𝔫༝༚༝༚

ᦵ .݂ ֯ 𓇮 𝖇𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 yesterday’s match, if anyone asked cameron the cannon cade what his newest kink was . . . he probably would’ve reached for his private twitter account. not his fiancée, or the beautiful fangirls that screamed for him match night, but the porn posts he had bookmarked on freaking twitter. . . . as of last night though, he would’ve told them to grab the woman his bestest-friend forbade:

who was all alone in mama cade’s living room; peeling down streamers and balloons and sweeping up confetti and wet-wiping the walls clean — who knew adults could be so messy?

either way last night’s match went, between him and his boy, the celebration was to be at mama cade’s place; a neat little cape cod, beige with navy-blue trim, that sat on the west-end. she’s upstairs in bed, having left the adults hours ago. she couldn’t hang like she used to, and that was okay.

cameron stands from the recliner he was sitting on with his fiancée and goes for the treat table. he grabs a paper plate, knife, and slices through the cake. yellow lemon with lemon filling, buttercream frosting, and coconut flakes. his favorite. cameron rips a fork from the plastic pack and pokes the tines through the baked good.

he uses his free hand to slide open mama’s back-door and you’re in the kitchen, shoving beer cans into the overflowing bin. “why not change it?” you pause at what you’re doing and stare over, frozen in a weird, bent over position. you almost touch your hand to your face, but don’t, given it was just buried in trash. “i . . . i was going to do that- obviously. my arms were full, ‘nd i . . . i can’t open a new bag with garbage in my hands. soooo . . .” yea.

cameron doesn’t say anything after that. he guessed that made sense. if his cock wasn’t aching for you, in this very moment, he might’ve had a smart remark. the quiet wasn’t like him, but you weren’t one to complain about cameron not picking at you.

“anyways, uh -“ cameron gives a small lift to the slice of cake in his hand. and he fights to let a smile show. the gesture doesn’t even register as sweetness to you. because cameron the cannon cade was incapable of that. “i hate lemon filling.” and he shakes his head in confusion. that couldn’t’ve been possible. “yeah, i do,” you answer.

what? no. “but . . ? all those birthday parties- what . . . what was all’a that?” you could explain that, yeaaa. you were young and infatuated with your brother’s bestest friend. he was the asshole that helped you realize that all those pop songs you sang along with on the radio, and the romance poetry you read in english class, and mama cade’s paperback erotica novels, they weren’t just a fantasy . . .

“i dun’know. i thought it could’ve been a sign of loyalty . . . or whatever,” you said. “it was silly ‘nd i was being weird, whatever.” now, you’re hiding behind your garbage-hands, because you’re certain cameron’s about to say something reckless. mean. but . . . he doesn’t. oh, he had to be drunk. must be. “why’re you still here?” peeking through two fingers, animatedly. “you want somethin’- what?”

maybe.

“a minute.” which would’ve been the greatest minute of your life if the happenings of last night wasn’t crushing heavy over your heart. you turn your head, looking through the glass of mama cade’s back door . . . and you see cameron’s fiancée chatting with your big brother and his lovely wife, bianca.

“no.” you go for the sink, twist, and run warm water over both hands. “i’ll take that cake, alright? but i’m not- i won’t be alone with you again. like that.” gosh, your younger self would so hate you right now. what were you doing?? saying no to cameron. as much as you wanted him, this wasn’t it. this wasn’t the way to go about him. he is engaged. and if he wasn’t . . . the writing was always on the wall. you are never to be with the cannon.

“thirty seconds?” he tried. and you decline, as painful as that was. cameron sets the plate of lemon cake down onto a nearby surface and he teeters over, removing the white hood from his head. “not even thirty seconds? what happened- hmm?” . . . “i thought we was coo’.”

turning the water off and yanking paper towels from its roll, you’re roughly drying your hands — thinking the worse of yourself. how could you let him talk you into that? being the other woman? it was disgusting. and just awful. “we have never been ‘coo’’. never.” in another life, if he wasn’t trying to win over your emotions, cameron would’ve spat: i was inside’a you. how’re we not coo’?

but, he says: “i wan’a change that tho’.” nearly eighteen years later. yeah. yeah fucking right. that! that’s all he wants. to fuck.

