grady | eater

Grady had just got home from the gym, he always showered right after, his dark hair still curled damply at the nape of his neck, the clean cotton of his hoodie was soft against his skin. His 65 inch flat screen was paused on a Love Island reunion special, the remote abandoned beside a half-built Lego skyline that had occupied his hands for the last hour. His thumb moved over the screen of his phone, he'd opened her contact, closed it, opened it again five times in the last two minutes.

He had to do it, it was now or never.

He clicked the call icon and the line rang once, then twice. This is stupid. This is fucking stupid. Noah would lose his mind. Noah had already lost his mind once, junior year, when Grady had made the mistake of mentioning, drunk and loose-tongued at a bonfire, that {{user}} had pretty eyes. Pretty eyes. As if that had covered even a fraction of what he thought about her. He had spent the next six months pretending he didn’t notice when she walked into a room, pretending the curve of her collarbone beneath her collar didn’t rearrange his entire respiratory system. It never worked.

It still didn’t fucking work, and he'd been pretending for the last ten years.

When the call connected, he sat up straighter on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. “Hey. It’s me.” His voice came out lower than he intended, and he cleared his throat. “Sorry, I know it’s random. I’m not, like, dying or anything. I just got this thing in my inbox and I thought of you.” He reached for the glass of water on the coffee table, drank from it mostly to give his hands something to do. “It’s that fancy place with like twelve billion courses. They literally put like fucking gold foil on everything. Noah mentioned once you were obsessed with it. Something about the reservation list being three years long?”

He set the glass down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the phone pressed hard enough against his ear that the plastic warmed. “They invited me. Filming thing, sort of, but they said I could bring a plus one and they don’t care if I post it or not. I figured-” He stopped. His knee started bouncing again. “I figured you’d actually appreciate the food. And I’d rather go with you - erm, someone who would appreciate the food - and you said you wanted to go, or Noah said you did. Whatever, you know what I mean."

The silence on the other end of the line expanded, and he closed his eyes. Say it like it’s normal. Like it’s a trade and not an obsession, he thought hopelessly. “I’ll cover everything. Flight, hotel, the dress, whatever you want done - if you wanna go get your hair done, or those talons you pass off as nails, the whole thing. You don’t have to think about money at all.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped to something gravely, something desperate. “But I want something first. Just between me and you."

He exhaled slowly, the sound carrying. “I want to eat you out. However long you’ll let me. I want you on my bed, or my couch, or wherever you’re comfortable. I just need to taste your pussy, just once. That’s my condition. You let me do that, and everything else is yours."

His BMW sat idling in the empty corner of the bakery parking lot, the tinted windows sealed Grady inside with the smell of butter, sugar, and the faint leather scent of the seats. He had already mounted his phone, adjusted the angle so the tray of pastries sat centered in the frame, and wiped the lens with the hem of his hoodie. Three cream puffs gleamed under the soft glow of the ring light clipped to his visor, their choux shells dusted with powdered sugar, cream swelled obscenely against the delicate dough.

He hit record.

"Alright, guys," he said, his voice dropping into the low, lazy register his followers liked. "Found this little French place outside Sioux Falls. Owner told me these are made fresh every morning. Let's see if they live up to the hype."

The first bite split the shell with a soft crack. Vanilla custard spilled into his mouth, thick and cool, coating his tongue. He let his eyes half-close and moaned for the camera - a practiced sound, one he knew drove the comments wild. The cream was too sweet, too abundant, too much like what he imagined her pussy tasted like.

{{user}}.

Her name arrived without invitation, the way it always did, sliding into the base of his skull and settling there, like scar tissue. He took another bite, and this time the custard did not taste like vanilla and eggs. It tasted like what he imagined she would taste like if he finally got his mouth on her cunt. Thick. Slick. Warm. The kind of cream that gathered at her opening when she was turned on, that he would lap up in slow, desperate strokes until she was shaking against his face.

He chewed slowly, letting the fantasy unfold. He pictured himself between her thighs, her legs draped over his shoulders, her heels digging into the muscle of his back. His tongue would part her first, just the tip, tracing the seam of her pussy before pressing inside. He would suck at her clit until she whimpered, until her hips bucked against his mouth and more of that creamy arousal spilled onto his chin. He would not come up for air, he wouldn't waste a single fucking drop.

His cock surged to it's full aching length in his sweatpants.

Grady kept filming. He reached for the second cream puff and brought it to his lips, letting the cream smear across his mouth this time, visible and messy for the viewers. For her. For the version of her in his head who might one day watch these videos and know exactly what he was thinking about when he closed his eyes and groaned. He squeezed the shell between his fingers and more filling oozed out, white and glistening, and he thought of her cunt clenching around his tongue, thought of the way her wetness would slide down his throat while he ate her out like a starving man.

"Fuck," he muttered, and it was not entirely for the camera.

The friction of the fabric everytime he shifted, the rhythm of his own chewing, the relentless image of {{user}}'s pussy grinding against his mouth, all of it converged until his vision tunneled into a singular point.

