Wish Upon A Star

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Mmmm…” this an inconclusive noise, a hum, neither yes nor no. A shake of her head, a sliver of movement in the negative. “Mmm-mmm. No. Don’t—don’t stop.”

  “Sure?” I ask.

  She nods, again a barely perceptible motion. “I…I like it.”

  “You want more?”

  She jerks her chin down. Licks her lips. Nervous. Excited. Aroused. A little afraid. “Yes.”

  I trace the seam again, up and down. “Over? Or under?”

  A convulsive swallow. “Over?”

  Another pass, faster. With a slight increase of pressure at the top. “Like this?”

  A whimpering sigh. “Y-yes.”

  Her knees knock together. Hips flex. Barely touching her, and she’s nearly there already. A little extra stimulation, and maybe she’ll get there just like this.

  “Hold on to me,” I tell her. “Just feel it. Just enjoy it.” I kiss her flesh, just beneath the swell of one breast. “Don’t be afraid, Jolene. I’ve got you. Just…enjoy it. Just let go and let yourself feel it.”

  Her eyes close, hands knotting in my hair briefly, spastically, and then gentling to hold my head again. “O-okay. I’ll try.”

  I trace her sex again, once more dimpling pressure at the top, where she’ll be most sensitive. Lips to her breast, kissing the globe, licking her nipple. My other hand toys with her other breast, lips on one, fingers on the other. She whimpers, a long high breath.

  Hips tense, flex.

  More attention and more pressure at the apex, pressing in slightly. Tongue and fingers busily twiddling and tweaking and circling, until she’s gasping and writhing, sinuous and sensual.

  Her knees buckle again, and I slide my thigh between her legs, and she instinctively sits, and now her arms are around my neck, clinging for support, head hanging, mouth open. Eyes shut. Back arched, hips flexed forward.

  I press my finger against her, then. Press inward with a slight circling motion, and a shocked gasp escapes her. Two fingers, then, middle and index, pressed in against her at the top of her sex, and she’s whimpering with each pressing circle.

  “Oh god, Wes,” she breathes. “That feels…” she trails off, mouth dropping open and trembling as I increase pressure and speed.

  “Tell me,” I murmur. “How does it feel?”

  “Good,” she whispers. “So good. Too good.”

  She’s sitting on my knee, and her hips move involuntarily. I don’t rush. Let it be slow, let it rise naturally. No hurry. I reach up and rake my fingernails over her scalp while my tongue circles her breast, and she cries out at this. So I do it again, and this time, accompany the scrape of fingernails over scalp and suctioning kiss to her nipple with a firm touch to her sex, circling consistently now.

  I hear her swallow hard, and then the sigh becomes a choked gasp, and her buttocks slide against my leg as her need drives her to grinding against my swirling fingers.

  “Wes!” she whimpers.

  “Keep going?” I ask.

  “Yes!” she cries. “Please. Please!” She’s rocking against my touch, now, and I match her fervency with the touch of my fingers, pressing against her and circling faster yet. “I’m—I’m gonna—Wes, ohh god Wes…I feel like I’m going to…”

  A loud, shrill cry, then.

  “I’m going to explode, Wes!”

  “Good,” I growl against her breast. “Show me. Don’t stop it. Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you, Jo. I’ve got you.” I move my touch against her until she’s thrusting against my fingers and her spine is arched and head is thrown back.

  “Wes!” she cries, her voice breaking. “Oh my god—Wes!”

  A Good Day; A Bad Day

  Jolene

  I’m on fire.

  My skin boils, feels too tight on my bones. My head is fuzzy, crazed. My pulse is a hammering crescendo. I feel this ocean of titanic pressure building inside me—it’s centered low, just below the pit of my belly. As the pressure builds, a heat builds with it, and this heat radiates from my sex, between my thighs.

  I feel…wet.

  Down there. If he were to be touching me bare, he’d know how wet I am—it’s embarrassing. I wonder if he can smell me—when I touched myself, that one time, I smelled myself. It was on my fingers, afterward, and I had to wash my hands three times before the smell went away.

  I can’t stop him—not that he won’t, but I’m not capable of asking him to. I don’t want him to.

