So. One of the things I never properly appreciated about my camping trips with Dad?
Air mattresses.
Oh dear God, do I miss the air mattress at this very moment.
My neck feels like murder. Not like it's being murdered, but like the Platonic embodiment of murder itself. Like the rough bark of the tree behind me is made out of every single weapon of violence since Cain himself took up a donkey's jawbone and decided that arts and crafts needed to be taken to the next level. Like the contortion my vertebrae have been forced into is a pure reflection of so many heartfelt Internet comments about 'neck snap.' Like…
…
There's something warm on top of me.
Correction: there's something warm and heavier than a blanket on top of me.
Heavier than a blanket. Not actually heavy, because, you know, the thing itself is soft, breathing, surrounded by my arms, and pleasantly pressed against my morning wood, so I'd have to be a particular kind of stupid to call the thing that is very likely a girl heavy, and I don't think even Italian shounen protagonists who started their harem with a childhood friend would be oblivious enough to call Bianca heavy, so I'm not going to…
I should open my eyes.
Because I fell asleep with Bobbi on top of me, and that was after she got weirdly enthusiastic about puppies, so I should at least check that I'm not, you know, in any position that heavily hints at Mom and Dad either being extremely disappointed in me or exchanging a few twenties, and I'd rather not find out which one is more likely, but it's Mom, so I'll eat the padding on my fencing mask if she doesn't have a running bet on what kind of absolute and total wreck I can turn my life into during my first year at college, particularly this college that both she and Dad attended, and I really need to have a talk about this with them at some point, but even I am self-aware enough to realize I'm stalling, so I really should open my eyes and…
…
Wow.
She's…
…
Would it really be so bad to be a teenage father? I mean, I've been holding back for long enough that nobody could accuse me of a lack of self-control. This would just be, you know… a little slip? Like… a very literal little slip.
Just… holding Roberta's waist a tad tighter, pressing her a little harder against me, and her askew skirt and stretched-out panties would be right on top of something peeking past my pants' waistband…
…
I'm being stupid.
Worse, I'm being Bobbi kinds of stupid.
Condoms are a thing! A thing I should—could use, but only after a long, hard—after a talk with Roberta about everything that she avoided talking about yesterday, when we were interrupted by a lupine bundle of energy deciding that scheduling is for suckers unable to shapeshift, and, really, I should be a tad more concerned that she managed to come out during daytime, but I am currently more preoccupied with the soft, half-naked girl in my arms who has her head tucked against my right shoulder, exposing her peacefully closed eyes and half-open lips to me as if inviting me to wake her up with a fairytale kiss but we are really not at that stage. We are friends. Roberta and I are very good friends who don't wake the other up with sexual advances, no matter how charged things are between us, or how much the soft skin of her ass keeps minutely shifting against an erection that remains as Bobbily-stubborn as ever, except I don't think I've been this hard in my life, which may in part be because I've spent a good few hours being teased to Hell and back by an amorous werewolf (to a very particular kind of Hell, at that), but also…
…
Damn it.
This is stupid. This is too rushed. Yes, she and I have… flirted. Or something like that. And she keeps giving me 'permission' to do… things with what I can only assume to be her other self, even if Bobbi is distinct enough that I'm not entirely comfortable with that description, but…
This isn't hormones.
Or, at least, it's not only hormones.
Not when I find myself craning down my agonizingly painful neck, getting nearer and nearer to her relaxed, trusting face, close enough that tiny, short breaths warm up my chin as I look down at her, under black hair matted to her forehead after improperly drying from our tumble in the creek burbling by our side.
The dawn is… gray.
I've never really liked it, to be honest. I prefer dusk. At dusk, the sky goes from vibrant to colorful, and then the stars and Moon come out. It's the fiery curtain call of day before something as magic as the sunset itself comes in.
Dawn…
Dawn washes away the dark of night. It steals silver from the world and just gives us a faint echo of a Sun that still isn't strong enough to give us light and heat. It's only after it's over that dawn brings us anything of value.
It's also horribly early. Too early for a kid with a father who is the only morning person in the family.
So.
I never really liked dawn.
Not until now.
Not until I see her profile turn into a line painted in hazy light glimmering along the almost undistinguishable strands of her peach fuzz. Until I see the swaying shadows of the leaves above us dancing back and forth over the bridge of her nose, the ridge of her brow, the angle of her cheekbones.
Until the sun brings clarity to the face of the girl in my arms.
A clarity that I desperately need not to…
Not to…
"Brian?" she says when I finally give in.
When I… press my lips against her forehead, right below a lock of black hair stuck to pale skin
I wouldn't know belongs to a Latina if her name wasn't 'Roberta Díaz.'
"Good morning," I tell her, my voice rougher than I meant it to as I pull back to look at eyes that keep widening after every slow blink, with all the startling details that I discovered yesterday in a library's private room now as apparent as they were when I also lost control and took her chin—
"Brian?" she repeats.
Softer.
In a whisper.
Her eyes lidded, her head tilted back, her chin warm between my cold fingertips, her chapped lips promising me a world of… of discovery.
Of wonder.
Of all the things I never found at dawn.
"Roberta," I answer.
Or maybe I don't.