cameron angled himself over the marble, one forearm planted onto the surface as he dips into a side lean .. matching your height. close enough that he was nearly face-to-face with you. he’s close enough to kiss; you can smell the stench of liquor and skunky cannabis and sweetness of egregious lemon-filled cake on cameron’s breath. “‘t wasn’t good?”

oh boy was it good? it was absolutely fantastic. ten out of five stars. too good to be true. but seriously, he wasn’t for you. “cameron- it was . . . so awesome that it can’t happen again. ever.” mmm. and he’s watching your hands; gripping onto the sink’s ledge, pretty cartoon nails tapping away. you were an elementary school homeroom teacher and the young children loved your cool designs.

“c’mon, why nottt?” with a faux frown, that couldn’t even fool the dumbest dummy. an agitated whisper, “because you are married- that’s why.” not officially, he says. “you are goin’to get us both in trouble - if not with her, then donnie. please, quit it,” while staring out the window. cameron straightens up and takes place behind you, hands clasped on either side, trapping you over the sink. great.

“no one ‘s gettin’ in trouble,” cameron hums over your swooped hair, which smelled heavily of pomegranate shampoo and weed, “don can’t beat me ‘nd ysa . . . she’s ysa. all bark. don’t be’a ‘fraid to upset her.” says the man with a golden cross around his suck-able neck. how interesting. and totally blasphemous.

and as he’s pressing his lower-half in, cock strained in those boxers and massively tenting the crotch of his jeans, you’re using your back-half to push — you are afraid. of ysa and your big brother, of course. and mama cade, who really loved having ysa for a daughter in law. and bianca, who really enjoyed ysa’s company.

“pleaseeee- i wan’a fuccccc,” whining and rutting and grinding like a starved, hormonal monster! he so badly wants to put it back in. cameron grips onto your hips and bangs his hard-on aggressively — you shriek: “oh my- oh my gosh!” someone’s on their way to the back porch! possibly looking for the bathroom!

you snatch yourself from cameron’s pestering and swat him back back back, like a mosquito. when the glass slides open, you’re tugging your crinkled skirt down. coach’s son, jacobi andrews, came in . . . looking for the bathroom. cameron gestures a hand down the hall and the young man follows, slurring over his words a little bit.

just as you whirl toward the sliding door, desperate to escape, you collide squarely with ysa. a startled gasp leaves you when the red solo in her hand tips forward, sending a wave of ice water splashing down the front of your flimsy top. the chill hits instantly, soaking through the fabric and raising goosebumps across your skin.

“shit!” ysa’s eyes are in horror. before you can even react, she's already rushing for the kitchen counter, almost tripping over herself in the process. “i am so, so sorry, girl!” she blurts, frantically yanking a handful of towels from the roll. “swear you jus’came outta nowhere, girl!”

and as she’s dabbing away . . . she’s beginning to smirk. giggle. “how old’re you, sweetie?” was that . . . a tease? that sounded like a tease. you haven’t noticed, but your top is absolutely, 130% transparent right now. and you’re wearing a bra with cartoon ponies on it.

“ooh shit.” you turned and cameron’s standing there. his eyes dipped to your chest for the briefest second, and his mouth tilts with amusement. shit. unicorn bra. you cross your arms awkwardly over this sopping wet shirt. it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, hell, you remembered the summer he’d gone through your underwear drawer searching for his phone . . . yes, you did steal and hide it.

this would only be embarrassing if you opened your mouth and said ‘this is sooo embarrassing’. but you don’t. you rush through the farthest opening and take the long way upstairs (longer by three seconds).

with your soaked shirt discarded in a damp heap on the floor, you crouch in front of one dresser and begin rifling through its drawers. you’ve spent more summers here than you can count, leaving pieces of yourself each year.

this is where you kissed your first real boyfriend. where you coughed through your first cigarette with tears in your eyes while everyone else laughed. where you got destroyed on sugary wine coolers. and, somewhat-fortunately, where you slapped cameron across the cheek during a vicious argument over a bikini set you wanted to wear.

