by Lauren Rowe
Jonas nods.
“You’ve come up with a plan to conquer the world?”
Jonas shakes his head in a “yes and no” kind of way. “Sort of,” he breathes into my lips. “But Rome wasn’t built in a day.” He leans down and lifts me up by my hips, making me gasp, and slings me over his shoulder like a caveman. “We’ll just have to finish plotting world domination at breakfast.” He bounds out of the living room toward his bedroom, my head dangling and bobbing down his broad back as he goes.
“Don’t worry about me; I’m fine,” Josh calls after us. “I’ll just party the night away with Party Girl with a Hyphen.”
“Oh no, you won’t. I’m going to sleep, Playboy,” Kat replies, her voice just barely within earshot as Jonas closes in on his bedroom door. “You’ll have to find another Mickey Mouse roller coaster to ride tonight.”
Chapter 5
Jonas
I fling her down onto my bed, cue up “Dangerous” by Big Data, and rip her clothes off without mercy. After tearing my own clothes off, too, I sit on the edge of my bed, hard as a rock, and wordlessly beg her to fuck some serenity into me. With a low moan, she straddles me, encircling her legs tightly behind my back, and takes my full length into her. I pull her close, right up against me, and kiss her and kiss her and kiss her, staring into those big brown eyes of hers, reveling in her as my body melds into hers. We don’t speak—there’s no need—except, of course, for the times I moan her name, which can’t be helped.
As Big Data swirls around us, I fuck her slowly, intensely, quietly, filling every inch of her, positioning my cock right up against her G-spot deep inside her. I caress the smooth skin of her back, run my hands through her hair, lick her neck, inhale her—losing myself in her, the music, her skin, her eyes, her scent. I think about absolutely nothing except how amazing she feels and how turned on I am and how awesome Big Data is for making a song so perfectly suited to blissful fucking. I’m not even thinking about making her come, to be perfectly honest—I’m too lost in the moment.
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, she comes like a motherfucker. Holy fuck, the woman explodes like a fucking rocket.
I’m absolutely floored. It’s the first time Sarah’s had an orgasm through intercourse alone—no tongue, no fingertips, just my cock inside her, filling her up, hitting her G-spot, just my shaft moving in and out of her, rubbing against her clit as we move together. Just my eyes locked onto hers. Just Big Data serenading us with the perfect fucking song—the perfect song for fucking.
It’s incredible. The best yet, I might even say.
Our bodies fuse together in a whole new way until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin, can’t distinguish her pleasure from mine, her orgasm from mine, her flesh from mine. It’s like discovering a treasure chest filled with priceless jewels buried six feet under the ocean’s deepest floor, when all I’d been searching for was a couple of gold coins in the sand. Fucking epic. Without even trying to, I’ve discovered a brand new holy grail—this. Right here. Right now.
And yet . . .
I still don’t say the words to her. I feel them, yes, of course—and thank God for that, because there was a time in my life I truly wondered if I was sociopathic—but I don’t say them to her. Again.
Immediately after we’re done, she falls asleep next to me, exhausted and totally satisfied. The woman is practically purring against me.
But I can’t fall asleep. My soul has already started whispering to itself, an unpleasant truth barreling down upon it. I lie next to her for close to an hour, awake, listening to her breathing in and out, my mind reeling. Am I hopeless? Am I incapable of surrendering myself fully to Sarah the way I keep pushing her to surrender to me? Am I a hypocrite? I’ve been pushing her to get out of her own way—and yet I won’t budge out of mine.
And damned if I know exactly what’s happening, but the next thing I know I’m making love to her again. I must have drifted off to sleep at some point, at least briefly, because I wake up and I’m inside her, spooning her from behind, fucking her, and she’s so wet and warm and fluttering all around me, and... Oh my God. There’s nothing like watching my baby transforming into a beautiful butterfly right before my very eyes.