Maybe I just state the only thing I can conceive of mattering right now. The… the heated ball of something that her name, her presence, her warmth on top of me, brings out to blaze across any thoughts that don't have to do with her looking up at me, breathing faster and rougher, her cheeks tinting with a color intense enough to overthrow the tyranny of dawn's gray.
Maybe I just want her to hear my voice. To obsess over her name on my lips like I do over her once more greeting me after a night filled with promises that I refused to take for the sake of a girl who trusts me more than she should.
Maybe I just want her to feel even an ounce of what she makes me feel. Of the waves of burning air going up the sides of my neck, the rush of blood in my ears, the buzzing of my heart in my chest as I taste air that smells like sleep, river water, pine needles, and all the trapped things between our bodies.
"I… you… you did not take… her," she says.
"We haven't talked yet," I say, all too aware of how close her lips are to mine and yet… unable to pull away.
She shifts, then abruptly stops when the exposed tip of my cock rubs between her cheeks.
She's breathing as harshly as I am.
"You… didn't have to hold back," she says with a note of accusation.
I could answer.
Instead, I…
I move.
I move, and she's sprawled beneath me, her wrists in my hands, her face under mine, her legs open, the sides of plush thighs resting on the carpet of dry leaves and pine needles.
"I did. Hold back," I say, barely able to push out the words as she keeps being her. Roberta. The girl with a sharp tongue and quick wit who never lets me get away with anything in her sacred library.
Except she's also the girl who's kept pushing me to have sex with… Bobbi.
And she's told me about what she shares with her. With the amorous, happy, energetic girl who is not a monster because I refuse to apply the ill-fitting label to someone as pure-hearted as the gray-skinned beauty who fell asleep between my arms hours ago and has now ceded her place to…
Roberta.
"Did you want me to? To take Bobbi?"
She goes still, her breath held, and I wait until she opens her lips to interrupt her answer because that's not the question I want on her mind:
"Did you want to dream about me taking her?"
Her eyes widen.
Her lips fall open.
And, slowly, as dawn's gray light turns into a golden wreath around her black hair and the outline of my shadow over her, I lower my head.
My lips.
Slowly. Slower than I've ever attempted to kiss a girl in my life. Giving her all the chances to pull away. To show me any sign that she doesn't want—need this as badly as I do.
She doesn't pull away.
She remains beneath me, her eyes lidding until they close in something that is far from the peace I spied on her sleep.
I… I know. I know that she'll let me. That I can take from her everything that I want. That, in this moment, she will allow me to.
But…
Blazing eyes that would look devastating over the cut lenses of half-moon glasses flash through my head, and they are paired with a smirk of vindicated wit, with a sigh of frustration, or with a secret, gentle smile that I once felt was just for me and me alone.
"Roberta… Talk to me," I say.
Because I'm a moron.
Slowly, she opens her eyes, and I can see the starburst pattern, the light amber streaked by rich shades that I described to her yesterday when I got almost as carried away as I am at this very moment, holding her down on a forest floor with her bra askew and the heat of her sex coming off her harshly enough that I feel her nearness on my exposed tip.
God. I wish it was just hormones. Or that it didn't involve hormones. Just one of those two would be enough for me not to keep losing my mind.
"You want me to… talk?" she asks, about as incredulous as I may be feeling at this very moment.
I nod.
She laughs.
Which is very unsporting of her, truth be told.
"You really are one of a kind, Mister Campbell," she says with a grin that almost distracts me away from how she arches her chest and her breasts wobble inside the loose confines of a bra displaced by Bobbi's Bobbiness.
"That's rich, coming from you."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
I almost kiss her.
Instead, I growl over her, hovering above the defenseless girl who refuses to move away, my aching cock all too near to a body exposed by Bobbi's habit of pulling her blouse off to tie it up under a bust somewhat more prominent than Roberta's, which means I keep getting glimpses of pale areolas that I could easily trace with lips, fingers, or tongue, that I could suck at and tease with the worrying edge of my teeth as the stern girl melts into a mewling mess that I may have fantasized about once or twice, and why the Hell am I torturing myself like this when I just have to look into her defiant, blazing eyes and…
…
"Roberta?"
"Yes?"
"Can I kiss you?"
She goes still.
Then, she looks up at me, her eyes slowly roaming down my own messy clothes sticking to me in weird ways after a night of Bobbi drying me through sheer body heat, and some color comes back to Roberta's cheeks before she finds my eyes once again and—
"Hmphhhh!" I try to protest.
Because, as has already been stated, I am a moron.
Her tongue intrudes in my mouth, and it's dry, but I really don't care too much about morning breath or any other concern when I finally react to the softness of her chest pushing against mine and I grasp her wrists tighter, her whole body shuddering beneath mine as a strangled moan makes it into my mouth to tickle me with all the possibilities I could extract from her as I drop low enough to push her into the ground with my weight, because I may be lean, but muscle is dense, and Roberta seems to appreciate it well enough, given how her thighs close around the sides of my hips, how her arms weakly struggle in my grasp as I feel far more beast than Bobbi will ever be when something beyond words rises inside my mind to take away anything that isn't touch, sound or scent.
River water. Pine needles.
Her.
