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
