Make Me
Charlotte Stein

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

I think I’m a little stoned, so it’s not a surprise that I hardly react when Brandon kisses the nape of my neck, all hot and wet. But it is a surprise that I don’t react when he suddenly lifts my top up and exposes my bare breasts to Tyler’s waiting gaze.

Yeah, that’s a surprise, all right. Mainly because it’s Brandon being so shockingly forceful, but also due to the fact that I can’t quite recall why I didn’t wear a bra tonight.

So they would see you, my mind throws up, but my mind is ridiculous. I don’t want my best friends to see me, and they certainly don’t want to look. They totally don’t.

Except for all the parts where they totally do, because when I glance up Tyler is running a gaze that seems suddenly heavy all over my naked tits, and Brandon has cupped one of said tits with a single too-large hand.

And I think – though cannot be sure – that he’s making little noises. Little hot moans into the nape of my neck, followed by some breathy pants – of the kind that would usually arouse me. I mean, if this wasn’t Brandon doing this I’d definitely be wet by now. Mainly because the sounds he’s making are so hot and desperate and horny, but also because he doesn’t take long to find one of my completely not stiff nipples and kind of … tug it a little.

As though he’s just testing this whole thing out. Seeing if I’ll mind, or something. And I guess I don’t, because when he does it I make a sound of my own – though I swear I don’t mean to. And I don’t mean to shiver, either, when Tyler comes out with the following:

‘Yeah, you like that, huh?’

In a voice that no longer sounds like his own. This new voice is really rough, like someone dragged a piece of sandpaper over it – though I’m not sure I’d understand what he’s saying any better if he said it in his normal tone. He is talking about sex things, after all, and though he’s likely just as semi-stoned as me – and God only knows how far gone Brandon is – there’s something so wicked about that. So disturbing.

He expects me to answer him, and with words I’ve never used in front of either of them. And though I know what those words are – things like mmmm and yeah and feels so good – I can’t quite do it.

Instead, I have to just lie there quietly in Brandon’s arms, as he teases and toys with one nipple, and then the other. Fingers feverish and almost fumbling, sometimes falling into a kind of greedy squeeze of my heavy tits – like he thinks this whole thing is going to go away, soon. As if I’m just tolerating him fondling me, letting him get it out of his system before I put a stop to the whole thing.

But I’ll be honest, I don’t think the latter’s going to happen. There’s no urge in me to stop anything, despite the strange, almost uncomfortable silence we all seem to have fallen into. It’s punctuated only by our combined heavy breathing, and I’m not sure how much longer I can take it without bursting out with something.

Or at least, I’m not sure until Tyler leans forwards and licks wherever Brandon isn’t touching. After which, all the words I want to say – we should really talk about this before we all start fucking being chief amongst them – fall away inside me. Electric sparks of pleasure zip from my now unbelievably stiff nipples all the way down to places I don’t want to discuss in polite company, and I make a sound instead of the sensible things I need to say.

A rough, dirty, moaning sort of sound. That gets louder when Brandon mutters, ‘Yeah, suck it. Suck her nipple.’

I mean, Jesus. Where did he get that from? He’s the sort of guy who can barely request that someone pass him the peas. He once pissed himself in primary school rather than ask the teacher if he could go to the bathroom. He shouldn’t be telling his best friend to do that to me.

And his best friend shouldn’t be obeying.

Because, oh, he does. He takes one tight peak in his mouth and sucks on it sloppily, messily, until I’m writhing and mindless and pulsing hard between my legs. My entire body has suddenly disappeared right down into my solid, aching clit, and worse than that, I think the pair of them know it.

They’re both going at me so hard and greedy, and the moment I make any sort of move – a hand on the back of Tyler’s head – he starts shoving my skirt up.

Of course, I immediately go bright red. Not because I don’t want him to do it – because it would be ridiculous of me to deny it now – but because he’s going to see, in a second. My dependable, no-nonsense friend Tyler is going to see that I’ve wet my panties, because he and my other friend are licking and sucking and rubbing my nipples.

I want to die of shame, I really do. And yet somehow, once he’s got my skirt up and he’s looking at me there, it’s not half as bad as I had imagined. I know how rude it must look – the panties are just little cotton things, flimsy as anything, and I’ve made them so wet I can feel the material clinging to my swollen bud – but he does nothing to make me feel weird about it.