I pull away from her mouth, amber eyes looking at me both lost and heated, disoriented, but I don't have time to do anything other than burn her into my memory as I dive right to the side of her neck, tasting sleep, shared sweat, and quickly fading river as I suck and lick at her skin, eager to get more. To get her real taste.
To make her feel… delected.
"Brian…" she mumbles, writhing beneath me, the bare stretch of her belly between her bunched skirt and her tied blouse rubbing against my glans, stained by my precum.
Marked.
I open my mouth and surround her beating jugular with my teeth, slightly pressing down as I suck harder than I have until this point.
She cries out, her hips jerk up, and she rubs against me.
The world becomes blurred shadow around everything but her. Everything but the girl in my grasp.
Everything but the woman I would claim.
It…
It takes a lot to stop.
"If you don't want me to take our first time right here and now, you better give me some reason not to go ahead with this, Roberta," I say right in her ear before I lick inside her canal, my eyelids vibrating as my thoughts keep burning away in a pyre made of her moans and the way her hips would sway beneath mine, answering to my thrusts, to my need—
"The… The pine needles are itchy?" she offers with the most uncertain tone I've ever heard from her.
…
Damn it.
They kinda are.
"Okay. Okay. No pine needles. Got it. God, I really should have fucked you on top of the remnants of the hunting and fishing section—"
"Crude."
"Woman, I am this close to tearing your panties off with my teeth. Don't give me any banter; it's more than I can take at the moment."
She's shooting me a flat stare. You know what flat stare. The flat stare.
The one that she should shoot over half-moon—
"Eeep!" she lets out.
"Sorry! It's got a mind of its own!"
"… Really?" she says.
With a flat tone.
Paired with the equally flat stare.
Which, once again, makes my cock bounce past the tight confines of my waistband and against her soft, yielding belly, which in turn makes her let out a small breath that yet again warms my chin, and I'm on top of her, pressing her into an itchy pile of pine needles and dry leaves that are going through the knees of my pants, so they must be really uncomfortable on her mostly bare ass, and maybe I could offer some kind of support? Just, you know, to chivalrously shield her from the harsh realities of nature. It's not like I want to grope your ass until I leave a red imprint of both my hands on your pale skin or anything, Roberta, I'm just being polite, and—
"Let go," she says with actual heat.
I look up to see that I'm still grasping her wrists, and, well, that seems awkward when she's not sexily writhing under the full weight of my body to rub her half-naked form against me, so I nervously wet my dry lips, shift on top of her to take my weight off her arms, and—
"Hmmmmph!" I protest past the pair of lips pushing against mine.
Then I stop being an idiot and kiss back.
Or, at least, as much as she lets me.
Because her fingers are buried in my hair, taking control of me, pushing until I fall on my back with the mad girl on top of me, her tongue in my mouth, her almost bare breasts on my chest, and her askew panties right on top of my cock's head.
I would say I'm getting some mixed messages here, but maybe she just wants me to act as a shield between her and the pine needles? Yeah. That sounds like something Roberta would do. How selfish. How cunning. How—
Oh, God, do all wereladies know how to do this kind of thing with their tongue?
I am sorry, Roberta. I'll stop being rude or dismissive to you inside my head, just keep licking my tongue like that and I promise that my thoughts will only be as caustic as you find them hot to be.
"You are… entirely too presumptuous," she says, pulling back but not enough that my whole world isn't taken by amber eyes.
"What?"
"Our first time? What ever gave you the idea that we will have any time?" she says with a slight smirk that…
Well.
Let's just say that my eyes dipping to her very exposed cleavage is not something that can be blamed entirely on my lack of social graces.
"Crude," she repeats, straightening up on top of my abdomen and half-covering the line of her nipples with a single, disturbingly elegantly poised arm that betrays no self-consciousness at all.
"I have slept with my arms around both you and Bobbi in the same night, woke up to my morning wood being sandwiched by the pertest pair of buttocks to ever grace this campus, and I'm still riding the high of the lingering touch of your lips on my own. Honestly, it's only due to me being banter-sexual that I'm able to say anything more cogent than 'bend over.' Also, you're now blushing, and I can't even begin to tell you how much worse you're making things for me—"
"Do you even need to breathe?"
"Of course I do; that's what all the extraneous commas and parenthetical asides are for. Still, it's good training for if you ever need me to have a lung capacity that would allow me to go a long time without surfacing—"
"Brian!"
"Well, yes, I would like it if you started yelling my name, but that would hopefully be for reasons related to my aforementioned well-trained lung capacity. Quite important for athletic pursuits, you understand. It's not like I fantasize about driving you wild by kissing you over and over, making your body shiver in all the different ways it can, your moans of ecstasy akin to the vibrato of a violin—"
"Shut. Up," blazing eyes tragically bereft of any adornments tell me as she…
Stands up.
Which, for a moment, has her straddling my fallen form, a glimpse of pink wetly glimmering past the dislodged black lace that her all but ruined skirt does nothing to disguise, and a part of me dares to dream about her moving either up or down and…
And, of course, she steps aside.
Then, quite promptly, she slumps against the tree of murder I painfully woke up to and lets herself fall down slowly until she can hug her knees and hide her blushing face from me.
This, something that should be a reprieve, given how everything about her is making it so hard for me to think, makes me feel…
Guilty.