“you’ve blossomed- nothin’ll fit you.” cameron’s at the door, the sparkly gold and pink and teal lamp painting him those colors. then: “blossomed? what? what does that even mean, cameron?” blossomed. filled out. those teacup bras and cropped shirts were bound to pop right open if you try to squeeze in them. you’ve grown into your woman weight. and he wanted to feel all of it again. you- on top of him. begging for him. pleading and sobbing and cumming. “i’ll get somethin’ from mine, a’ight? don’t move -“

“no,” you called out. “so they can look at me like i’m . . . some trashy side-piece?” cameron laughs loud, but nothing was funny here. “side-piece? ‘caused i’m lending a shirt? for-real?”

“cameron.” you stare back at him, frustration and fear written all over your face. “we are not friends. and we have never been friends.” yeah. but for some reason, after freeing his load into your body, those years of agony and aggravation and treating you like the earth’s scum . . . no longer counted. whatever this was . . . it’s what mattered the most.

being a pain in your ass is all he’s even known. but he’s starting to want something else. his entire role was that — reassuring your big brother that he felt nothing for you. that he would never have his sights on you. but as of right now, what if that was false? a pretend play. (crazy what pussy’ll do to a man). what if adonis wasn’t in his ear, and more on the encouraging side?

hands shaking as you tear out a worn tee and pair of old, loose shorts, “you’re getting married in days,” because he needed you to remind him. “. . . and we’ve made a mistake.” a grave mistake.

he steps inward and closes the wooden door behind him. he reaches and twists the lock. his gaze never leaves you; he shrugs out of his dark-blue denim jacket. the article slips from his shoulders and he tosses it onto the vanity stool tucked by the mirror. “lay down, come on.”

more infidelity? how could that possibly be the answer to your sadness? “cameron, you should head back down. find your woman -“ the order dies as you slam the dresser drawer shut. you tug the shirt over your head . . . and immediately regret it. the fabric clings to your ribs, excruciating around your shoulders, clearly several years too small. ugh. you yank at the hem in annoyance. “fine. d’you have anything pink -?”

and there he is. shirtless. but bandaged; reddened, he’s in real need of a proper redressing. that is neither here nor there because he's in the middle of un-plucking the last buttons of his jeans as if this is the most normal thing in the world. your brain completely abandons whatever point you were trying to make. shiit.

“c’mon, baby . . .”

baby?

you’re in the world's most uncomfortable position; one arm trapped halfway through the sleeve and the other strangely bent behind your back while you wrestle with this shirt. “. . . uhhm?”

cameron makes his way over. and with pupils as big as the nightsky, you’re staring up at him like he’s everything. like he’s yours. all yours, all over again. and it makes your heart do a little pitter-patter. he wasn’t going to give up, and that was sooo attractive. he wanted your pussy bad and it wouldn’t take much else to get it.

“we can be friends,” he mumbles, freeing you from the tiny tee. “what? not good enough to be your friend?” he asks, undoing the front zip of that short skirt.

well, that . . . that wasn’t what you meant. not exactly. “i can be nice.” cameron draws his bottom lip out, another super fake frown, tugging the skirt from over those perfect hips. polka dot panties. “you don’t think i can be nice?” errrr. he didn’t have the best track record. “i can go slow- ‘nd i can be gentle, for my girl.”

my girl? his girl.

and then he was showing you — that he could go slow. and be gentle . . . he felt himself turn into a brand new man the second his tongue graciously rolled itself sweetly over the soft curls of your vagina; pooling the body of his tongue and trailing down his throat — “maay- maybe~ we- we shou’duhm- ummm~“ you’re huffing and puffing and it’s just no good.

even if you managed to get the request out, he would’ve shook his head and kept you up; legs dangling over his bulky shoulders, the heels of both feet knocking and innocently kicking red marks into his already bruised lats. from up here, all you can do is whine and feel fuzzy, like you’re being held beneath water. lashes fluttering, jaw tipped open and drool threatening to slip, this simply felt like a fever dream. and even if there were a faint possibility that you were dreaming . . . you never wanted to wake up.

never. not even to use the bathroom, afraid that if you return to bed, this dream would transform into something totally off — “ca-mmmm~” and your thighs are so jittery over his heated ears, there’s no telling when or if he’ll stop. how could he when your heart-shaped hole made way for his tongue so easily? so pliant. so soft and so sweet-smelling inside, overwhelming him completely. “ca-hah-am!” choking back spit, hacking with tears streaking your cheeks . . . while he has the audacity to keep at it!