Quite the contrary. He groans and then, after a second of arranging me this way and that, rough hands on my thighs spreading me wider and wider, he says, ‘Fuck, your clit’s so big.’

And I swear, I feel nothing. Apart from intense arousal, of course.

It’s so intense that I don’t even protest when he gets hold of the material that’s covering my slippery slit, and pulls it aside so he can get a better look. I just watch him, near breathless with anticipation, body now ready for anything while my mind takes a vacation.

‘You want me to lick it?’ he asks, and I don’t know. It’s like he’s a different person, suddenly. Or maybe it’s just that I’m a different person, because I find myself rolling my hips up at the fingers that refuse to do anything but hold that piece of elastic, while my mouth moves around words like: ‘Ohhh yeah, yeah, lick my clit.’

Behind me, Brandon tenses – though I’m not sure why. Because I said a dirty thing? Because Tyler gets to go down on me, and he doesn’t? I’ve no idea and quite frankly I can’t care right at this moment, because Tyler’s using those fingers for some purpose.

He pushes the elastic aside and then spreads my slit open, to expose my stiff clit – which doesn’t sound very exciting, I know, but God, it feels exciting. It feels like the lewdest thing ever, coming from him, and it gets worse when he lets his thumb feather over the underside of my bud.

I arch my back. I can’t help it. I’m right on the edge of some incredible orgasm, before he’s even done anything at all. Just that little touch feels like something molten against my clit, and it spreads that heat all the way up and through my body.

‘Man, look how ready she is,’ he says, but Brandon doesn’t say anything in reply. I think he’s beyond words, to be honest, but that’s OK. I am too. I want it so bad that I’m trying to put a sentence together – something like Just rub me there, right now, just rub it, I’m gonna go off – but it won’t come.

Good job Tyler can speak for me, huh?

‘You close, Maisie? Yeah, you’re so close. Feel sweet when I do that?’

That being another agonising thumb-stroke over my clit.

‘Uhhhhhh,’ I say.

‘How about this?’ he asks, and then … oh God … then he slides a finger down through my slit to my ready and waiting hole.

It’s like silk, going in. Almost as good as a cock, because, like everything on Tyler, his fingers are massive. So thick and long and good, and even better when he adds a second one and pumps, slowly.

‘You want to know what she feels like?’ he asks, and for a moment I have no idea what he’s talking about. And then my brain catches up, and I realise he’s asking Brandon. That this is a thing, this talking around me, and though Brandon can’t say a word Tyler still knows he wants to hear all of this stuff.

‘Ohhh, so wet and hot. So tight, too – she can barely take my two fingers. Can you imagine how small she’d feel around your cock?’

Again, my brain takes a moment to catch up. And when it does, it’s not sure it wants to understand what Tyler is saying. My brain is apparently a prude, and hardly knows what to make of the fact that a) Tyler is aware that Brandon has a big cock, somehow and b) he doesn’t think my tiny pussy could take it.

However, my body more than makes up for my prudish brain. My body is rocking on Tyler’s fingers, and burying itself in Brandon’s body, and there are all of these sounds coming out of my mouth.

‘Just lick her,’ Brandon says, hoarsely, and the sounds get louder. I have to push my face against the turn of his throat just to get them under control, though it’s something of a lost cause once Tyler leans down to do as his friend is suggesting.

The first long, wet lick over my aching clit almost makes me clamp my legs back together. The pleasure is thick and jolting, almost like an orgasm but not quite. Tyler backs off immediately, as though he knows how close I am and wants to drag this all out just a little longer. Just a little more of me squirming and embarrassing myself every time he gives me a little flick of his tongue and a little twist of his fingers inside me.

‘Fuuuuccckk,’ Brandon groans, and I have to say I know exactly how he feels. By the time Tyler starts lashing his tongue back and forth over the tip of my clit – barely touching, oh, such a tease – I’m delirious.

So much so that I fail to comprehend why Brandon is in such a state, too.

Only when I feel him against my side, all slick and firm and insistent, do I get it. I can make out the intermittent press of his hand, as he shuttles it up and down his obviously bare and very hard cock, and then, after a second of hardly daring to, I glance down and see what Tyler was talking about.

