster this time, fiercer.

I think he might actually be close to coming. He’s rocking his hips into his own touch and he’s practically biting at the couch, and now when that hand slides downward beneath the material, his whole body shudders.

‘Ohhhhh God,’ he moans, and that’s it. I don’t know who this person is. This person apparently reads a story of mine and then masturbates in a place he could easily be caught in. None of it even remotely seems like Cameron, and the more he moans and gasps and seems almost tortured by desire, the more my paradigm shifts.

Has he done this before? Masturbated where someone might catch him? I think of the story Wade read out, of course I do, but then I realise with a little jerk that I’m the pervert in this particular scenario. I’m the spy, watching him fuck his own hand and moan and strive frantically for his orgasm, which is going to be utterly glorious when it comes.

I’m practically on tenterhooks waiting for it, like the true dirty little fucker I am. Is he going to tug his sweatpants all the way down before he does it, come into the cup of his hand, maybe? The thought is enough to send arrows of pleasure directly to my groin – as though I’m going to meet my orgasm just by standing here, watching him be this amazing and lustful and disgusting.

Because it seems like all of these things, when he does it. Wade didn’t even seem that disgusting when he winked at me and beckoned me over. But Cameron doing this is beyond the pale; it’s deliciously decadent, it’s too much to take. I can feel my clit swelling and begging for my touch, but the tense feeling it provokes isn’t just localised to that one area this time. It spreads upward through my body, burning as it goes, and the urge to masturbate, to join him, to just go there and suck his cock into my mouth is so overwhelming suddenly I’m stunned by it.

He hasn’t even beckoned me over, but I realise with a start that he doesn’t need to beckon me over. I just want to go to him like some sort of lust-starved maniac. I want to slide down on that cock he’s so desperately stroking, but more than that I want to see it, taste it, touch it.

I can’t stop wondering if it’s as big as the rest of him. It looks it, even though I can barely see more than a ridge beneath the material. When he starts working his hand over the head, licking his hand again before he does so in such a lewd and wanton way I can’t stand it, I can see the heavy line of the rest of it pressing heavy against his sweatpants.

It’s unbearable. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice with him, just waiting for him to swell and push into his hand and let go of all that pleasure. And then he does and I almost feel myself go too – a great wash of sensation runs through me, as though someone licked between my legs. As though I’m finally getting what I’ve been needing all night long, just from hearing him groan that he’s coming, he’s coming.

Just before the grip he’s got on himself gets audibly slicker.

It takes me a moment to realise it, but then it comes to me.

He’s working his own hot liquid down over his shaft. Like he just wants to draw it out and can’t quite bear to have it finish yet. Like he needs more and more and if he just keeps writhing and rocking into it, he’ll get it.

I almost moan with him. It’s the strangest, hottest thing I’ve ever seen, in a night when I also watched my best friend fuck my other best friend. That fact alone seems remarkable, but it’s worse when I get back to my room on shaky legs and realise something insane:

I don’t want to masturbate right now, and think about Wade. I want to masturbate right now and think about Cameron.