Wish Upon A Star

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Jolene. You can’t help what you know or don’t know.” I tease the hem of her shirt up. “Don’t be embarrassed to say exactly what you mean.”

  She draws a deep breath, and meets my eyes. “What I’m trying to say is, I know that I can touch you, like you touched me, and make you have an orgasm. But I don’t know…how.”

  I lift the hem of her shirt higher. “Discovering that will be part of the fun, for you, I think. And trust me, Jo, I’ll enjoy every second of it, no matter what you do, no matter how you touch me. Like I said, there is no such thing as right or wrong.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me?”

  I grin. “Nope. For now, just…follow your instincts. Your desires. Do whatever you want. Anything, Jo. There’s nothing that could be wrong.”

  She seems to notice that I’m inching her shirt up. “You planning to take that off, or what?”

  I grin, and peel her tank top up and off; her small hard breasts bounce gently. Her nipples peak under my gaze. I rub my thumbs over them, and she inhales softly, eyes closing briefly, before opening once more and fixing on my erection.

  “Go ahead, Jo,” I murmur. “It’s alright.”

  She looks at me with the corner of her lower lip in her teeth, eyes wide, breath coming in swift, deep drafts.

  Her right hand drifts slowly from my hip bone to my erection, pauses, and then she grasps me in a small fist. A slight hiss escapes me, and her eyes go to mine, releasing me immediately.

  I put my hand on hers. “Don’t mind me. That just feels really amazing.”

  She exhales. “Oh, I thought…I don’t know what I thought.” She grasps me again, around the middle of my length. “So it feels good when I just hold it, like this?”

  I nod, jerkily. “Yeah. It does.”

  Too good. It’s been a long time since I’ve been touched by anyone but myself, and even that has been since before I left for Chicago.

  I resolve to keep it together. For a while. As long as I can, at least.

  But her hand is small and soft and warm.

  My resolve to keep myself together is sorely tested immediately—especially when she slides her fist down to the base, and then back up to the top. My eyes flutter into the back of my head, involuntarily. My chest swells, breath halting.

  I force my eyes open, look at her.

  She’s watching me closely. “Should I…should I stop?”

  I swallow hard and shake my head, shrug. “Only if you want to.”

  She grasps me in both fists, now, squeezing, twisting. Playing with the feel of me in her hands. Her upper hand is around the head, now, squeezing, and then her thumb presses against the tip, rubbing gently. Toying with the tip, the hole, the rim.

  I’m not quite actively holding back, yet, but it feels so good, the way she touches me. I want to make it last forever, and I also just want to have her keep touching me until the inevitable—and imminent—detonation.

  I growl as heat builds low in my belly, pressure gathering in me.

  She looks at me in consternation. “Did you just…growl?”

  I laugh. “Yeah.”

  “Should I be concerned?”

  I shake my head. “Remember when I was touching you?”

  She nods. “Yes. Very clearly.”

  “You know how as you got closer and closer to orgasming, you felt more and more…I dunno…desperate? Like, you couldn’t contain yourself, and you couldn’t think straight or entirely control yourself?”

  She’s holding me in both hands, then lets go with one hand and plunges that fist from tip to base, slowly.

  It’s nearly my undoing.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I remember.”

  “That’s how you’re making me feel.” I exhale slowly, shakily. “And just full disclosure, here, I’m trying to hold myself back, but you’re making me feel really, really good, and if you keep touching me, I’m gonna come, soon.”

  “Would that be bad?”

  I shake my head. “No. A little…um, messy.” I huff, blink rapidly as she now slowly slides one hand up and down. “If you want to make me orgasm, touching me like that is how you do it. Fast, slow, squeeze hard, or just a soft touch…it all changes how it feels for me.” I groan, arching backward, hips flexing a little, now. “It all feels …so good. But…um. If—” I’m losing my train of thought, now. “When I come, for one thing, it’s gonna be a mess. It’ll, uh, squirt out of me. My, um, cum, I mean. Whatever you want to call it. And then…and then I’ll…oh god, that’s good. And then I’ll be back to, uh, normal for a while.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  I meet her eyes. “God, no. I don’t. But this isn’t about me. It’s about you, Jo. You, exploring…all of this. Me, us, yourself, sexuality.”

