Tyler’s gaze makes me weaker. My nipples stiffen under the weight of it. My sex grows full and fat, every bit of pressure against it suddenly maddening. I want to rub just to relieve that sensation, I realise – maybe spread my legs over one of his thighs and get my clit right up against that meaty muscle – but I don’t get the chance to.
A moment later, Brandon shifts all in a big rush, some unearthly sound bubbling out of him as he does. And though I’m sure he means to be careful he isn’t – his hands turn rough on my body, manhandling me in a way that’s simultaneously exciting and disheartening. Exciting because there’s a new urgency to the move that I can’t deny. Disheartening because once he’s done, I’m left sprawled on the seat, while he blunders off in the direction of the door marked STAFF.
In his defence, he does offer me a few blurted words before leaving. Something about the bathroom and needing it, and that he’ll be back in a minute – probably sans erection.
But, unfortunately for him, I don’t feel like letting him reset the clock. It’s already been done once, and once was enough. Now it’s time for seizing the day, rattling the cages, feeding the thing that’s grown inside me over five years of wondering, What if?
What if I hadn’t left, without a goodbye?
What if I’d gotten up off my seat, pushed through the crowd and gone through the door marked STAFF, to see what was on the other side?
‘Oh Maisie, come on. Give me a break,’ he says the second I uncover him, hiding in some storage room at the back of this place. I understand why, however. He looks like some wild, slightly insane version of himself. His hair is standing on end from what I can only imagine were a million hand-strokes through it, and somewhere along the way he’s lost his suit jacket.
The one that Tyler probably picked out for him in some fancy shop. I can almost see the scenario in my mind’s eye: Brandon squirming inside material too expensive for him; Tyler straightening out the collar, in firm, sort of … brisk movements.
Like the kind of movements he used on my body when I lay naked in front of him.
‘A break from what?’ I ask, but I’m not being fair here, and I know it. It’s obvious what he needs a breather from, all things considered. And by all things considered, I mean I rubbed my ass against his cock, while his best friend watched.
‘Just …’ he starts, only there’s no finish. His hands make frustrated patterns in the air, instead, before returning to that crazy hair.
And then I’m just left to interpret this new form of sign language.
Which I do. In the worst possible way I can.
‘You want me to not touch your cock?’ I say, only this time my faux-innocence has a little bonus on the end. It features the word ‘cock’, and the word ‘cock’ has rather unexpected side effects. It sends a bolt of heat, right through me. It strokes a slow, slick hand between my legs. And, best of all, it turns his face the colour of a ripe tomato – like he’s embarrassed, I think. I’ve backed him into a corner, and now our roles from before are near reversed.
Though I’ve no idea how or when that happened.
‘Because I can stop touching it any time you like,’ I say, in a voice that doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my aching, swollen cunt, and apparently she wants it to be low, soft, persuasive.
‘Did you … did you talk to Tyler about this?’ he asks, which almost gives me pause.
I think of the strange way they’d operated before. How silent things had seemed. How unspoken. But then the feeling passes, and this is what I’m left with: the firm swell of Brandon’s cock beneath my palm.
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, so you’re just … doing that. OK. OK. Do you … maybe think we should have a conversation first? Like, we could go to dinner and after dinner I could walk you home and then … Ohhhhh Jesus, really?’
I can’t help drawing a red circle around several of the things he’s said: dinner, conversation, ohhhh Jesus. And I draw a circle around the actions that go with the words too: the way his hand snaps down to stop mine; the up-on-tiptoe move he makes, automatically, as though the feel of the heel of my palm against his stiff dick is more akin to being attacked with a cattle prod.
But that’s fine. I want him to be zinged. I was zinged, five years ago – this feels like some sort of mad revenge. Or maybe it’s a mad reward for all of my waiting and wanting and running away. Now I get to fondle his solid prick through his trousers until he stops resisting and starts begging me for more.
‘Yeah, just like that,’ he tells me, because I’ve found the ridge around the head of his cock, and when I rub just so – back and forth with my thumb, through the material – he trembles for me. He bucks into my palm and puts a hand on my shoulder, more words spilling out of him, one after the other.
‘Kiss me,’ he says. ‘Kiss me.’
But I don’t want to kiss. I want to finally and properly know what his cock looks like, and feels like, and, more importantly, tastes like. And since he seems intent on letting me do whatever the fuck I want, it’s not that hard to do. I just ease his stiff length out into the open, while he hums like someone set his internal motor going.
‘Are you really going to …’ he says.
I have no idea why he is doubting. Anyone would want to suck a cock like his – so smooth and silky and stiff, with a curve to it that suggests just the right sort of angle for hitting all those good spots.
And he’s practically dripping by this point, too. I rub the pad of my thumb over the head and I can feel all of that delicious pre-come sliding around in a way that makes us both moan – though he doesn’t break until I’m on my knees. He doesn’t give me the words, until I’ve got the head of his cock in my mouth and my tongue is working and working over that slippery slit.
And then he just lets it out.
‘God, yeah, give it to me, Maisie,’ he says, so I do. I eat at him hungrily, sloppily, until the entire head of his cock is as glossy as I am between my legs. And when that doesn’t seem like enough to sate either me or him, I use my hands. I rub his stiff length roughly, finishing each stroke with a lick or a suck that gets him gasping.
He’s going to come soon, I can tell. I can feel it before he tells me – Oh, honey, you’re going to make me do it – in the tightness of his balls and the swell of his cock. And I want it, I really want it, over what I got last time: come striping my skin, almost independent of anything I had done.
And I want to watch him, too, while he does it.
Though in my defence, it’s hard not to crave something like that. He seems to have forgotten how to breathe, and every time I switch to something new – like a little flick over that sensitive spot, just under the head, or a squeeze of his impossibly tight balls – he tries to let some air out. Or let some air in. Or just do something, anything besides biting his lip and straining towards my hot, wet mouth.
It’s an oddly arousing thing to observe.