… I blame Dad. It definitely wasn't Mom's teachings that got me to be so keenly aware of any breach of my personal code.
So…
Well, not much else I can do, is there?
"Brian?" she asks once more, her eyes peering at me over her bent elbow as I…
Sit by her side, one arm cautiously draped over her shoulders.
"Sorry," I say.
"What for?"
I look at her with an arched eyebrow, but she's still hiding most of her face away from me, and I can scarcely read anything in her eyes other than keen focus.
"I…" I, for starters, wet my lips, trying not to think about two kisses initiated by her that should tell me something, but maybe it's something that I want to hear, so I can't be trusted with my interpretation. "I did presume too much. It's just… You are my friend. I care for you. But you're also… asking me to do things with Bobbi that I know would have an impact on you. And I can't do that if… I like you. I like you as a friend. As a smart woman. As a… as a lot of things, but… but also as… as a very attractive girl that I thought I had been pseudo-flirting with, so, when you invited me to the library the day before yesterday, I thought we would… I shaved. I shaved way too much, I sahved five times, until my cheeks were red and raw. That's… that's the kind of thing that a teenaged moron with confused hopes does when he's about to meet a beautiful girl with mesmerizing eyes and pencil skirts that occupy entirely too much of my lacking mental space. So, Bobbi aside… I can't… I won't hurt you. Because it wouldn't be right of me to take advantage, and because Bobbi doesn't deserve to be guilty of anything she hasn't decided, and… and… And because I like you. A lot."
My cheeks don't burn. Partially because I didn't shave yesterday.
There is, though, a very noticeable lump in my throat that has only grown harsher on my voice as I kept my tirade going and lost eye contact with the girl I'm trying to support with my own inadequate fortitude.
So I don't see how she reacts to it. To the impromptu confession, declaration, or whatever it is that I unloaded on her while trying to apologize for acting like a sex pest since I saw even the tiniest chance to take her like I have hoped I one day would from the first time that she turned around to get a book from a shelf in front of me and my eyes wandered down to a black skirt doing nothing to calm down my need—
Lips.
Soft, tender, no longer chapped lips.
On my cheek.
It… It is brief. Much briefer than the two earlier exchanges.
But it lingers.
And it, somehow, makes my heart beat even faster.
"You are a charming young man, Mister Campbell," she says with a smile that I can hear even as I stare at the low sun's multiplied reflections of the cresting creek in front of me.
"That sounds like you're letting me down gently," I say, trying to hold back a grin that may or not be entirely sincere.
It comes out when her elbow finds my side.
"You really are impossible…" she mutters.
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
I turn, the half-smirk, half-grin pulling at my cheeks, and she meets me with narrowed eyes and a challenging smile of her own.
I could kiss her.
I just… don't know how I would stop.
"We should go back. Things may get hard to explain, at this point," she says, amber eyes leaving my own and drifting to the other side of the creek, where…
Where the traces of Bobbi's fight against a Black Dog remain entirely too visible.
It's… different, in the daylight. The shadows don't distort the battlefield, neither hiding nor insinuating.
So I see the tracks of earth uncovered by scattered river pebbles. The gouges of claws digging through the forest bed.
The blood.
Dark, dried splatters of…
Bobbi's blood.
My fingers clench around Roberta's shoulder as I remember being… inadequate. Unable to help the girl fighting with her life on the line to protect me, Bobbi standing between a monster of legend and my useless self, retreat not being an option because I'm not as fast as she is.
Because I would fall behind and…
Damn it.
"I… don't always remember clearly. Usually don't. That's what scares me most," a tiny voice meant only for someone standing right by her side says.
"She's… brave. Loyal," I tell her with a tone that all but implies the 'just as you.'
"You almost died to save… her."
I shake my head.
"It was just… It was the very least I could do. I just… I wish I had thought better about it. If Bobbi is… if you are real? What else is there? What does come out at night? What do I need to be ready for?"
The silence between us stretches.
Then, a gentle hand cups my cheek and guides me to look down at her, her fingertips dragging over my stubble and sending shivers down my spine that war with the feeling of bark digging past my shirt.
"You just need to be ready to entertain a werewolf for a few nights a month, Brian. I'm not asking you to hunt monsters."
"Well, I'm not asking Bobbi to be a comic-book-like heroine of the night patrolling Lacmere in search of supernatural horrors, but here we are—"
"Yes. Here we are."
Her eyes hold me as silent as she would have with the kiss I feel robbed of when she doesn't close the distance, her fingers remain on my face, her breath once again on my chin…
…
I am going to get her a pair of glasses and a telescopic pointer stick if it's the last thing I do.
"Really?" she asks, cocked eyebrow drawing my eyes to her before her stare bids me to follow her line of sight down to…
…
"Okay, look, to be perfectly honest, it had gone down. It's just that you're still by my side, I'm half-hugging you, and you're half-naked, with nearly-exposed nipples, and your scent is all over me, so I'm having a hard time keeping a lid on my perfectly natural reaction to such a state of affairs."
The eyebrow rises a tad more, dislodging the matted lock of black hair above it and making it bounce down as it falls across her left eye.
And now I'm thinking about Goth Roberta. Which makes me think about Goth Bobbi.