  She bites down on her lip. “I don’t want to stop. I want to…I want to see what it’s like when you…come. I want to give you an orgasm like you gave me. Make you feel good.” She glances past me, at the shower still running behind us. “Maybe, um…we should…if it’s going to make a mess, maybe we should get in the shower.”

  “Yeah.” This pulls me back to something like reality. I’ve had my hands on her hips, this whole time, holding her tightly. “You’d need these off,” I say, tucking my fingers into the elastic at her hips.

  She nods. “True.”

  I pull them down, slowly, and then she steps out of them, and she’s totally naked with me. She has a thin scrim of fuzz over her sex, the same color as her hair. Regrowing, like the hair on her head. She ducks her chin, not meeting my gaze.

  I touch her chin. “Hey, now.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “I’m naked.”

  I nod. “Me too.”

  “I’ve never been totally naked in front of another person, other than my mother.” She sniffs a laugh. “Does mentioning my mom kill the mood?”

  I scoff. “You’re still touching me. So…no.”

  She grins. Ducks her head again, somewhere between embarrassed and self-conscious.

  I touch her chin with my finger, and with my other I trace a line from thigh to belly, skimming over her sex. “You’re beautiful, Jo.”

  Hesitantly, her eyes flick to mine. “You…think so?”

  I palm her hips, and then cup her bottom. “Yes, Jolene. I find you extraordinarily beautiful.” I brush a hand over her breasts. “The erection you’re touching? You make me that way. Being lucky enough to see your beautiful, amazing, sexy body—Jolene, that’s what gives me an erection.” I meet her eyes. “You. Touching you. Being touched by you. Being naked like this with you. It’s beautiful, and amazing, and I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.”

  She laughs. “You feel lucky?”

  “Yes, Jolene. I do.” I caress her backside again, and then back up toward the shower. “Let’s get wet, sexy thing.”

  She grins. “You really think I’m sexy?”

  I adjust the water a little less boiling hot, and then step in, pulling her in with me. Twist so she’s under the spray and close the glass door. Steam swirls between us, and for a moment, we’re not touching each other at all, just naked together in the water. Then I step closer to her and scrape my hand over her hair and cup the back of her head, pull her in for a kiss. Her mouth meets mine, and her tongue seeks mine first.

  Eager, darting and flicking, ravenous.

  The kiss is hot and wild, unabashed with fierce desire.

  Water spatters off her and onto me, beating down on the nape of her neck. I reach up and tilt the shower head down a bit, so it’s on her back. Slide my hands over her spine, caressing the serpentine curve down to the swell of her butt, and then I grasp her hips and then her thighs, and I trail a finger over the damp seam of her sex.

  She gasps into the kiss. Breaks it, pulls away, laughing. Grabs my hand and pulls it away, places it on her hip. “Ah-ah-ah. Me first.”

  “That’s what I was doing—you first.”

  She slides her hand between us, curling her fingers ar
ound my shaft. “No, me first.” A gentle touch, sliding down, pausing at the root, and then sliding up to squeeze around the head.

  I touch my forehead to hers and we both watch as she touches me.

  She goes agonizingly slow. “I have a question,” she whispers. “What do you like best? What feels best?”

  “Everything?”

  She squeezes, then gentles. Strokes me quickly, then slowly. “C’mon, Wes. I want to know how to make it feel so good you can’t even think.”

  “You already are.” I swallow thickly, try to find a coherent thought in the two brain cells I have left in working order, currently. “Slow, and…and gentle. It’s kind of frustrating, because part of me wants you to go faster, because that will make me come sooner. But…I also want to…to make it last longer, because I really, really love the way it feels to have your hands on me like this.”

  She uses both hands, then, for a moment or two. “Another question.”

  “Anything.”

  “Your, um…” She giggles, a breathy little huff, and her voice goes almost inaudible. “Your balls. Should I, um…touch them, too?” She cuts over me immediately. “Don’t say whatever I want. I want to know what you think.”

