Tell Me a Lie

by Brianna Flores

"Sage," he huffs, his mouth so close to mine that I can feel his every breath on my lips. "Say it now, so I know that you can. So you know that you can."

"Pretty baby."

"I know it's not real. I––you don't have to mean it. Just think of it as a lie. Please? Just tell me a lie, and I'm yours." I’m glad that I agreed.

I’ve been let down by nearly every person I’ve ever come across, and with that comes a lot of insecurity. Forrest is the only person I have left, and I love and appreciate him, but it’s not enough.

My body straightens when he looks at me, lights up like a pathetic little daisy who couldn’t bear to bloom without this man’s sunny attention on me.

He really is the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and I feel like a lovesick teenager even thinking shit like that, but it can’t be helped.

He gives me a tiny smile, so fucking sadly sweet that I instantly know there’s no hope for me. I am obsessed with him, and there’s no way that’s changing anytime soon.

It’s easier for them this way, with me out of their hair. If you don’t see or hear from your gay son, do you actually have a gay son? Or something like that, I’m sure.

There is nobody now. He’s never told me he loves me. Literally, nobody ever has, but it felt like he might. The way that brothers love their brothers. But, of course, there is nobody.

I mean, I am aware that he’s not mine, but Lucas feels like he is. Or it feels like he should be.

"You fucked an eighteen-year-old you met at a gay bar and then hired him as your employee?" Well, shit. It sounds bad when she says it like that.

I’m a whiny, slutty, and totally deranged mess, and it’s all his fault, so he better be ready to handle it.

I end in his lap and am maybe drooling, just a little, on his chest while he murmurs nonsense about how sweet and perfect I was. I snort, a sated smile pulling at my cheeks because I was not at all sweet. I went a little crazy, but he’s kind of perfect himself for pretending otherwise.

For a second, I’m hit with a torrent of bone-deep yearning, a painful longing for a mom who’d love me as I am. One who didn’t feel the need to pray for me to be different.

I cock my head, eyeing him and hating how pretty he looks all cried out. There’s something wrong with me. I

I’m about to ask him what he’s doing when suddenly he’s feeding me more of his come with a filthy kiss, and I moan as Ilick it off his tongue.

I’m deranged. It’s not just his cock that makes me crazy. It’s just him, but he’s. Not. Mine. And it shouldn’t be so difficult to remember that.

It was a heat-of-the-moment type thing, I’m sure, but I really wish it was an I-licked-it-so-it’s-mine type thing. It’s kind of sad how readily I’d just completely sign my life away to this man if he showed me any real interest.

I know there’s a power imbalance here, and I don’t want him to feel like he owes me. So, I’ve backed off and done my best not to come on too strongly.

"I’ll come," I warn him, but he only mumbles a whiny little yes before trying again to fuck himself on my cock. Such a demanding little bottom, so fucking needy and desperate for it that I let him.

I know he’s lying, that he’s giving me what he thinks I want to hear, and I adore him for it. He may not love me, but as he gently fingers my softened hole, I can’t help but feel certain that I love him.

Searching the internet for answers on why I want to fuck my boyfriend awake definitely wasn’t something I had on my bingo card, but here I am. Apparently a raging somnophiliac.

He’s mumbling half-thought-out worships about my big dick but also just about me. Total bullshit about how I’m perfect and beautiful, how he swears nobody else even exists for him. Like, maybe I’m not the only one obsessed in this relationship.

Who gives a fuck about morning breath when we both just ate come directly out of his asshole, right?

"There’s no fucking way you’re too embarrassed to show me your asshole right now. I’ve sucked my come out of that hole, then spit it in your mouth." I squeeze myself into him tighter, hiding. "Last night, I watched you finger yourself in my car." I groan, the feeling of blood rushing to my ears making them itch. "Then immediately afterward, while I was fucking you, I watched you finger yourself again."

He groans as he moves away, and I hate it. But we do have a busy morning, and with Ben wide awake, this isn’t happening.

Eighteen-year-old me had no idea that life could be this good.

I had no idea that I could feel so loved.