Which makes me think about them together.
Which, to no one's surprise, makes my very apparent issue somewhat harder to disguise.
But, before I can bite the inside of my cheek, pinch my thigh, or resort to any of the extremely ineffective tricks developed through a very precocious puberty that often had me try and fail not to stare at my classmates like I'm now realizing I often look at Roberta, she…
She does bite her lip.
Just… in a way that doesn't make me think she's hurting herself in any way whatsoever.
"That looks… uncomfortable," she says in what I hope isn't an insult to my manhood.
"Belt buckles are not intended for penile support, no."
This is when she glares at me, rolls her eyes dismissively, or softly smiles while trying not to laugh.
Or, well, it should be that.
It, instead, apparently, is when she keeps staring at my penis.
"Do you need… help?"
My ears are burning. Or, at least, all the heat from my neck seems to rush up to gather on my ear tips, which feels like they are burning, and I've got her leaning half across my chest, looking down, her hand on my knee.
So, I do what comes naturally:
I rant.
"You do realize that blue balls are a myth, don't you? Or, well, not actually: prolonged sexual stimulation without ejaculation can have painful side effects that may last up to a few hours due to the excessive blood pooling in the testes, but, really, for that to be a concern, I would've to remain hard for hours without any kind of release, and so, when a guy whines about needing a hand, you can tell them to go straight to Hell with that bullshit, among other things, because they do have their own hands to take care of the matter with, unless we're talking about Patrick, who only has one hand to do so because prosthetics really aren't at the level where that is quite viable—I mean, I assume. Pretty sure there are some Internet communities that would prove me wrong in less time than it takes me to regret not turning safe search on, but… Okay, the main thrust—the point of my argument is that, no, I don't need help, and whoever would claim otherwise is a sexual predator at worst and a manipulative, whiny little bitch at best, so, really, as I try very much not to fall into either category, I must state in no uncertain terms that—"
She's grabbing my cock.
"Huh," I intelligently comment.
"Are you really so set on talking me out of giving you some relief?"
"Look, it's just that, well, as much as we would like to think otherwise, men can be as hormonal as we tend to claim women are, particularly after a long enough period of stimulation that crotch pain may lie in the immediate future, and there's a soup of things in my brain that gets more and more chaotic as you keep being by my side, so, really, it's either I rant about things that keep me from acting out or I push you back down to the forest's ground, which your hand on my cock is making very hard for me not to—hn!"
"I think I've found a perfectly reliable way to keep you from pushing me down," she says, looking up from my dick with a triumphant grin in her eyes that makes me throb between her soft fingers.
"I wouldn't count on that, woman."
She shivers.
Which, given what she's holding, is a very pleasant experience.
"Don't… use that tone," she whispers.
"What tone?"
She tilts her head, a warning squeeze on my shaft making me appreciate the apparent severity of the current circumstances.
"Sit?" she asks.
"I'm already sitting?"
"… You are not this dumb."
"I have it on good authority that I am, in fact—"
"Don't use your 'owner' voice on… me."
I blink.
She keeps staring right at me.
… It is very difficult to stop the slow grin spreading my lips wider.
"Roberta?"
"… Yes?"
"Lie down."
Her shoulders shake, a wave of pure motion travels all the way from her coccyx to her nape, and she looks up at me past her dangling forelock with burning anger as she bites the corner of her lip and, oh so delightfully slowly…
Lies down.
By my side. On her belly. Her chin resting on my thigh.
Her nose right beside my exposed shaft.
"You can be so infuriating…" she mutters, her eyes almost crossing to look straight at the drop of transparent fluid signaling that maybe I have been erect for long enough that pooling blood in my testes may be a concern.
"One of my best traits, I'm sure," I say.
And, before she can answer…
I pet her hair.
Which should make her feel… well, it could make her feel a lot of ways, truth be told, but, from the sharp gasp that washes across my tip and the way that she grabs the root of my cock with both hands… I will take a wild guess that it's not entirely unpleasant for her.
Much like it isn't for me.
Because…
Well, it's been months since I met Roberta, and her black hair is about as eye-catching as the way her pencil skirts hug her hips or how her eyes demand the proper accessory, so I've kinda wanted to run my fingers through the wavy tresses for quite a while.
The fact that it's happening right as she starts caressing my cock in a two-handed grip that makes me feel exceptionally flattered?
I would say that's the cherry on top, but cherries are not the kind of fruit I should be thinking about when getting ever so closer to losing my technical virginity, one increment at a time.
"Is it… good?" she asks with reticent hesitation.
Looking up at me.
"It's you," I answer.
For some reason, her cheeks darken, and she looks away, back to the tip of my cock and how it moves back and forth every time that her joined hands slither up and down my shaft, stopping just as they brush against the underside of my glans or push against my pubic hair and the elastic band of my boxers that doesn't quite distract me from her touch, her… intent.
I, yet again, lick my lips, both nervous and anticipating, but also very, very much excited and eager to learn about how she wants to handle me. A shiver of pleasure catches me unaware, and the gleaming drop of precum quivering atop my slit fattens before sliding down the curve of my glans and falling to the back of Roberta's right hand, joining her to my cock with a strand of luminescent liquid that doesn't break even as it vibrates when she suddenly stops.
