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10
Iopen up. There is no alternative when it comes to Rory. And the worst thing is, I don’t want there to be. Iwantto give into him.
The instant my lips part, frosting drips into my mouth in thick spurts. Rory does his best, controlling it with a steady hand, but so much of it gushes into my awaiting mouth that it spills past my lips and dribbles down my chin. My jaw hangs heavily with the weight of it.
NowI feel desecrated.NowI feel destroyed.
How apt that it should be Rory who makes me so.
“Kiss her.” I don’t know who this is addressed to but it’s a direct order. With my mouth full of frosting, I daren’t tilt my head to the side. I feel filthy, covered and coated all over in sticky sugar, and yet in some respects my soul has never felt purer. A few moments later, Luke appears in my vision… and so too does Finlay.
“Ladies first,” Finlay says, gesturing at Luke. Luke narrows his eyes at him. He takes his thumb and gently swipes away the frosting that had slid past my lips, cleaning me up before sampling the goods himself. The white frosting contrasts starkly with his skin, and he stares down at the dollop before rubbing it meditatively between his fingers.
Luke is careful as he drops his mouth to mine, and I moan weakly around the frosting, a wet, gurgling sound. His lips seal around mine, and his tongue softly laps at the frosting flooding my mouth. He seems more hesitant than before, and I have the impression that getting messy like this is not one of Luke’s most favorite things to do.
When he breaks the kiss, frosting glimmers across his lips and I have to hold back my giggle. Finlay, however, lurches forward the instant Luke pulls away, cradling my face between his hands, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with this new, fierce kiss. Where Luke was careful and considerate of potential mess, Finlay is only too happy to throw caution to the wind, appearing to relish the idea. His lips slam against mine in a bruising claim of a kiss. His tongue delves deeply into my mouth, frosting leaking between us, and Finlay collects as much of it as possible with his searching tongue.
Frosting slides back and forth between my mouth and his until I can’t tell what’s frosting and what’sus. I’m wet and groaning. It’s messy and disgusting and yet I’m turned on as fuck.Everything’swet. My face is sticky and Finlay isn’t much better. His mouth devours every particle of sugar like it’s his sole quest, and I devour every inch of his mouth because I need his lips on me.
Finlay breaks the kiss, breathless, his green eyes now as dark as emeralds. Sugar smears his cheek, and it looks deliberate enough that it resembles war paint. There is no respite for me, however. Luke quickly takes over, and his kiss this time is deeper and braver, as if to tell Finlay that he can play dirty too, and this mini-competition between them is enough to send heat flaring to my core.
In the background, I hear Rory’s commanding voice. I can’t make out a word as my mouth travels from one boy to the next, a tangle of tongues and teeth and sticky lips. And then I’m not traveling at all — they come to me, Luke and Finlay, and it’s no longer distinct kisses between two boys but two boys kissing me at the same time. A three-way kiss. The frosting is gone — all over our lips and faces, but we exchangesomethingbetween our mouths, the last remaining trickle of sugar, snowballing slickly between each of us.
I’m wetter than ever, and beyond the kiss I feel fingers beneath my skirt, tracing the seam of my underwear. Someone bold enough to do so — and it must be Rory — hooks his fingers around the elastic waistband and tugs them down. There are more words from Rory, but the world is too hazy and my head feels as fried as hot, melted sugar. All I know is that, moments later, there are fingers on my folds and my hips are bucking upwards in frantic desperation.
But it’s not just one hand, I calculate wildly, recreating the position in my mind. A fingertip probes my entrance, and it’s skillful, it’s sure of itself. It slips inside me with almost no effort at all, and I gasp into the pair of mouths feasting on me because that hand knows exactly where to go to make me writhe across the bed. But there’s a second hand, gentle and cherishing, and it strokes my clit like it’s the most sacred part of my body. And I know instinctively that it’s Danny. This is Danny and Rory working together to pleasure me, and the thought fires spirals of heat radiating from my lower belly and down to the hands working my cunt.
I’m dead. I’m dead and this must be Heaven. It’s the only explanation. Rory’s fingers are ceaseless, shooting wild shocks across my bucking body, like he wants to make my hips snap up and rock into him as often as possible. Like it’s a game he must win, his knuckles impaled deep inside me as though wanting to know how much of my body he can conquer. But it’s the softer touch, Danny’s, that eventually has me screaming. His fingers whisper circles into my clit, soothing and sweet, a contrast so deliberate to Rory. There’s a snap, and one whisper too many — and then I shatter.
I cry aloud into the mouths of boys, who consume my spoken pleasure like a gift. I come onto the hands of two others, who try to wring as much pleasure as possible from me. Orgasm courses over me like renewal, a hot wet heat crashing across my nerves and skin, flooding my veins and system with chemicals that spike my blood spectacularly. My heart thrums like rips of static, as though it’s only just returned from taking flight to wilder plains, landing back into my chest for safekeeping before leaping out again to hunt for more.
The world spins. The bed shakes. I’m hot and destroyed.
My body spasms. I feel broken in the best way.
Solace descends.
I’m sure I must drift off at some point, the world falling to blackness as my body recovers. But if I do, it must only be for a few breathless moments, because the next thing I see is Rory pulling his hand from my skirt. Slowly, with his gaze locked on me, he runs his tongue up past the knuckles of his finger and captures the whole digit into his mouth. I’m instantly flustered at the sight. The others don’t notice, too busy rewarding me with kisses on my cheeks and breasts. But I watch avidly as Rory drinks down all of me while barely moving at all, his eyes pinning me in place as he licks every drop of my juices from his skin likethisis his sugar.
“There’s icing on your skirt,” Rory points out, gesturing at my waistband where a small white mark covers the dark purple Lochkelvin tartan. I frown down at it. It’s barely noticeable. “Looks like you lose.”
I laugh slightly at Rory. Was this his game? Because I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything at all. “I think I need a shower,” I mumble. I can’t even lift my limbs. My body feels so drained and my cunt is still clenching optimistically.
Rory tilts his head in the direction of their shower room. “One hundred percent pure Lochkelvin water. It’s all yours, little saint. Unless you’d like one of us to join you?”
I think about it and decide that, yes, I really could do with another pair of eyes double-checking I reach Lochkelvin’s stringent presentation standards. The sugar slid into so many corners of my body, after all — it’d be a burden for me to make sure I’m perfectly sugar-free.
I meet Luke’s gaze. “Come find me in a few minutes,” I say, and his expression is one of happy surprise.
He wanted to be normal. A normal teenage boy having fun. I can do that. I can make him happy.
Their shower room is the same way I remember it. The shower enclosure, with the tiles polished to a high, bright sheen. They wink in the low light as though nothing important had ever happened here. As though no one of consequence had ever resided here.
My mind flashes with images I’d long ago buried. A weakened frame secured by rope. Tattoos shining wetly on naked skin. A boy with blond hair hanging in front of his eyes.
Jesus, I remember thinking at the time.Like Jesus on a cross.
Maybe this should be weird, entering that cubicle after the last time I was here. Maybe I should feel something other than the desire to wash — guilt, conflict, discomfort.