Chapter 6
Sarah
Jonas and I are dining in a fancy restaurant amid a flurry of activity. An army of waiters serves us, a woman sits at my feet giving me a pedicure, an artist paints our portrait from a few feet away, some woman in a toga primps my hair, and diners clatter and chatter all around our table. All of a sudden, Jonas leaps out of his chair, swats everyone away from me like he’s King Kong, rips my shimmering gown off, and pushes my naked body onto our table, right on top of our food and lit candles and goblets of red wine and cutlery (including a most unfortunately positioned fork), and begins making love to me. But as he does, he’s not his actual, physical self. It’s hard to explain, but, in a flash, Jonas splinters and multiplies and becomes amorphic, until he’s ten disembodied poltergeists, all of them with ghost lips and magical fingers and bulging biceps and chiseled abs and erect penises—all of them simultaneously embracing me, fucking me, licking me, sucking me, fondling me, groping me, kissing me, and whispering in my ears—all of them enveloping me like a slithering cloud.
And all the while, waiters refill our fallen wine glasses until they overflow, sending warm red wine gushing across my belly and spilling into my crotch and over my clit and down my thighs and between my toes until it accumulates around us into a warm and sensuous pool. The pedicure girl begins massaging my feet with the warm red wine. The hairdresser pours the wine over my scalp until it trickles down my face. And the most titillating thing of all, the thing that turns me on the most, other than Jonas himself, is how the other diners watch us and comment on our lovemaking like they’re beholding a masterpiece of performance art.
“He’s the most beautiful man in the world,” one woman sighs.
“Clearly, but who’s she?” a male diner asks.
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t take my eyes off him,” another spectator observes.
“She must be something special if he wants her.”
“I’m not even looking at her. I can’t take my eyes off him.”
“He’s playing her like a grand piano.”
“He’s masterful.”
“I’ve never seen anyone do it quite like this before.”
“I wish he’d do that to me.”
“I wish he’d make me moan like that.”
“I’m having an orgasm just watching them.”
Jonas’ many tongues continue flickering on me, licking up the gushing red wine, his penises penetrate my every orifice, his muscles tense and bulge and contract under my fingertips, and his lips devour and suck and lick the wine off my skin and lap it out of every sensitive fold. It’s almost too much pleasure to bear, intensified by the palpable desire and envy of every person watching us.
“She’s losing her mind.”
“She’s gonna come.”
“Oh God, yes, look at her. She’s on the verge.”
In an instant, every one of Jonas’ fractured poltergeists converges on top of me, uniting and solidifying into Jonas’ actual physical form.
“I love you, Sarah,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes.
“Don’t leave me, Jonas.”
He cups my face in his hands. They’re dripping in red wine. “I’ll never leave you,” he says. “I love you.” He lifts his head and addresses our audience. “I love her. I love Sarah Cruz.”
My clit, as well as everything connected to it, begins pulsing with emphatic pleasure. It’s a sensation so concentrated, so undeniable, so subversive, it yanks me right out of my dream and into consciousness, at which point I realize that all the delicious pulsing occurring in my dream is actually happening in real life, too, inside my physical body. Holy frickin’ ecstasy, I’m having an effing orgasm in my sleep! I can’t believe it—the girl who only recently thought she couldn’t have an orgasm a
t all, under any circumstance, a self-proclaimed Mount Everest Kind of Girl—is coming all by herself, powered by nothing but her own twisted imagination. Oh. My. Gawd. And what an orgasm it is. Talk about conquering the unconquerable mountain. Holy crappola. I feel like my entire pelvis, led by my clit, is going to explode right off my body and zip around the room like an errant balloon.
When my body stops pulsing, I grope feverishly behind me for Jonas’ sleeping body and press my naked backside into him. Quickly, urgently, I stroke him into hardness (which isn’t difficult to do), and, even before he’s fully awakened, I slip his full length inside me and ride him rhythmically, reaching between my legs to feel him slipping in and out of me, touching myself, touching him, rubbing myself against his hard shaft, moaning his name. In no time at all, his mind becomes aware of what his body is doing. His lips find my neck, his warm hands find my breasts and belly and hips and clit, his fingers slip inside my moaning mouth, and his movement inside me deepens and intensifies.