He’s so big, so thick and solid and, fuck, it’s hot. I’ve never been a size queen, but then again I’ve never seen anything like Brandon’s cock, up close. I’m helpless in the face of it, and especially so when it’s all swollen at the tip and glossy with pre-come and, oh Lord, I can’t help urging him on. I can’t, I can’t.

‘Yeah,’ I tell him, and then other words stumble after it. ‘Fuck yourself. Come on me, that’s it. Come on me.’

I didn’t even know that’s what I wanted until the words burst out. But now that they’re out in the open, and we’re all busy buried in each other’s groins, I hardly think it matters. Brandon is going to spurt all over my belly and Tyler’s going to get me off with his mouth and his hands and then afterwards he’s probably going to come on me, too.

Or maybe I can be as daring as they seem to have been and take him in my mouth.

Would he like that? I can’t tell. But I can definitely tell how much I like the thought of doing it – of sucking him until he fills my mouth with come – because I’m getting really close. He’s stopped teasing and started lapping at me in earnest, fingers curling inside me so that they rub right up against that sensitive spot, and I can see my belly tightening. Can feel my thighs tensing and releasing, as pleasure builds at the base of my clit.

Though it isn’t Tyler’s expert sucking and fucking that pushes me over, I have to say. I mean, it feels good. And when he does this little curling thing with his tongue I nearly lose my mind. But even so, it’s still Brandon whispering in my ear that gets me there.

‘Are you gonna do it?’ he asks, then closely after it: ‘Tell me. I want to come when you do.’

I can feel him shuddering against me, hand working hard and mean on his slick cock, and something about that combination – his desire to hold off and his obvious intense need to come – makes my body sing. Makes me tell him: ‘Oh fuck yeah, now, I’m coming, I’m coming – do it.’

And then he does, just as my clit swells against Tyler’s tongue and pleasure unwinds inside me like a coil of electricity.

I don’t know whom I cling to. I only know that I go completely rigid and grunt like an animal, as my orgasm pulses on and on and Brandon spurts thickly against my side. He moans gutturally as he does, but it has absolutely nothing on the sounds I make.

Or the sounds Tyler makes when he kneels up and starts jerking his own cock over my still spread pussy.

I have absolutely no idea when he got it out, or whether or not he’s been similarly stroking himself all this time, but by God he’s far gone. His cock’s even slicker than Brandon’s, and somehow it’s bigger, too – with a swollen tip that looks fit to burst. A little pulsing aftershock goes through me to see it, and the pulse gets stronger when I see how copiously he’s leaking pre-come.

It’s all down his working fist and, as I watch, a bead of it wells in the slit to join the rest of the mess. It makes me want to lean forwards and lick, to take him in my mouth just as I had imagined, but the moment I get up the balls to actually do it his entire body jerks, and that impossible swollen head swells even further, and a burst of fluid erupts from the tip.

Unlike Brandon, he isn’t exactly quiet about it.

‘Ohhhhh fuuccck yeah, ohhhh, Jesus, I’m coming, I’m coming. Baby, you’re so fucking hot, ohhhh yeah. Oh yeah that’s it, that’s it, spread yourself. Spread it, let me come on your clit.’

Which I do, gladly. I do it before he even mentions it, eager to feel that hot wet liquid against my still aching bud. And once he’s finished coating me in his copious spend, I can’t resist rubbing it into my swollen lips and over the sensitive tip of my clit – though I swear I don’t mean to turn it into a masturbatory session in front of my best friends. I just don’t want it to stop once I’ve started, my second orgasm welling up in me as easy as anything.

And I guess it’s this that I remember afterwards. Two sets of heated eyes on me, as I circle my clit frantically. Both of them murmuring encouragement through that same unsettling silence we started this whole thing in.

And then finally the pleasure – the most intense pleasure of my entire life – courtesy of an experience we never repeat again.

There are lots of things that go through my head when I enter the bar. But my head tries to bypass all of them, for some reason, and just focus on the most inane of the lot: I shouldn’t have brought this potted plant. It’s a stupid, stupid gift to give two old friends when they’ve done something as monumental as create this beautiful, incredible place.