  I want this.

  God, it feels incredible.

  I feel like a woman, complete. For the first time in my whole life, I feel desired. I feel beautiful. His eyes, when I whipped my shirt off, raked over my body as if I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He looked at my chest—which I always thought was basically nonexistent, as if I was the most well-endowed woman in the world. The hunger in his eyes for me was…well, I’ve never been drunk before, but I imagine this dizzy, heady feeling is how being drunk or high would feel.

  I’m not a girl, anymore. I’m a woman. A man, a handsome, sexy man with a six-pack and big muscles and hard hands and kind eyes and hot skin and clever fingers and a hungry mouth...is touching me.

  His mouth is so eager. He kisses my freckles with adoration, as if he loves each one. I’ll never be self-conscious of them again.

  I tingle everywhere he kisses me.

  My chest is tight—my nipples ache, throb.

  My sex feels…like I could just explode any moment, yet each touch of his fingers only sends me higher on this impossible roller coaster, and I can only wonder where it will end, how that will feel. I’d do anything to keep this going, to never stop.

  I’m sitting on his thigh—it’s thick, wide, and powerful.

  His hands and mouth are everywhere at once, and I can’t breathe for the glory and ecstasy of his touch. Yet, I know—I know—if I asked him to stop or slow down, he would, instantly.

  I want more.

  I want to let myself reach that farthest edge, where I was too self-conscious and afraid to go on my own. I’m safe with him. He’ll take me there. With him, everything is okay. In a way it’s never been before, with him, everything is okay.

  I’m okay.

  More than okay.

  There’s just him and me what I want, and what he wants. Nothing else exists, in this time, in this space.

  I hear my voice, but it’s almost disconnected from me—I’m fractured by this experience. I’m calling out to God, and saying Wes’s name.

  I feel no guilt for this, no guilt for calling out to God—he created this, so it can’t be bad. It feels like the closest thing to heaven that could ever exist on this earth. I’m meant to be here, like this, with this man. Being touched. Being made to feel beautiful. Treasured. Accepted. Wanted.

  I touch his face, his stubbled jaw, cup his cheek. Feel the corner of his lips as they meet my skin, traveling from ribcage to outer breast to nipple to valley to inner breast to nipple, in a trail of kisses, a skein of tongue-touches, a knot-work of licks. One hand through his hair, my other cups the back of his neck, and then his hard shoulder. I need both hands to explore his body. It’s so hard, so perfect. A dream, a fantasy. I clutch his biceps, brush his pectoral muscles. Trace over his abs. Scratch fingernails up his back.

  His touch is wild on me, and an increasingly loud voice in my soul is begging me to get his touch on my skin, bare.

  I’m not brave enough, yet.

  Am I?

  The closer I get to that far wild edge of this, the braver I get. And I’m so close, now.

  Trembling, shaking, I feel my hips pushing against the press and circle of his fingers over the silk of my underwear, against that almost-hidden nub of nerves. I know anatomy, okay? I took human anatomy courses. But even in my own head, I can’t bring myself to use the terms.

  I just know his touch there is at once swift yet sweet, tender yet insistent. Eager, yet patient.

  His lips close over the aching button of my left nipple, and he suckles, and I cry ou
t, and his fingers pinch the other one, sharply, and now something hot and tight and sharp happens inside me deep down and low, and I cry out loud, a wordless sound. His fingers move between my thighs faster, then, pressing harder, and now I’m there, at that edge, the cusp where I pulled away, last time.

  I won’t, this time.

  I claw at his chest, his shoulders. I need something.

  More.

  Something more.

  I fall forward, head dropping against his neck. His breath is on my scalp.

  I’m so close, but something is preventing me from breaking through to what’s beyond.

  “Wes?” I whisper. It’s a plea. I don’t know what I’m even asking. “Wes, I—”

  “Stop?” He breathes.

  I shake my head vigorously. “No!” I hiss, my voice a squeak.

  “Then what? What do you need, Jo?”

  I don’t know how to say it.

  Just more.