Stops, and stares.
I refrain from saying anything as I just observe her reaction. How her eyes widen and her nostrils flare twice before she sucks her lips into a flat, pursed, pink line.
She gets nearer to her hand, almost hiding from me the wet spot glittering under a light more colorful than dawn's that streams down the waves of her black hair, only interrupted by my own fingers trailing across the reassuring softness.
Hot, scalding breath washes across the exposed parts of my shaft, whistling through the gaps between her joined fingers.
Slowly, she turns, and I could swear that her eyes blaze as brightly as Bobbi's.
"You will… let her. You will let her grab your cock," she says as her fingers squeeze.
I dumbly nod.
She smiles in a way that's just short of cruelty, but very much past triumphant.
"Is that all it takes, Campbell? I just had to… touch you? To take your hard, pungent shaft between my hands?"
"I wouldn't say pungent—"
She sniffs.
Slowly, deliberately, she goes around her hands and pushes the tip of her nose over the band of my boxers, tugging it down until her nostrils are buried in a ballsack very much engorged from hours of stimulation with no release, then she loudly breathes in, the rush of cold air doing nothing to bring me relief as I struggle not to writhe against the bark of the tree helping me remain upright.
"Pungent," she reaffirms. "Not a bad thing."
I, again, dumbly nod.
Then, her sideways face moves up, over the back of her unmarred hand, taking a curious sniff of her own scent and looking disappointed for the seconds it takes her to reach my shaft and repeat the process, immediately taking on a dreamy smile with lidded eyes that make it so another drop of pre-ejaculate slides down the strand joining her right hand to my glans.
She keeps moving, and her nose is right over the slit on my tip, the short breaths cooling and warming my wet skin in a way that makes me feel both caressed and increasingly out of control, making it ever harder for me not to fist my hand in her hair and push her down so that she can taste what she so clearly likes scenting.
She lets go.
And dismay pools in my belly heavier than blood on my balls when she straightens up and away from my cock.
Prim and proper, quintessentially Roberta, she sits in what my former self would deem a seiza posture, her hands on her lap rather than on mine as she looks at me with the same neutrally intense eyes I witnessed earlier.
"She… Bobbi will now have permission to touch your dick. To sniff it. To get drunk on your scent. As much as you allow her to," she declares.
I, fighting the urge to grab my cock and finish the job she started, nod.
A tilt of her head forward, her chin slightly tucked in, and a thrillingly malicious smile blooms on her lips.
"All right then, Campbell. Let's see just how many things Bobbi will be allowed to do, shall we?"
I don't get to answer.
Not before she pushes me, and I fall on my back, with her immediately getting on all fours between my legs, her exposed backside swaying behind her in a way that's as incongruously feline as Bobbi's purrs were during our first night in the library.
My boxers and pants are halfway down my thighs before I even realize what she's doing, and then her nose is once again taking as deep a breath as she can manage from my balls as her hands go up and down the sides of my cock, alternating the direction of her measured caresses, making me sway like a vertical pendulum whenever one of them reaches the tip and the other holds my base.
Leaving the underside of my cock free.
Free for Roberta to slowly rise from my ballsack, the tip of her nose almost tickling in its light touch as she keeps breathing me in, never stopping as her hands seem to bat at me like she's a capricious kitten. Then she reaches my wet frenulum, more of my precum already going down the taut stretch of skin, and she pulls away.
Her tongue comes out.
I hiss at the wet touch, my hands crunching dry pine needles and leaves when I close them as tightly as a trained fencer can grasp anything.
One not-girlfriend complained about it once when her thighs bore the marks of me being nervous, inexperienced, and too easily excited.
Another… didn't complain.
And I wonder which of the two extremes Roberta falls under. If she would… enjoy me leaving the red imprints of my touch on her skin. If she would like to trace the contours of my fingers on her thighs, her belly, her chest.
If Bobbi's dark skin would take those marks. If she would heal fast enough that I would have to reapply them. To keep grabbing her tight, holding her down as she writhed beneath me.
If I'm being stupid, selfish, and a bad person by thinking about Bobbi when Roberta lifts her gaze from my tip and stares right into my eyes.
"Now Bobbi can lick you," she declares.
And, without her lips touching my skin at all, her tongue fully comes out, slowly circling my cock's head as her hands join once again at the base of my shaft, twinned fingers lightly caressing me in their up and down rocking that forces her to move her head to chase my tip around as she keeps capturing with the flat of her tongue every little droplet of liquid excitement that comes out of me.
"Roberta…" I try to whisper and end up grunting.
She shivers, her swaying behind now shaking side to side, the soft flesh mesmerizing in how freely it moves when not constrained by her tight skirts.
God. Oh, God. I want her so bad—
She lets go with her left hand as the right tightens, the idle caress turned into a rough handjob slickened by a mix of my precum and her dripping saliva, the wet sounds of her touch on me mingling with the burbling of the creek glinting under the sunlight falling behind her.
I gasp.
My button-up rides over my belly, exposing the shallow lines of a six-pack that I have only by dint of leanness rather than muscularity.
And she traces every single line of it.