It’s dark, but I can make out all the little touches that are uniquely them – a gaudy jukebox crouched in the corner, amidst leather so thick and luxurious I can smell it, before I’ve even managed to perch my ridiculous gift on the bar. There are framed pictures of obscure movies that scream Brandon; dark mahogany that reminds me of Tyler.

It’s as though someone smushed them together and somehow made a watering hole, and not only because of the décor. There’s a workbench by the door marked STAFF, as sloppy as anything I ever saw Brandon around. And over the back of one the seats by the skating-rink-slick bar there’s a suit jacket.

It smells of Tyler – of Scotch and cigars and that stuff he used to wear that cost more than the gross domestic capital of Brazil. Though of course once I realise this, I have to also accept that I just smelled his clothes.

Five years, and I just smelled his clothes. Lord only knows what I’ll do when I see either or both of them. Blurt out something embarrassing about threesomes, most likely, and then never dare to show my face around them again.

Like I did last time.

‘Maisie!’ someone cries from the front door I definitely shouldn’t have put my back to. I can’t let either of them catch me unawares ever again, and yet somehow I’ve already done just that.

Brandon is on me before I’ve even worked up the wherewithal to turn around. And he doesn’t do anything half-hearted, either, like pat me on the arm or offer me an awkward smile. He actually loops one arm around my shoulders from behind, in a way that’s so reminiscent of The Thing We Did I almost gasp. It’s like having a bucket of cold water dumped over my head – if a dumped bucket of cold water was one of my kinks, and having it done left my vagina in a quivering state of arousal.

‘I can’t believe you came,’ Brandon says, but I understand where he’s coming from. I can’t believe it, either. I spent all day yesterday thinking about what a bad idea this was, and now I’m here I know one thing with a deathly certainty: it’s a hundred times worse than my wildest imaginings. My entire body has clenched so hard I can’t even turn around and greet him properly, and the feeling gets stronger when he finally makes his way to my front.

He looks exactly as I remember, right down to the backwards baseball cap and the hunched shoulders and, oh, that kinking-sideways grin. ‘It’s like you’re a robot from the future who’s trying to simulate a smile,’ I used to tell him.

Back when I dared to do things like that.

Now I just stand here and stare at his stupidly handsome face, head full of ridiculous thoughts like: Were his arms really that big before? And, Oh Lord, you could cut your finger on that jawline of his.

Because you could, you really could. Up this close he’s almost unbearably handsome, and apparently I’m not responding to that very well. The clenched feeling has gone, but it’s been replaced by a prickling under my arms and a heavy sensation low down in my gut, like maybe he punched me when I wasn’t looking.

I want to double over, quick, before this staring contest gets any weirder.

‘It’s totally awesome to see you,’ he says, but as he does so he puts both hands in his pockets. Those shoulders bunch together even more tightly, and even if I didn’t know him I’d understand what that means.

It isn’t totally awesome to see me, at all. I’m a relic of his odd threesome-having past, thrown up on the beach of this bar. This place that now looks more and more like a cocoon they’ve both wrapped themselves in so that they don’t have to face the kind of people they once were.

Brandon – goofy and too sweet. Tyler … oh God, Tyler.

I’m wrong, I’m wrong about Tyler. He can face himself.

When he emerges from behind the staff door he looks so eminently confident in who he is, so flawless and be-suited, that for a moment I can’t look directly at him. I have to gaze somewhere just north of his right shoulder and hope for the best.

‘Here she is,’ he says, and I find myself wondering: Was his voice like this before? And if it was, how on earth did I bear it on a daily basis? It just pours out of his mouth like melting chocolate, and before I know where I am the stuff is up to my inner thighs.

I’m not going to come out of this alive, I know.

‘God, you look good,’ he tells me, as he glides around the end of the bar, arms outstretched. And then I realise – he’s not signalling to some imaginary plane that’s flying in, he’s moving towards me like that because he actually expects me to hug him. Front to front, too, and not just the little half-cocked one-armed thing Brandon attempted.

I can’t, I think, I can’t, but by the time I’ve finished resisting in my head I’ve been engulfed. The scent from the suit jacket surrounds me, deeply familiar and almost too much to bear, but it’s the feel of his body that really pushes me over the edge. The shirt he’s wearing is strangely flimsy, and I swear I feel the burr of his chest hair against my cheek. I feel his heavy flesh pushing against various pressure points on my body: the tips of my tits, suddenly sensitive; my lips, which I didn’t actually mean to part when he pulled me in.