shiiiit. that tongue of his, the one he never failed to show off in photos, hooked just right. wagging sloppy ovals and poking other wonky shapes about the hot and moist inner most bits of you. he’s making the lewdest of sounds; smacking and slurping and swallowing hard ‘cause you’re leaking so so so much and he wishes he could see how pretty you looked . . . uncurled edges beaded with sweat, starlight eyes crossing, brows scrunched hard, shiny lips parted and pouty every other millisecond:

“caami- i- i wan’a slow’down now.” as if that would be enough to break cameron’s mouth off of your lower half. with two hands, you hold both sides of his steaming head and attempt to push him off — he groans and cursed once. you’re sliding a bit and still trying to slip away. “pleaase~” his big hands are clasped harshly at your smooth back, literally pressing you into his face.

you’re groaning with every freaky, messy pass of his tongue. “i-hnnn-!” moans turn into gasps, which turn into squeals, which become poorly contained squeaks and yelps as your precious belly clenches and quivers and your junk-decorated nails rake along cameron’s scalp.

he ignores all of that, even your frantic hands grappling for purchase on any part of his slippery head. he ignores it all because it’s too much for him. too much for him to keep holding back despite wanting to take it slow, be a little more gentle with his meal and he gets nothing but a “i wanna slow down” . . . ungrateful, huh? seriously. how much slower could he possibly go?

if cameron was trying to be anything . . . it was thorough and thoughtful with every suckle. considerate, even. it wasn’t confirmed, but he had a strong feeling that no one’s been down here before. let alone have you in the air while they eat away at and satisfy your yummy flesh.

and before you can touch that mind-numbing climax, he’s bringing your body down . . . not to your feet, but to hover over his abdomen.

cameron the cannon cade, unattainable then, completely unavailable now, was lowering you onto his dick; stiff as a damn board — your pussy has positively bloomed with heightened arousal. grown more loose, more honeyed - syrupy, salty, sticky and felt more like home. his home. “shhhh- don’t start that shit. i’ll make’t fit again- y’know i will.” and for a second, he’s forgotten that it’s not you or your cunt he’s marrying.

he doesn’t move the first couple of seconds, relishing this movement of glory and the feel of you again; frothing and squirming from stillness . . . “wha- wha’r’you looking at?” cameron was looking at the angel cupid-babies that float around your crown. you couldn’t see ‘em, no, but they were there. four of them. four, cutie melanated babies that might’ve been yours. and his.

okay, woah! that was too far. but he couldn’t help it. you made his dick sore. and twitch. and as uncomfortable as it had been, he liked it. that knot feeling. and not just the one in his dick, but the weird one in his stomach when he found you cleaning mama’s kitchen. and the one in his chest. and the front of his skull.

pupils expanding and compressing wildly, unbeknownst to him. “. . . i can’t look at you?” cameron wondered, an exaggerated expression. so condescending and tricky. “mm- not when you’re full’a me? that’it?” his mouth crunches into something that was supposed to be a fake frown, but it’s a small ‘o’ — for o-shit! he’s gonna cum!

but he doesn’t. nope nope. because that was embarrassing as fuck; he hasn’t even moved yet. would you ever shut up about it? :: him getting off to sucking on and slobbering all over your pussy? “don’t act like you hate it.” cameron, one arm clutched about your waist, the other holding the back of your thigh, starts stroking.

he releases a weak, wobbly mumble and he’s making you take his dick. well, about two-quarters. cameron enjoys how surprised you are and how sweetly you completely melt into him. because in a position such as this one, where could you actually go? with your calves mashed into his biceps? which removed the friction your feet needed to push off the ground. and your hands with no point of reliable leverage? you had no choice but to take his angry dick.

“hmmg-go- do’it deeper . . .” you pleaded, staring into his light eyes like he’s genuinely the only thing on this earth. “‘nd not so fast- like- like you said you would.” cameron scoffed, a stuffy groan followed shortly after. “huh? you tellin’ me how to fuck?” maybe. but it was the very least he could do. listen. the greatest men were listeners. and selfless. and remained true to their word. hell of a combo.

