Telling Tales by Charlotte Stein Page A

barely-there clothes they’ve got on, though he knows they haven’t. They’ve been swimming in no clothes at all, because the ones they’re wearing are hardly damp and now they’re in here, giggling and murmuring things he can’t quite hear.
    Like let’s and fuck and with Ben.
    Only it’s the strangest thing, because the more he thinks about them fucking with him, the more he can’t focus on anything else. His mind fills with elaborate scenarios before they’ve even gotten anywhere near the couch he’s pretending to sleep on, and when they finally walk over it’s almost like a relief. As though he knew it was going to come to this sooner or later, and now that it has he can breathe out.
    “I think he’s hard,” one of them says, and he knows it’s Lydia. Lydia with her mess of dark hair and her almost-green eyes, gazing down at him like he’s something that needs devouring.
    He wonders, idly, if she knows he wants to be devoured.
    “Definitely hard,” the other one says, and when she giggles he feels an odd little trickle of fear run down his spine. As though cool, indifferent Lydia could be cruel, but her little blonde friend could be crueler.
    Much crueler.
    “Touch him,” the blonde one—Mindy—says, and he hears Lydia make a soft, noncommittal sound. As though she can’t decide what’s best, in this sort of situation. Should she wake him, and ask him if any of this is OK? Or should they just plunge right into whatever dirty things they feel like doing?
    For one wild, unbearably free second, he hopes they’re going to go with the latter. Go the whole hog he thinks at them, but then a hand goes around his obviously stiff cock, quite suddenly, and he wishes he hadn’t been so rash with his thoughts.
    He isn’t wearing much—just a thin pair of shorts—and the hand is rough and jolting. Whoever it is squeezes, hard, and yet another delirious thought shoots through his mind—the hope that it is Lydia rather than Mindy, grasping and groping him through his clothes.
    But then Mindy squeals that he’s really big and stiff, and that strange and unwanted hope is dashed. It’s Mindy squeezing him, and then Mindy stroking him, and finally it’s Mindy actually jerking him off through his shorts.
    Although when he finally dares open his eyes, it’s Lydia he sees. And it’s the sight of her—eyes burning down at him, breasts almost visible through the thin material of her vest, skirt showing too much creamy thigh—that sends a strong current of pleasure through his body.
    “Have you been dreaming dirty dreams, Ben?” she says, and it’s almost a kind question, really. Not half so cruel as Mindy’s tugging, working hand on his cock or the sight of Lydia’s body through her clothes, like something he’s always wanted but ever out of reach.
    Only then she turns to Mindy and tells her to unzip his shorts and get it out, so really he doesn’t know what to think.
    At the very least he has to protest, but when he tries to she claps a sudden hand down over his mouth, as though he’s the woman and she’s the man and this is all some very different sort of scenario altogether.
    “I’ll hold him down,” she says. “You do it.”
    However, when she speaks she doesn’t address Mindy. She looks down at him, that same devilish delight in her eyes, and something inside him veers left when it should be going right. He should be telling her to stop, now. He should be throwing her off—he is, after all, far bigger and stronger than both of them put together—but somehow he doesn’t seem to be doing anything like it.
    Instead, his body thrums and thrums, and a sound comes out of his mouth. It’s an embarrassing one too—a real low and deep down groan—but he can’t stop it. Mindy has gotten his shorts open and he can feel air on his bare and humiliatingly stiff cock, but more importantly Lydia has still got her hand over his mouth. And after a moment she puts a knee against his shoulder, as though