Now I’m practically kissing his left pec, and, oh, that muscle is so damned heavy. It’s so solid. I think I might be wet between my legs, over nothing more than some brief hugs and a generous compliment.

‘Doesn’t she look good, Bran?’ he asks, but he’s talking out of his ass. I’m wearing jeans and my hair’s all loosely pulled back in a way that suggests I’m about to wash my face, and both things look singularly incongruous in a place like this. I need a cocktail dress, I need high heels, I need Prada.

I need some goddamn steel plating.

‘Yeah,’ Brandon replies, but he seems about as convinced as I am. There’s this expression on his face that I don’t recognise – a sort of uncomfortable, half-pained look – and it gets tighter and more intense as this goes on.

By the time we’ve gotten around to talking about tonight, he’s almost beside himself – though I’ve no idea why. Is he really this bothered by how I look, five years later? I feel like telling him: people age, you know. And also, sometimes they just want to wear their comfortable trainers and an old jersey. Not everyone can be as awesome and Calvin Klein as you, jockstrap.

All of which is a little unkind, I know, but sue me. I’m caught in a mahogany cage, and I’m vulnerable.

‘So, are you staying in town?’ Tyler asks, and of course he does so at exactly the wrong time. It’s just after I’ve noticed that Brandon seems overpoweringly eager to get away, and right before he makes this sound: hurk.

So I don’t think I can be blamed for my response, exactly. ‘Oh … no. No, I just thought I’d … you know, stop in and say congratulations. I mean, I have this hair appointment, and I’ve got to call at the dry cleaner’s before it closes, so …’

There’s no hair appointment. And I’ll be perfectly honest, I don’t even own any clothes that need dry cleaning.

‘I should probably just get going.’

Of course I think of the note I left for them both the moment I’ve said it. The similarities are uncanny, they really are – the same awkward excuses about having to do something that doesn’t exist, the same vague end to it. I mean, could I have crammed more non-specific hedging in there? All I need are some littles and maybes to go with those reallys and justs, and we’re right back to where we left off.

It’s like it hasn’t been five years, at all. It’s been five seconds.

‘Seriously? You’re going to skip the party?’

Such an elegant choice of words from him, truly. Skip instead of anything less loaded, like not able to make or maybe even miss. Skip suggests I’m running out on them; that I’m a flake who can’t hold my shit together – and I’m pretty sure he knows that.

The years have only made him stronger, smoother, better. I bet he could talk Mother Teresa into a gangbang with very little effort at all. Despite the fact that she’s been dead for God knows how long.

‘Well, I’m really not dressed for a –’ I start, but he anticipates that, too. He anticipates it before I’ve even finished talking, and he does it in a way that makes me simultaneously angry and ready to faint on a chaise longue.

‘Here, take my credit card. Get yourself something,’ he says, just like that. As though he’s James Bond or Aristotle Onassis or some other smooth sort of character that I can’t even think of, because seriously no one is like this. And it’s not just me that thinks so because once the offer is made Brandon gives him such a look.

I think he actually starts to tell him don’t, too, but after another shared and silent exchange that I’m not a part of, Brandon glances away, defeated. And all of Tyler’s three-hundred-watt attention is back on me again.

‘Of course, I think you look fine as you are,’ he says, and I wonder if it’s in response to that expression of Brandon’s. Like maybe he was teasing me and Brandon knew it, and now that the look has been exchanged he’s changing tack.

Or at least, I imagine something like that until his gaze slides over me, inch by inch, and that chocolate-box voice drops an octave lower.

‘That jersey is very …’ he starts, but I’m just left to imagine the rest.

Tight, I think, he wants to say tight. If that’s true it only leaves me with one option: he really is staring at my tits. Oh Lord, I think he’s actually staring at my tits, and it’s making my face red and my body go all hot and cold, to the point where I’m actually relieved when Brandon blurts out: ‘OK, well, if she can’t stay for the party she can’t stay for the party. Nothing to do about that! Oh, by the way, Ty, I really need to talk to you in the back about some … thing.’

Even if those ramblings kind of sound like he hates me.