“‘kay, baby-yeaa’ . . . i’ll go slow . . .“ and it’s awful. the most painful. the most dangerous. the most personal. he’s fighting a cute pout and tears and the masculine urge to feed your cervix with balmy nut. “what else? hmm? tell daddy how’you wan’a be fucked.” the title doesn’t even register. you don’t even feel a need to protest or oppose him.

“don’t’stop talking to me, please .. .” because his voice was just the absolute hottest and his words were the filthiest. an even better combo. ysa wasn’t for all the yapping in bed. she liked her silence, helped her focus.

cameron’s working your ass into his tremoring pelvis, over and over again in a slow, tolerable yet tender fashion, “could sleep jus’ like this -“ he swore, brown lashes slapping, face smushing at your hair. “- let that fat pussy keep me warm . . .” and he’d wake you up like that. with his cock! greedy, even after a night of being inside.

he likes to pull out sliich, guide you back down clicck, out again sllichh, then cliickh down. “my’girl. fuuc- you’re my girl.” despite your heartache when it came time to say goodbye senior year of highschool, you don’t hold it against cameron for getting engaged. not when his cock was this good. this was his apology to you.

lifting your head from his arm: “. . . kiss me. while y- while you do’t.” seemed easy enough, given the obvious situation. but it- that hasn’t happened yet. didn’t happen in the locker-room last night either. cameron could drag in and out at the speed of a snail, but he wasn’t sure how to kiss you. yeah, he’s thought about it a few times, but that wasn’t like this. a kiss was different. somehow. . . . it was affirming. don’t ask cameron to explain himself.

he’s hesitant to lean in, but he does, hips halted, cock snug at the very hilt . . . and the kiss is as mind-shattering as he expected it to be. he pulls away before any extra, sloppy action can take place — you’re staring hard at his used lips and wanting even harder for a second kiss . . . cameron, so attentive and willing to give, goes for another.

you’re not too upset by the sudden change in position, knowing deep down that cameron was gonna do what he wanted at the end of the night — on the bed, on your backside . . . unicorn bra unclasped, legs bent at the knees, twinkling polished toes in his mouth, hands grabbing and smacking his thighs, pussy creaming and trickling squirt and being forced to swallow the entirety of cameron cade’s dick. “mnnmm,” he moans around your big toe.

. . . it felt sweeter than you imagined, and how the erotica books described. and it barely even tickled. but that might’ve been due to the bullying between your legs, mind’s so worried about the foreign object tearing and draining your insides.

“hmmf!” panting and whining through saturated kisses and lip biting. this angle’s far more intimate and way nastier. face to face, bare chest to bare chest . . . heart to heart. “i- hnpph- i-” though it’s at the tip of your tongue — the word — cameron won’t let you get it out. flames dance in his eyes and pterodactyls chew out a pit in his stomach.

he’s gonna cum.

with a guttural growl, “. . . whaat’s m’name?” gritting his teeth, huffing into the junction between your shoulder and neck, holding back whimpers. he fists both sides of your head, the pillow damping under his palms. “hmh? wha’ is ‘t?” weighty hips slamming you into the creaky mattress, shlap!shlap!shlap!shlap! “say my name. or i’ll stop.” a toothless threat. a fat lie.

“mmygoddcam~” glrchglrchglrch! as the ceiling blurs and your nails tug at the dips in his beefy muscles, you take a bracing breath of pungent carnal air: “d-daddy, i lov- . . !”

and that’s all it takes to bust — shplup ♥︎. “nnahfucck!!” he’s so loud and so vocal when he cums, you’re scared someone’ll barge their way in! and he shows no sign of stopping even as your whole body jerks and shudders and trembles. you didn’t think he could get any rougher, but he manages to: big hands pinning your jiggly thighs into the striped comforter, gifting the rest of his sperm.

. . . you feel stuffed. and mild. and beautiful. and stunned to’ve experienced a sexual session better than the locker-room. you didn’t think it would be possible. he snapped his own bar.

cameron sighs and plops down onto the opposite end of your summer bed, struggling for air, hand clutching his abdomen. he’s crashing from the moon, you’re spinning free from the winding slide of pleasure.

and while your mind tries at some cheap, catty response, he’s stuck watching the fan whirl; trapped in a ‘what if?’ thought bubble. like . . .

what if he let you finish that sentence?