I almost yell out, the sensation akin to tickling, but far more intense and even stronger when I find her eyes on mine, studying me, looking for every single reaction as her tongue leaves my cock and she bends forward, over it, my glans caressing along the hollow of her throat when she descends to kiss over my pubic hair and through the middle line of her body until she tongues my navel in a maddening way that she only stop to press her lips on the muscle above before she sucks hard enough that I doubt not she's going to leave a mark deeper than what my fingers would leave on her plush thighs.
"Now Bobbi can kiss you. Every stretch of your skin. You understand? This is me giving both of you permission, Brian. Nod if you understand."
I do. I nod.
Hopefully, not dumbly.
Regardless of the intelligence conveyed by my gesture, a slow Cheshire grin underlines eyes that look brighter and brighter as she keeps taking permissions from me. As she pushes my shirt ever higher, out of the way, before she climbs up with trailing kisses that only end when she licks a single circle around my left nipple.
"Every part of you. She can taste every part of you…" she says, her eyes turning hazy as her breath roughens and…
And I grab the back of her head, pull her up, and kiss her.
I.
I kiss her.
She lets out something unintelligible as her hand clenches around my cock, but I'm too hard for that to be even slightly uncomfortable as I thrust my tongue past her soft lips and take from her, turning us on our sides over uncomfortable, dry pine needles that susurrate at the motion of my body undulating along hers, my cock pushing against her soft belly, my arm snaking under her side to grasp at a cheek as soft as I ever dreamed before I grab her with all my strength and pull her against me, her thighs opening to surround my right leg immediately before she grinds against me.
I don't close my eyes. Don't look away.
I keep staring as her eyelids flutter in strangled desire while my kiss deepens, and I taste her palate, running the tip of my tongue along every parallel crevice. Then I clutch her tighter still and press her harder toward me, the wet slit parallel to displaced black satin kissing the front of my thigh before she shudders and her hips sway, prisoner of my grip but free enough to make herself moan against me until her eyes finally fall closed, almost as peaceful as when she slept on top of me, but that peace turns into surrender when her body shudders for a final time before she slumps on the forest ground, her grip on my cock all but limp until I push once again with both my hand and leg and she jolts awake.
Wide, amber eyes with marvelous nuance stare at me with a mixture of shock and betrayal when I pull away from her intoxicating lips.
"I am giving you permission to be mine, Roberta."
She whimpers.
I roll her over, her legs spread beneath me, her eyes lost along my exposed abdomen and rigid shaft before she looks up at me and guides my tip down, along the middle line of her belly, my cock doing to her the reverse of what her tongue just did to me until sparse pubic hair brushes the underside of my glans and she…
Stops.
"I… I am very… eager," she says, because God forbid she used a word as straightforward as horny.
"I am aware," I growl more than say.
She gulps, her throat bobbing visibly, enticingly, and the heated haze inside of me just wants to dive down and bite around the pulsing vein by her side before sucking hard enough to give her a hickey that matches the one on my belly.
"But…" she starts.
And I groan.
Then, slowly, I reach for her wrist, gently pull her grip away from my cock, and move away from her open legs, trying not to be resentful of the girl who—
Who leaps to her knees, grabs my cock, and swallows down to the circle of her thumb around my shaft.
"I… I thought you didn't—"
She glares at me.
With my cock past her lips.
… I don't think I've ever been this hard in my entire existence.
Her lips tighten before she pulls up, the tight seal tugging at the crown of my glans as the tip of her tongue goes wild at my slit, as if trying to drag every single droplet of precum that Bobbi could ever want to smell. Then her hand moves, rough enough to loudly smack against her lips, and it's my eyes that roll back at the sheer intensity of everything that she's making me go through.
Her mouth parts from my cock, her heated breath washing over me in an almost tangible cloud of want and need, and I manage to go back to meeting her gaze.
Her stare.
Her accusatory, angry stare.
"You don't get to be disappointed," she says.
"I… I was just… You didn't want—"
"I am old enough to know what I want. Who I want. You don't get to decide for me."
"It's not like you are asking for consent at this moment."
"No. No, I am not."
The hand not jerking me off pushes on my abdomen, and, once again, Roberta makes me fall.
… I could read a lot into such a sentence. If, you know, most of my mental faculties weren't set on looking at the angry girl tearing her bra off, grabbing her not-Bobbi-tier-yet-still-substantial bust, and wrapping her breasts around my cock.
"You can fuck her breasts," she says, her anger clouded with something that makes her breath faster and ragged. "You can grab her ridiculous ears, use them as handlebars, and shove your cock down her throat," she adds.
Then she lets go of her breasts, and, before I have the time to properly whine in mourning loss, she takes my hands and places them by the side of her head, glaring at me in defiance until I take the hint, take two fistfuls of black, wavy hair…
And she dives down.
Her lips are once again wrapped around my tip as her breasts press along the sides of my shaft, round nipples roughly pinched between her own fingers.
Her ass is, once again, wildly swaying behind her.
Then she pulls away, mouth open over my tip, strands of spit and something mine bridging the gap between us as her wild, amber eyes lock on mine.
"You can… You can cum in her mouth. You can splatter all of your seed over her long tongue. You can make her choke on you. You can… you can…"
Her eyes are so wide that the white around her irises fully shows.
And she dives down.