I close my eyes as the pleasure inside me escalates and fills me to bursting. I remember him lapping at the red wine from the sensitive folds of my skin, how the envious diners watched us—and, most of all, how Jonas proclaimed, “I love Sarah Cruz” loud enough for everyone to hear. Lo and behold, warm waves of concentrated pleasure begin warping inside me again, emanating from my epicenter, making my body tighten and clench and release and contract around Jonas’ erection.
His arms embrace me from behind and I clutch them around me, moving my body with his, coaxing him to his climax. But, much to my surprise, he pulls out of me, pushes me onto my back, and begins pleasuring me in every conceivable way. He kisses my breasts and neck and face and runs his hands over my thighs and sucks on my fingers and toes and kisses my inner thighs, and, finally, laps at me with his warm and magical tongue, licking my sweet spot with particular fervor—and in record time, I come again, this time like I’m exploding and melting at the same time. Holy banana cream pie, how sweet it is.
When I stop writhing and moaning, I can’t move. He turns my lifeless form onto my belly and rides his happy, exhausted, horny little pony until he comes, too. And, I’ll be damned, when he does, against all odds, I pulse and seize and vibrate yet again, right along with him. Not with eyes-rolling-back-into-my-head intensity, mind you—I’m too far gone for that—but, rather, like I’m his go-kart and he’s just revved the engine one final, shriek-inducing time.
And now we’re done, both of us completely spent.
He presses against me, holding me from behind.
And I’m a wet noodle. A sweaty wet noodle. A satisfied, sweaty wet noodle. I can’t move a single muscle. And I can’t speak, either. My vocal chords are non-functional—a couple of useless mucous membranes inside my throat.
Wow. Wow. Wow.
Mind officially blown.
Un-fricking-believable. Incredible. Delicious.
Can I get a woot woot from myself?
Woot woot!
If I could speak, which I can’t, I’d scream from the top of every mountain right now: “I’m officially a sex kitten, peeps! I’m multi-orgasmic, bitches! Boom!”
I stretch myself out against his body and feel myself slipping into total relaxation. I’ve never felt quite like this before, so fulfilled, so satisfied—and so frickin’ powerful, too. Tonight, I’m reborn, for the second time in my life—the prior time being that magical night in Belize when Mount Everest first toppled—and it’s all thanks to this hunky-monkey-magic-man boyfriend of mine, Mr. Fuck Wizard himself. Mr. Most Beautiful Man I’ve Ever Seen. Mr. Heart as Big as the Grand Canyon. Mr. Sad Eyes. Mr. Tortured Soul. Mr. Divine Original. Mr. Manly Man-ness-y Manly Man.
Mr. Jonas Faraday.
My sweet Jonas.
Oh God, how I love this man.
I close my eyes. My mind yawns and instantly begins drifting into blackness . . .
“Sarah,” Jonas whispers, and my mind lurches back to full attention. Something in his voice makes me think he’s about to say something important. “Sarah, I . . .” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, anticipating what he’s about to say. He pauses a really long time—an excruciating amount of time—but he doesn’t finish his thought.
He inhales sharply and his tone shifts direction. “My Magnificent Sarah,” he finally says, stroking the curve of my hip. “Are you awake?” he whispers.
“Mmm hmm.” Barely.
“That was a nice wake-up call.”
I touch his hand on my hip. He grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“I had a dream that made me a wee bit horny,” I mumble softly.
“Apparently. What did you dream about?”
“You. Making love to you. I had an orgasm in the dream, and then I woke up and I was actually having an orgasm.”
His breathing halts in surprise. “Oh, wow.” He presses himself into me and runs his hands over my belly.
I turn onto my opposite side and face him. “Before you, I thought there was something wrong with me. I thought I was born without some magic button everyone else has.”
He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to calm himself. He brushes a hair away from my face. But he doesn’t speak.
“And now look at me. I’m kicking ass and taking names—I’m a sexual superhero.”