‘Yeah, really, guys, you go ahead and talk about your … thing. I’m just going to head back,’ I say, and I swear, I come this close to escape. This close, before Tyler runs a hand around my shoulders and leans in far too close, to murmur in my ear.

‘Oh no, we wouldn’t hear of it,’ he tells me, while my spine turns to jelly and slides right out of my body. I know what’s going to happen here, before it actually does. ‘You just take my credit card and see Marie at Ebe, she’ll take care of you. And then when you come back we can all have a real talk, about old times. What do you say?’

I say a million different things, in my head – mostly about how smoothly arrogant he now seems, and how awkward this all is, and how bizarrely aroused I feel. But, of course, I don’t voice any of them. It’s impossible to voice any of them when Tyler’s practically kissing the side of my face and Brandon’s looking at me with these big, kind of shocked eyes.

So instead I just go with the safest option: ‘OK.’

* * *

I think, in all honesty, that I intend to get in my car and drive back to Hollingdale without a second thought. And yet somehow I find myself going to this annoyingly pretentious boutique Tyler mentioned, and, sure enough a woman called Marie does help me out – as though he’s done this a thousand times before for a million different women, and all of them fit into these tiny, drafty clothes far better than I do.

I have to come away with a dress that’s more akin to a jumper, in truth, because everything makes me look like some obscene whore of Babylon. And as I drive back to the bar I can’t help wondering if he knew that. He knew everything would cling to my enormous breasts and skim somewhere just shy of my vagina. He knew, and sent me there anyway like some more terrible version of Pretty Woman.

I can hardly bring myself to walk back into the bar, and not just because of the sluttish glimpse I catch of myself in the slick black exterior. The place is packed, and pushing through the crowd in a dress that’s continually threatening to show my gauche panties is not a fun time for me.

Someone fondles my ass, I think – though it could just as easily be a wayward bar stool, brushing against me in the dark. I’m so oversensitised and on the edge of God knows what that I can’t tell the difference, and by the time I get over to the table of honour I think it’s showing.

My face is flushed, my hair is in disarray and, worst of all, my nipples are stiff and poking through the material. I know they are, without looking, because every single move I make flags it up and, even if it didn’t, Tyler’s eyes immediately shift downwards to the offending articles.

I want to die. Oh God, please just let me die. I’m sorry for what I said earlier, about wanting to get through this alive. I don’t at all.

‘Maisie!’ Tyler says, and I can tell he’s had a couple. Not enough to make him drunk, of course, but he’s relaxed back against the booth he’s in, and he’s spread both his arms around the girls on either side of him.

Plus he’s just shouted my name. There’s a clue, right there.

‘Have a seat,’ he tells me, but here’s the thing: there’s not a seat to have. The whole horseshoe shape of the booth has been filled with people I don’t know at all, right down to my once-were-best-friends, Brandon and Tyler. They’re just as unfamiliar as anything else in this place, now that the former’s got a beer and the latter’s got a Scotch, and they’re both just staring at me in equally uncomfortable ways.

Tyler looks as though he’d like to hunt me down, on the Serengeti. Brandon looks as though I just sprouted a third arm, and am about to batter him with it.

‘Oh no, really – there’s not room,’ I manage, but it’s hard to, with those dark eyes trained resolutely on the side of my face. I can tell without glancing at him that he wants to check out what Tyler’s obviously checking out, but Brandon was never like that. He’d never just go for anything.

Tyler had to do it for him, always.

‘Sure there is,’ Tyler says, before adding the very worst thing he possibly could. Worse than Suck my cock, worse than Get those clothes off – because of course, I could get out of orders like those. I’d be completely justified in slapping his handsome face, the moment he said them to me.

But I can’t get out of: ‘Just sit in Brandon’s lap.’

It’s just too innocent, out there on its own, devoid of consequences. All of these staring, giggling girls would think I was an absolute maniac if I acted offended over so slight a thing. One of them is practically in Brandon’s lap, as it is, and she has to vacate when I fumble my way over to him.

And, oh, she gives me such a look as I sit down. Clearly, she was happy where she was, with one leg hooked over Brandon’s and one boob almost in his face. I want to tell her that we can trade back if she wants. I’ll sit where she is, next to a guy whose name turns out to be Patrick, and she can make Brandon incredibly uncomfortable to her heart’s content.