  I grab his wrist—the hand at my sex. Shaking all over, terrified at my own daring, I press my palm flat against the back of his hand, fingers tugging to the spaces between his fingers. Lift, guiding his touch up, away from my sex. Up. To the edge of the waistband. I’m gasping. Not having his touch is, suddenly, the worst kind of torture. I’m gasping as if I’d run up the stairs. I press his fingers and palm against the warm skin of my belly, just above the elastic waistband. And then, guide his hand under.

  “That’s what you want?” he whispers.

  I nod. Words fail me.

  “Trust me?”

  I nod again.

  He lifts his knee, the one I’m sitting on, toppling me toward him. At the same time, he lays backward onto the bed, and just like that, I’m lying on top of him, and I feel him beneath me, feel his hand trapped between our bodies—and I feel something else, too. His sex, a thick ridge against my hip.

  Before I can dwell on that, he’s scooting up onto the bed further. His mouth finds mine, then, and I’m lost in the wilderness of his kiss, caught up in the wonder of his tongue and lips on mine, seeing stars as my eyes squeeze shut tight. His hands roam me, coasting over my shoulders, both of them, over my back. Tracing my spine. He clutches my bottom gently, fingers dimpling, and then he’s caressing and petting, and if I wasn’t already breathless from his kiss I’d lose my breath at that touch.

  Oh, to be touched.

  To be wanted.

  Needed.

  He caresses me as if it’s as much for his pleasure as mine.

  I rake my hand through his hair and claw the other into the thick meat of his hard shoulder where it rounds to become bicep.

  And then he rolls.

  He’s above me.

  On his side, then, not on top of me but angled against me, and he’s still kissing me and his tongue is eager and quick and insistent, and I give him mine, taste his mouth and our tongues soar and sing against the other’s.

  His hand traces the circumference of my breast; I gasp into his mouth. Lower, then, tickling over my navel, dipping in, a tease. Down to the edge of my panties, pausing. Waiting—asking? I repeat my action from before: press my hand on his and push his touch lower, under the elastic.

  When he takes over, certain that I’m still wanting it, I grasp his wrist in a vise grip, then force myself to loosen.

  He’s touching me, then, touching my bare skin. At first, his hand just cups. Delves, fingertips pointing downward, palm over my clitoris, middle finger against the seam. I gasp, breath sucking in sharply. My eyes flick open, and I see his hand under the green silk of my panties.

  And then, I feel him touch me. His middle finger drags upward and slips between the lips. I whimper, gasp. Hips lift—it’s a plea, an encouragement. He understands, thank god. Another brush of his finger, downward this time, and when he draws his touch back upward, the thick digit slides in, a hint deeper.

  Oh god.

  I can’t even form thoughts. Especially when that touch surges deeper, and he’s penetrating me with his finger, slowly, gently, pressing inward. His touch is inside me. I can’t breathe—can’t, can’t. And then he draws it out, and my breath drags in with a shuddery shrill gasp, as if I’m breaking the surface from the depths of an ocean. And now—oh, and now he brings his finger, slick and warm, against my clit, and I shake, a sharp thrash of shocked sensation. Nothing like touching myself. Worlds apart.

  One touch, and I come apart. His middle finger presses oh-so-lightly against me, and lightning strikes with blasting intensity. The edge is shattered, and what lies beyond it is a wild thrilling ecstasy I never knew was even possible. I cry out, unable to stifle myself. He’s not content with that simple dissolving, however—he’s greedy for my insanity. He touches me more, even though I’ve already exploded, already crossed the line into climax.

  Oh, how little I know.

  The more he touches me, the higher I fly, the hotter the fires within me burn. I cry out, and my spine arches and my hips surge against his finger. He slips back into me, slicking deep, knuckles brushing my tender lips, curling. Withdrawing, slowly, and then pushing back in. God, what is this? God, god. Is this heaven? Am I dying? I could be. The mad heat and crushing pressure are billowing through me and I’m literally sobbing, and my hips are moving on their own, beyond my control, pushing against his touch. He doesn’t withdraw it, now. Pushing in, sliding out, but not all the way. Again, and again. More. Faster. His palm presses against my clit, rubs against it with a perfect pressure, as if he somehow knows I need that too.

