Make Me. Charlotte Stein
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makes me imagine him stood outside the door, listening for the very best moment to enter and encourage some filthily delicious things.
Which is almost as bad for my libido as Brandon leaning down to obey. Oh God, he actually obeys. I don’t even have time to properly swallow or maybe turn my head – you know, out of politeness – before his lips are pressing wetly to mine. And though I think he tries to get away with something chaste, Tyler’s not having any of it.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asks, like the dirtiest goad ever, all wrapped up in an innocent package. ‘Come on. Give her a real kiss.’
He could be someone’s uncle at a wedding, encouraging a nervous groom. Even if Brandon doesn’t seem the least bit nervous now. He seems like he did before – all greedy and shaky and totally willing to fuck my mouth with his tongue. In fact, he goes one worse than that and kind of gropes one of my tits as he does it.
Like he knows just what I need.
I need him to be as dirty as he can possibly be in order to reach that higher state of who gives a fuck. I need to know he can taste his own come without flinching, and that he doesn’t give a shit what Tyler’s doing, or saying. Despite the fact that Tyler is saying, ‘Yeah, that’s good, right? The taste of yourself, in her mouth. Knowing that you’ve just fucked her there and filled her with your jizz.’
Which even I find a little strong. And by strong I mean: my cunt clenches to hear him use that word, that one filthy word as though he’s not Tyler at all. He’s some dirty fucker who wants to push things as far as they will go – to the point where I find myself dancing between fear and anticipation. When Brandon breaks the kiss I turn my head and I can see how hard Tyler is. He’s thicker than Brandon, meatier, and it’s more obvious through his trousers. Especially when he cups the whole thing one-handed, as he looks down on me with that soft, sleepy gaze of his. It’s almost like a prompt – like earlier, in the bar. Him telling me Go on, go on and do it
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