He puts on a low movie-announcer voice. “They call her... Orgasma.” He smiles and nuzzles his nose into mine. “Orgasma the All-Powerful.”
I mimic his announcer voice. “Able to leap tall cocks in a single bound.”
“No.” He’s stern. “Able to leap one and only one tall cock in a single bound. Only mine.”
“Well, of course.” I roll my eyes. “That’s the biggest ‘duh’ of the century, Jonas.”
He laughs. He nuzzles my nose again.
“You big dummy,” I add.
He shoots me a crooked half-smile. “I just wanted to be clear about that.”
“Got it.”
We lie in the dark, staring at each other for a moment. I can’t remember ever feeling this happy before.
“Thank you,” I say simply. “Thank you for helping me discover my magic button. I don’t feel like I’m defective anymore. I feel powerful.”
He kisses me gently. “You are powerful.”
“I had no idea sex could feel so good. You really are good at this.”
“No, I’m fucking awesome at this, I told you. But I can’t take all the credit. Your body is designed to do exactly what it did tonight—get off again and again and again. It’s not magic—women don’t need a refractory period after orgasm the way men do.”
“Refractory period?”
“A period of recovery. Women don’t need to recover after orgasm—they can climax again and again, almost instantly after the first time, as long as they get the right stimulation.”
I’m blown away. “Are you sure? I always thought some small percentage of women were multi-orgasmic, like porn stars or whatever, and a small percentage of women on the other end of the spectrum can’t come at all, and then everyone else falls somewhere in the middle.”
“Nah, that’s a myth. All women are designed to come over and over. Just because most women haven’t accomplished it—because they don’t know how to do it, don’t know it’s possible, their boyfriends suck at sex, they’ve never masturbated and figured out what gets them off, whatever—it doesn’t mean they’re not built to do it. All the parts are there, even if they don’t know how to use them.”
His eyes are so animated when he talks about this stuff. I could fall asleep at the drop of a hat right now, and he’s just getting more and more excited as we talk.
“Your first orgasm is like priming the pump,” he continues, fully awake. “The first one might take a while, as we’ve discovered, my little Mount Everest, but once you’re there, once you’ve reached the peak, your body is ready to do it again and again if you keep yourself open. And the great thing is, it’s much easier to get there the second and third times.”
; I shake my head. Why does he know more about my own sexuality than I do? Why has no one ever told me any of this stuff?
“At the end of the day, female orgasm is always about your head—getting rid of your psychological hang-ups. After you get off the first time, you’ve just gotta keep your mind open and get the right stimulation—from someone who knows how—and you’ll be off to the races every time.”
“From someone who knows how?”
“Well, from me, of course—fuck, don’t misunderstand that part. Let me be perfectly clear, yet again: Only from me. Always me.”
I smile at him. “Jonas Faraday.”
“The one and only.”
“The sexual samurai.”
He laughs. “Ah, you’ve seen my book collection.”
“No, Kat did. She wants to make all your books required reading for her next boyfriend.”
He chuckles. “Well, a guy can read about this stuff all he wants, but if he doesn’t have some God-given talent to start with, it’s pointless. It’s like being a musician—you can be classically trained to play all the right notes, but no one can teach you to feel the music with your soul. Muddy Waters felt the music. Bob Dylan felt the music. No one can learn how to do that—it’s true artistry.”
“Ah, so you’re a sexual arteest, are you?”
He squeezes me. “I am. And you’re my canvas.” He kisses my neck and grabs my ass at the same time.
“I’ll be your canvas any time, big boy.”
He’s thinking about something. “My whole life, I’ve had this innate understanding. It’s like this weird empathy; I don’t know what else to call it.” He pauses. “I’ve never told anyone this . . .”
I wait. There’s absolutely nothing better than a sentence that starts with, “I’ve never told anyone this . . .”
“It started when I was little. My mother used to get these horrible headaches, and I was the only one who could make them go away, just by massaging her head the right way . . .” He stops talking.
“It’s okay,” I finally say. “Tell me.”
He shakes his head.