  “Yes,” I groan. “Yes. Please.”

  Her hand slides down to cup me from underneath, and the groan that escapes my lips is ragged. “Ohh…you really like that, don’t you?”

  I nod, clumsily. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Aren’t they, um…sensitive? Like, tender? Guys get kicked there and act like it’s the worst pain imaginable.”

  I want to touch her, to feel her body, to feel her pleasure rise. But she wants this, first. Mine—my pleasure, my release. So I grip her hips in my hands and hold on, try to wait, to keep from releasing yet. I want more of her touch. More. I don’t want this to end. She’s everything—smart, funny, eager, sexy, interesting, strong. I want more of her—all of her.

  For now, this.

  She strokes me slowly with one fist, her touch gentle, soft, tender, warm. Her other hand cups me, just holds me, squeezing ever so gently.

  I feel myself rising.

  I won’t be able to wait much longer.

  I groan, aching with the need to come. “Jolene…” I groan. “God, Jo.”

  “Are you going to…” She bites her lower lip, a gesture I’m equating with desire, eagerness, nerves. “Wes, are you about to…come?”

  I nod. “I can’t…I can’t stop it any longer.”

  She kisses my cheekbone. “I don’t want you to, Wes. Don’t stop it.” She rests her forehead on mine. Watches her steadily, slowly gliding fist around my erection, which throbs, pulsates. “I want to know what it looks like when I make you feel good.”

  “You’re about to find out, honey,” I growl, hips pushing into her fist—she instinctively quickens her touch.

  “When?” she whispers. Eager, greedy.

  “Ohhh god, Jo.” I’m bucking into her touch, now. Frenzy rises in me, and I just barely hold it in check. “Now, Jo. Oh…god, Jo.”

  More Than Okay

  Jolene

  My heart is crashing crazily in my chest, beating as hard as it had when he was the one making me feel good. Touching me, driving me wild, bringing me to orgasm.

  Now it’s my turn to bring him there, and it’s so far beyond anything I could ever have fantasized about.

  He’s so big, so thick, so long. I have nothing to compare him to, but it’s hard for me to imagine anything bigger than what’s in my fists. It takes both of my hands to fully encompass his length, and my finger and thumb only just barely touch when I circle him.

  I have one hand on his balls, which makes him weak in the knees. When I cup him like I am, it makes his knees buckle. And now, with my other hand plunging up and down on his thick, hot length, he’s moving. His hips shift and flex, pushing his erection into my hand. When he was touching me, my hips did the same. Seeking—demanding. A silent, wordless plea for more.

  “Now, Jo. Oh…god, Jo.” His voice is rough, wild. Hoarse.

  I speed my touch, and he responds, hips beginning to move in a rhythm. He lifts on his toes to drive into my fist.

  I know, intellectually, that the next step in this process is actual sex, but I’m not ready to think about that. Just enjoy this, feel this, memorize this.

  He’s groaning with each flex of his hips, now, wordless snarls and grunts.

  Despite having said now, nothing has happened yet.

  I want it. He said it would be messy, that something would squirt out of him. I remember when I orgasmed—when I came—it felt like an explosion, like I was coming apart from the inside out. I now understand the term “to come” in deep, visceral, way. I want to make him come.

  So, I tighten my grip on his erection and quicken my touch. Up and down, faster. Squeeze his balls a little tighter, and then try something different—squeezing them in time to my strokes.

  He groans at this, which I think means he likes it.

  I twist my fist around him as I touch him—I’ve noticed he seems to like that. Faster, and faster. Twist at the top, then at the bottom.

  He groans, and his hips are driving forward—hard, now. Something slick and sticky at the same time smears from his tip, coating him as I touch him.

  He reaches up, blindly, fumbles for the little complimentary bottles of conditioner and shampoo. He finds the conditioner, fumbles with it.

  I take it from him, open it, peel off the little tab covering the opening. “What…what’s this for?”

  He’s gasping raggedly. “Friction.”

  I comprehend his meaning and squirt a dollop into my palm and then smear it on him. I begin stroking him again, slowly once more. “Like that?”