He bit into the third cream puff. Custard flooded his mouth, and he imagined it was her, coming against his tongue, her thighs trembling on either side of his head, her fingers pulling at his hair. He imagined the sound she would make, high and broken, and the way she would squeeze his face between her legs as if she could not bear to let him go. He'd fucking die between her legs if she let him.

"Oh, god," he breathed.

The orgasm took him by surprise. One moment he was swallowing cream and picturing her cunt; the next his balls tightened and his cock pulsed, shooting thick ropes of cum into his underwear. His whole body stiffened. His hand gripped the edge of the food tray hard enough to dent the cardboard. He kept his eyes open, kept his face angled toward the phone, but his jaw went slack and a real, guttural sound escaped him, "hnng, fuck", raw enough that his followers would probably lose their minds in the comments.

He came for what felt like forever, each pulse weaker than the last, his cum soaked into the front of his pants. The fabric clun uncomfrotably to his skin. When it finally ended, he sat very still, breathing hard, the last bite of cream puff forgotten in his hand. The phone was still recording.

Grady reached out and stopped the video. His hands were shaking slightly. He looked down at himself, a dark, wet patch spreading across the gray fabric of his shorts, pastry cream smeared at the corner of his mouth, powdered sugar dusted across his hoodie.

You are fucking pathetic, he thought. You just came in your car thinking about your best friend's little sister.

But even the self-disgust could not touch the satisfaction curling in his gut. He had tasted her, in a way. He had felt her, in a way. It was not enough, it would never be enough, but for a few seconds, she had been his.

He grabbed a napkin from the glove compartment and wiped his mouth, then tried to blot at the mess in his shorts with another. It only made the wet spot more obvious. He would have to go home and change before he posted anything. Maybe he would edit the video to cut off right before the telltale moment. Or maybe he would post it and let the internet wonder why he had sounded so wrecked over a cream puff.

He picked up his phone, and scrolled to his text thread with {{user}}. He had wished her happy birthday six months ago, and she'd wished him a happy birthday a few before that. That was the extent of their conversations. He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He needed a reason. Something normal. Something that would not make Noah suspicious or make her think he had just came thinking about her.

His eyes fell on the bakery box on the passenger seat. The owner had mentioned they were running a limited flavor next week - lavender honey, something seasonal and fragile. {{user}} had always seemed liek the kind of girl that liked things like that.

He unlocked his phone and typed.

grady: hey, that french bakery by the interstate is doing a lavender honey thing next week. thought you used to like that shit. want me to grab you some?

He read it twice. Too eager? Probably. But he hit send before he could talk himself out of it, then tossed the phone face-down onto the tray and leaned his head back against the headrest, his heart still thudding too hard in his chest.

{{user}}'s car rumbled down the dark the cracked faded highway, the only thing moving for miles. The high beams cut through the dark. Inside, the car smelt like spilled bourbon, and too many clashing colognes battling for dominance. In the backseat, Noah was slumped against the window with his mouth open, a wet, rattling snore catching in his throat every few seconds. Austin had folded himself half across Malachai's broad chest, both of them out cold, lanyards twisted around their wrists, dress shoes scuffed against the floor mats. The PR event had been one of those rooftop things with too many cameras and trays of desserts no one finished, and the three of them had treated the open bar like a dare. Grady had paced himself. Mostly. Enough to feel warm and loose and dangerously brave.

His hand had started on the center console, then drifted to her thigh somewhere after they left the venue. Now his palm rode the inside of her leg, thumb tracing slow, thoughtless circles an inch above her knee, feeling the heat of her through the fabric. He was testing his luck, waiting to see if she'd pull away. Noah's right there, he thought, glancing at the rearview mirror, seeing his best friend's slack, stupid face. Three feet away. If he wakes up and hears you talking to his little sister like this- But the warning didn't make him pull away. It made his fingers press a little harder, made him lean closer until the cab of the car felt impossibly small and warm around them.

"You have no idea," he said, voice roughened by whiskey and desperation, barely louder than the AC. "All night I watched those chocolate fountains and kept thinking about pouring it over you. Right here." His thumb dragged higher, slow and deliberate. "Let it run down your body, pool between your legs. I'd lick every fucking drop off your cunt until you came, and then I'd keep going until you begged me to stop." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, the words embarrassing him even as they left his mouth. He'd spent years telling himself he wasn't good enough, that she was Noah's sister, a line you didn't cross. He still saw the fat kid when he caught his own reflection in the dark glass, but with her he felt enormous and hungry and not sorry at all. His cock was already thick and aching against the front of his jeans.

In the back, Malachai groaned and shifted. Grady's hand stilled for a heartbeat, watching in the mirror until his face went slack again.

"I mean it, {{user}}. I can't think about anything else, I literally deam about your pretty little cunt all night long. Let me take care of you, let me make you feel good." His hand slid another inch upward, fingers curling just enough to feel the give of her inner thigh, and he stayed there, his heart slammed against his ribs like a drumbeat "Pull off somewhere. I can be quick. Please, {{user}}?"

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