Telling Tales. Charlotte Stein
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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.
When Kitty comes and joins me at the breakfast table in the kitchen the next day, my face doesn’t go red. I think she knows – she gives me a very pointed, ‘Did you sleep well?’ – but it’s not as though it’s unusual between me and her. I’ve seen her fuck before. It’s no big deal.
It’s not even a big deal when Wade comes in and he’s sort of, you know…pretending he and Kitty are like business partners now. How are you today, weather is fine, have you seen last night’s stock reports, etcetera. It’s all very clinical and normal and I don’t even find myself blushing when he gives me this mischievous look. Eyes narrowed just ever so slightly, almost-smile touching his lips, all of him just quivering for a reaction from me, I can tell.
But somehow, bizarrely, I do blush when Cameron comes in. I more than blush, in fact. I feel it right to the roots of my hair, this King Kong mega blush from the planet beyond. I don’t even know why, either, because what he was doing was far less than what they were doing, but somehow it’s worse even so and then he says, ‘Hey, Allie,’ and I mumble something back, into my cornflakes.
For the barest of seconds, I’m sure he looks hurt. Not hugely, or anything, but something definitely passes across his face. As though he’s used to me being silly, sweet Allie and now that I’m suddenly not being, he’s sorely sensible of the change.
It makes me wonder if he’s thinking about last night, and suspects something. It’s the first thing I’d think of if someone’s demeanour changed toward me – that I did something wrong and now I have to pay for it. And although what he did wasn’t wrong, exactly, I’m pretty sure someone like Cameron feels it is.
I mean, he masturbated after going through my things. That’s almost as bad as Wade’s story, and it gives me a little shiver thinking about how close we both were to mirroring those fictional events. He went through the stuff, and I played the voyeur. He masturbated, and I thought long and deep and hard about masturbating.
I didn’t do it, however. I felt the way I do now: electrically embarrassed. Kitty watches me slosh my cornflakes and eventually asks me if I’m OK, but I can’t deal with that right now, either. It’s obviously starting to dawn on her that maybe I’m not quite OK with her fucking Wade, but it’s the least of my concerns right now, it really is.
Instead I look up at Cameron, now he’s sitting down with his eyes on his own breakfast. What’s going on in that head of his, exactly? Why was it my stories he was going through? I feel almost as though I’ve caught a thief, but I can’t confront him about it because the thief is way too nice and kind of weird.
Plus, what if his answer is something bizarre, like: I have a fetish about people being sucked into walls? Maybe my sex-ghost story affected him more than I’ve ever suspected, and he’s just been waiting all these years for another chance to read it. I mean, there’s not much else it can be, realistically.
It’s not like he’s going to be secretly in love with me, or anything.
I glance across the table at him and see the way his eyelashes curve so darkly against his cheeks when he blinks, as though everything is in slow motion suddenly, everything is so brilliantly clear. Did I notice before now how beautiful he is?
I don’t think so and yet I can’t escape it, right in this moment. His lips are so perfect – the lower one barely there and the upper like a soft bow, like a woman’s mouth in a face that’s otherwise so masculine. His face is heavy, I think, as though he held a lot of puppy fat when he was a kid and suddenly shot right out of it, and now that he’s older and taller and handsome, he doesn’t quite know what to do with any of it.
And then he looks right at me with those eyes of his – such a different shade of blue than Wade’s – and I forget everything I was just thinking. I forget about Wade and the night before; I forget all my fears of coming here. I just stare at Cameron like I’m seeing someone for the first time, and all the sound in the world boils down and down into nothing, as though I’ve found myself in a long tunnel beneath the ocean, all the waves crashing above but none of them reaching me –
‘Allie! Jesus Christ. Are you alive?’
I jerk to Wade immediately, and out the corner of my eye I see Cameron do it too. Somehow it’s like we were both caught with our hands in the cookie jar, but I can’t think what, exactly, the cookie jar is in this scenario. It’s not as though we were fondling each other or kissing or any of that stuff, after all – and not as though I actually want to, either, because you know, I don’t. I’ve never even thought about Cameron that way, and have no idea why I’m thinking of it now.
‘I