  He nods, sloppily, as if drunk. “God—oh god. Yeah.”

  “Better?”

  “Don’t—don’t stop, Jo. Please. Just like that.”

  Slick with the conditioner, now, my fist glides smoothly over his erection. I go slow.

  His growl is feral. His hips push forward, jerkily. “Shit, Jo. Oh god, oh shit, Jo—”

  He lifts up onto his toes to drive his erection through my downward-plunging fist, and I meet his movements, sliding down when he lifts up. Match his speed, little by little, faster and faster.

  He’s not breathing anymore—each breath is a rough snarl; half growl, half grunt.

  And then his head flings backward, and his muscles tense, and I watch eagerly as I stroke him, my touch squelching and slicking and sliding.

  “Jo!” he shouts.

  And his erection pulses in my fist, and I watch as thick, viscous white liquid, his cum, spurts out of the tip of him and splashes against my belly and over my hand. I keep going, because he’s still growling and thrusting. Again, he spurts, and now his seed mixes with the conditioner smearing my hand and his member. Another jet leaves him, accompanied by a deep-throated groan, lifting up onto his toes, driving into my touch.

  God, it’s beautiful.

  Messy.

  But beautiful.

  He’s wild, half animal, crazed. Completely under my thrall, locked into my touch. I remember how I felt, when he was making me come—maddened, primal, desperate. I would have done anything, said anything, to keep him touching me, to keep the feeling going.

  So I keep touching him, stroking him as he comes and comes, spurting his seed onto my hand and belly and himself. He slows, and quiets, and I don’t stop.

  Finally, I feel him subsided in my hand, fading.

  He’s gasping as if he sprinted a mile.

  “Jolene…my god.” His eyes meet mine, awed, overcome. “God, that was the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt.”

  I swell with pride. “For real?”

  “I swear to god, Jo. I’m…I can barely stand up.”

  I’m still holding him—but now it’s half the size it was, if not smaller. Soft, almost delicate…and kind of funny. I look down at the thing in my palm, and I have to stifle a snicker.

&n
bsp; He notices, however. “Are you laughing at my flaccid penis, Jolene Park?” His voice is wry, arch.

  I press my lips together, eyes wide, and shake my head. “No sir, Mr. Westley, sir.” I clench my jaw around another snort of laughter. “I would never. That would be unkind.”

  He holds a frown, and then a snort escapes him, and that breaks mine loose, and suddenly we’re both laughing. “I mean, it is, objectively, kind of a funny thing, isn’t it?”

  I’ve dissolved into laughter, my forehead against his chest, hot water beating on my spine and shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know why it’s so funny.” I straighten and hold up my hand. “You weren’t kidding about the mess.”

  He twists me to face the spray, my back to his front, and I rinse my hands. His palms scour my body—he’s poured a dollop of shower gel into his hand and he’s lathering me. Washing me carefully, gently, affectionately. Not missing an inch. Shoulders, throat, breastbone, arms—breasts, tenderly, with extra attention. Then my belly, washing away the evidence of his release. Hips. Thighs. I lean back against him, rest my head on his shoulder as his touch drifts aimlessly over my belly, hips, and thighs. I widen my stance, cling to his arms barred over my torso.

  “Touch me, Wes,” I whisper. “Please. Make me—” I drop my voice even lower, so I’m not sure he can even hear me over the hiss of the shower. “Make me come.” The unfamiliar words, the strange, sinful meaning of them—they burn my tongue and torch my throat, scorch my lips. I like it. It’s not…dirty. Not sinful. The words taste delicious. I say them again, to feel them. Say them louder. More boldly. “Make me come, Wes. Please.”

  He rumbles wordlessly in his chest, and his fingers find me, and delve into me, seeking the soaked, slippery warmth of my sex. One touch, and my body is on fire. Heat and pressure are volcanic within me. My sex feels so wet, slippery and slick—drenched. Making me ready for his touch. His fingers slide into me, one, and then two together, stretching and filling me—then pressing and circling over my clit, and my knees buckle and a whimper escapes my gritted teeth.