  My hips flex, thrust, thrash—I should be ashamed of myself, riding and writhing against his finger with such wanton abandon, crying with actual tears and sobbing with breathless gasps. I’m not ashamed.

  It’s incredible.

  I’m crazy.

  I don’t recognize myself. I don’t understand this wild new world, in which a simple touch can conjure such madness. Such incredible, indelible bliss.

  He doesn’t stop.

  There’s more?

  It feels like I’ve crested a wave, but instead of sliding down the other side into the valley, what lies on the other side of this wave is another, higher wave.

  I’m gasping raggedly, buttocks squeezed together hard, clenched, pushing my hips upward as far as they’ll go, and I feel my breasts trembling.

  He levers over me, and now his mouth latches onto my breast and his tongue flicks my nipple and he slithers his fingers, wet from me, against my clit, and—

  I explode again.

  This time, I scream.

  If lightning struck me the first time, this is…

  Like toppling into the sun itself.

  I’m clutching at his head and holding him to my chest, and my hips are writhing against his quick-circling fingers, and now the sun-hot detonation is a new fury, a new wildness, a new kind of billowing frantic heat smashing me into pieces, stealing my breath and snatching even my scream.

  I convulse forward, curling up around his fingers as they whirl mad-fast against me.

  I break.

  Another scream, this one so shrill and breathless it’s nearly silent.

  I wrench his hand away from me, gripping his wrist with bruising strength. “No more—no more. No more. No more.”

  He rolls to his back and gathers me in his arms, and I’m nuzzled into the shelter of his shoulder. I’m trembling like a leaf in a hurricane wind.

  Convulsing helplessly.

  I force my eyes open—they’re wet, stinging with salt. “Wes…I didn’t know. I didn’t…I didn’t know.”

  He huffs a laugh, and kisses my temple. “I know, honey.”

  I sag against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. “I’m so tired, all of a sudden.”

  “I’ve got you.”

  Silence.

  “Wes?” My voice is a sleep-muzzy murmur.

  “Hmmm.” His isn’t any different.

  “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t pretend, doesn’t say for what. “That was just the beginning, Jo.”

 
Oh my. Just the beginning?

  If that was just the beginning…I’m going to really, really enjoy this.

  I tumble toward sleep, and yet, even as I do, my mind is occupied with one thing. Not with what it feels like to have an orgasm. Or to be touched. Though, those are the next most important thoughts.

  No, what occupies my mind and imagination, as I slip into dreams and slumber, is the realization that what I want now, is him.

  What I want next, what I want to explore, is to be the toucher. To explore him. To know what makes him gasp. Groan. Move. Lose his mind. What it will feel like to make him feel the way I just felt. Will he shout my name?

  I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

  That was shattered into nothing when he made me orgasm.

  Now, all that’s left is desire. Greed for the next thing. Another experience. Another first. More. More. More.

  There’s a gaping chasm in me, now. It feels like he’s awoken some beast within me.

  I wake up the next day in pain.

  No, no, no. I deny it. Grit my teeth and pretend I’m still asleep, as I hear Wes beside me, breathing deeply and slowly.

  I’m not ready for a bad day.

  I want more of yesterday. Laughing, happy, feeling good—exploring Wes and my body and my desires and what it feels like to be looked at with hunger and touched with greed.

  Nausea sets in with demonic venom. Bones ache. My very soul hurts.

  I grit my teeth against the pain, but a groan escapes.

  Wes stirs.

  No, please God, no. I don’t want him to see me like this.

  It was inevitable, I know, but I had hoped for at least a little longer of feeling good.

  I try to breathe through the intense sharp ache in my joints and hip bones and breastbone, a pain so acute it causes nausea.

  My skin hurts, swollen and tender to the touch where the joints beneath ache.

  Wes rolls over to face me, accidentally bumping me with his elbow, causing me to cry out. He immediately bolts upright.

  “Jo? What’s wrong? Did I hit you?” He’s awash with concern, worry.

  I try to smile, to be reassuring. “You just bumped me. No big deal.” My teeth are clenched, however.