A muffled scream passes between her lips and my cock, the vibration of her frustration, desire, or whatever it is that the mad girl is feeling now released to tear at the remnants of my sanity as I fall to the temptation of her permission and thrust up between her soft, quaking breasts and into her hot mouth until, finally, something snaps in the back of my head and I shoot.
Her nostrils flare, her eyebrows shoot up, and she sucks.
Then, loud enough to rival the creek behind me, she swallows.
Eagerly.
Enthusiastically enough that I find myself answering, another jet of boiling cum burning through my mind that makes her back arch up in a single jerk of motion that ends with her letting go of her breasts, her palms flat on my stomach, her convulsing throat squeezing my tip, asking, demanding for more.
For everything.
And with a roar that echoes in the silent forest around us, I thrust my hips up until her lips kiss the base of my cock, and I give my everything to her.
My weight is on my feet and shoulders, my whole body trembling with the strain of keeping this impromptu bridge going, Roberta's kiss the only thing that keeps me going rather than slumping down as all my strength leaves me and burning pleasure turns into drained exhaustion.
Slowly, she slides up, her lips tight enough that nothing but a gurgling noise goes past them.
Her hands are still on my belly.
Her eyes on mine.
She pushes down until I get the clue and lower my hips, then…
Then she crawls over my body, meticulously undoes every single button on my shirt, and lies down on top of me, her soft cheek on my chest, her hair tickling the underside of my jaw, and…
And she kisses my clavicle a single time before she tucks herself on top of me, pulling my undone shirt to cover her face as if she was grumpily refusing to acknowledge that it's time to wake up.
"Roberta?" I ask.
"Five more minutes," she grumbles.
"Didn't you… didn't you say that we had to leave? To avoid rumors?"
She pulls back the flap of my shirt to glare up at me and waves at her face.
"What? Do you want me to tell you that you're pretty? Because you are, but I don't—"
"My make-up looks like… like I starred in some kind of film. There's no avoiding rumors at this point."
I blink down at her, and, well, I guess that I could've paid more attention to streaked eyeliner, all but gone lipstick, and all the things that I would usually find inordinately hot if I wasn't too busy looking at her to mind all the extraneous details, not to mention that maybe I should wonder how the heck Bobbi and Roberta can share make-up, of all things, but…
Rumors.
"Speaking of rumors…" I start to say.
Roberta looks at me with an inquiring eyebrow.
I wet my lips.
"Spit it out, Campbell."
"Well, first of all, I would like to thank you for, you know, not spitting. I know it's not something every girl likes to do—"
"Don't you—that—that wasn't for… Oh, God, I just… I got carried away, all right? I am not… I am not like her; I just… I was, you were, I—why aren't you interrupting me?"
"I thought you didn't like it when I cut you off?" I say, as beatific and blameless as Mom herself.
"You are a jerk," she mumbles.
"Maybe. Or maybe I really like it when you get flustered, particularly when you are lying on top of my chest, your warm, soft breasts weighing on my bare skin, and—"
She…
Doesn't glare.
Rather, she blushes prettily, shyly, and there's the trembling ghost of a smile on the edge of her lips that captivates me as much as anything that I have seen from her since I woke up to the best not-blanket in the world rubbing against me.
So I, rather than keep talking or tease her into being even more of a stammering mess…
Lean down, kiss the top of her head.
And hug my shirt closed around her.
So, lying on top of dry pine needles and traitorous, backstabbing river pebbles, I close my eyes under light brighter and more golden than dawn could ever be, and try to steal a few more minutes of peace, rest, and…
And everything other than hormones that I feel at Roberta's contented murmur washing across the bare skin of my chest.
━❖━
"This is insane," she says.
"As opposite to what?" I genuinely inquire.
The glare she answers me with is not precisely reassuring.
"'Speaking of rumors,' you said. Do you realize how little that non-sequitur hints at the audacity of—"
"Hi there!" Bianca enthusiastically says, coming from behind a tall pine in a way that almost gives me a heart attack.
"You've been waiting for a dramatic entrance," I immediately say in lieu of any greeting. "You have been hiding in the woods like a stalker just to interrupt at the right moment or, at the very least, catch a hint of something scandalous."
The girl wearing her perennial red boob tube and black jacket combo looks at me with a disturbingly wide grin before shrugging in a way that leaves her shoulders bare.
"Game recognizes game," she says, tipping an imaginary hat my way.
Roberta's eye twitches.
An exasperated Lucca huffs as he comes out from behind his own pine.
And I can only hope that the spare stockings, emergency make-up case, and assorted sandwiches that Bianca takes out of her messenger bag are going to be instrumental in making this meeting go, at the very least, remotely close to as friendly as I would like it to be.
━❖━⧫━❖━
To be perfectly honest? In my thorough outline about what was coming next, the background, the flashback arc, and the grand finale… this wasn't going to happen.
What a shock. What a twist. Who could've ever guessed that my characters would run away from me and do their own thing whenever they damn well please.
… I'm not crying. My eyes are sweating.
Anyway, the next chapter is me dealing with these four bastards taking turns at the wheel and driving me utterly insane (https://www.patreon.com/posts/lacmere-chapter-128385306?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link). It will be released when I deal with the next unexpected development.
As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true): aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xanah. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!