Because he obviously is – uncomfortable, I mean. I try to perch on the very edges of his knees, but I can feel how rigid he’s gone, even so. And though he seems determined to put his hands somewhere normal – like maybe on my waist or my thighs – he can’t bring himself to do it. Those hands hover around one place and then another, never quite settling, before they finally find their place somewhere weird.

Like behind his head.

Without even glancing back, I know how he’ll look. He’s turned himself into a tourist, relaxing on an imaginary beach. All he needs is a parasol and a book and none of this will seem insane at all.

‘You OK?’ he asks, which probably means he’s sensed the tension I’m using to keep myself like this. I’m almost holding myself in a sitting position, without anything under me to sit on. It’s like doing a series of really, really awful squats, only I don’t get to relax at the end of each one. I just have to keep going and going, until I faint.

‘Great,’ I tell him, though my treacherous voice belies that one word. It comes out all wavering and near to exhaustion, until he simply has to say. He has to. He wouldn’t be the gentleman I remember, if he didn’t.

‘You know, you can sit back a little, if you want,’ he offers, but he doesn’t shout the words over the thrum of all this noise. He slides them underneath, low and furtive, and when I shove myself back into the welcoming curve of his body I understand why.

He’s hard.

He’s so hard that he actually makes a little sound when I push into him, and tries to shove me forwards again. Like if he does it fast enough, I won’t notice his hugely stiff cock. I won’t remember exactly how it felt, rubbing up against me. I’ll just continue not listening to the conversation around the table, oblivious and innocent.

Though I think he knows, on some level, that this won’t wash. I can feel how tense he’s gone, and those hands are now iron in the hollows of my hips. Any move on my part and they clamp down tight, like a warning: Do not take this any further. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds, do not turn around and look at me in that way.

But he’s out of luck on the third thing. I have to turn around and look, I have to. What expression goes with sudden erection? And how different is it from the ones he levelled at me earlier, which mostly seemed to be about getting away from me, as fast as possible?

The answer is: not that different at all. He’s still got that touch of pain around his ever-square and too-tight mouth, and he won’t meet my gaze. He just does what I did earlier – fixes his eyes on some point just north of my shoulder, and hopes for the best.

But I can’t give him what he wants. I can’t be the way I was before, passive and silent and sort of unsure. That girl hadn’t lived through five years of boyfriends falling asleep on top of her, and endless nights with nothing but a vibrator for company. She didn’t understand what it’s like to regret a missed opportunity, but I do.

And I want to rub myself against the thick, stiff shape of his cock, until I hear him moan. Oh God, he moans – and not even in a quiet sort of way, either. It just blurts out of him like a short sharp shock, and once it’s done I think we both know we’re in trouble.

I glance up and, sure enough, Tyler is looking our way. And though his expression is mainly amused, there’s something else there, too, buried deep down in that foggy gaze of his. It’s a look I recognise – a look I’ve seen a million times before, without fully understanding what it meant.

But I understand now.

Ohhhh, yeah. I understand now. He wants to fuck me I think, blindly, and once the idea is there I can’t shake it off. It gets a hold of me between my legs, and forces me to do things I wouldn’t usually. I’m sure I’d just leave it at a little light rubbing if I were left to my own devices.

But once Tyler’s got his lust-fucked gaze on me I find myself doing much worse. I actually ease myself back and forth over Brandon’s solid prick and, when he protests – when he gasps and digs his fingers into the hollows of my hips – I put an arm around his shoulder.

So that my breasts are almost pressed against his face.

‘Maisie,’ he says, but he sends the word high and wild. And his efforts at following it with something saner – something like please stop, maybe – don’t quite pan out for him. Instead he ends up turning until his mouth is very close to my mouth and his hands are very close to holding me, and, after a moment of this delicious tension, I think: We’re going to kiss. That’s what this is: the leaning into one another, and his hand suddenly on the nape of my neck. He wants to kiss me, but something’s holding him back – perhaps Tyler’s gaze burning across the table at us, too intense for me to fully process.

I can’t even look at him directly without assuming what Brandon probably does – that it’s anger, or jealousy, or something else similarly crazy that he’s levelling at us. And I think this until the point where I actually do meet his eyes and see for myself what he’s saying.

It’s not stop. It’s go. Go on, he says to me with his smouldering stare. Go on, kiss him. Touch him. Fuck him right here on this table until you’re wrung out and slippery with your own come and his spunk … Oh God, how can one look be so filthy? How can it make me so crazy?

Because it does. The feel of Brandon’s stiff cock – now almost in the groove between the cheeks of my arse, rubbing and rutting insistently – is bad enough. The tension of this almost-kiss, so hot and slick, is bad enough.

But 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. Like I’m seeing myself five years ago, caught between I really want to and I kind of shouldn’t – which of course makes me wonder why he is. Why is he letting me do this, after his odd reaction earlier? And in this storeroom, of all places, where anyone could walk in and find us. I mean it’s not as though the door’s locked, and even if it was there’s always someone who’ll have the key.

Like Tyler, for instance.

Tyler, who I’m barely aware of until Brandon jerks and tries to cover himself. Then afterwards I’m very aware of him, because not only is Brandon trying to pretend he didn’t know this might happen, but Tyler has his hand on the back of my head. I can feel it, even when I’d like to think it’s something else altogether. Maybe Brandon sprouted a third hand when I wasn’t looking and now he’s urging me to suck his cock, even as he tells me not to.

‘Oh my God no,’ he says, and I hear rather than see him clang back against the kegs. He’s trying to get away, I think, but in all honesty if he is, he’s not doing a very good job of it.

Or is it just that Tyler’s now applying a bit of pressure? A very specific sort of pressure, I might add, that fills my mouth with cock even as Brandon succeeds in squirming backwards. And though I know I should stop if he wants me to, I find I can’t.

It’s too arousing. Just as before, the excitement thrumming through my body takes over sense, and I do what he’s urging me to. I take as much of that still unbearably stiff prick into my mouth as I can and suck with all the enthusiasm I can muster and, when he actually speaks, my brain dissolves and disappears into my vagina.

‘Yeah, that good, baby?’ he asks. ‘Take that cock.’

Lord, I don’t think I want to know what Brandon makes of that. I’ve got my eyes closed, now, because eyes closed is better, but I can feel him starting to really shake. It’s not even just a shake, in all honesty, it’s more like a prolonged and uncontrollable spasm, and he finishes each jerking motion with a sound.

One that joins Tyler’s words in that slippery place between my legs.

‘How does she feel?’ Tyler asks, but I think he might have gone crazy. If his presence and his hand on my head weren’t enough, clue-wise, then his expectation that Brandon’s going to answer him surely is. Brandon can’t even seem to push him away – though I think he wants to – and when I dare to look his expression is … I don’t know.

Furious? Frustrated?

At the very least it’s the kind of look that doesn’t go with: ‘Ohhh, she’s so hot. She sucks so hard.’

Though it’s true. I do suck hard. It’s like I’m trying to lose myself in the feel and taste of him so I don’t have to think about anything else: Tyler’s insistence and Brandon’s reluctance; my own arousal in spite of both these things – or maybe because of them. Every time they say a word, my clit swells and orgasm threatens, even if the word is just: ‘Yeah.’

Or: ‘God, I’m gonna come.’

Though in all fairness to me, that last one’s a bit of no-brainer. I’m actually quite surprised I don’t come when I feel the first slick spurt of cream over my tongue. And I’m even more surprised after Tyler’s hand tightens in my hair, like a prompt.

Swallow, I think, and then this hot shivery sensation just wriggles through my body. It gets a hold of my cunt and squeezes, and squeezes, until I nearly reach that state of perfect mindlessness. I hardly think of anything at all when I get that first taste of him, filling my mouth, and the feel of his cock swelling and jerking against my tongue.

And the way he moans, too … Ohhhh yeah. Yeah, I wish I could frame that sound and hang it on my bedroom wall.

As does Tyler, apparently.

‘Well, it seems you appreciated that,’ he says and, as he does, that hand disappears from the back of my head. I don’t know what I feel about that. It’s sort of like a relief, but sort of not – and I’m right to react that way.

Because he follows up those words with this: ‘Why don’t you show her that appreciation with the kiss you were asking for earlier on?’

I immediately wonder how he knows about that – he wasn’t even here when Brandon asked. But the wondering doesn’t lead anywhere good. It just 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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