Wannabe More

by Billie Dale

  She rambles, speaking so fast her words blur but a few reach out, hitting with the force of a slap. “Stop, Splinter, wait.” I cup a hand along her cheek, removing her ebony shield. Red splotches highlight the wary questions hardening her eyes.

  “I’m an idiot.” Her body falls lax and her head snuggles into the cup of my palm. “This. Tonight was never friendship because you’ve been more from the start. Yes, you drove me crazy, and I hated how I couldn’t wait to spend my days with a yucky girl. I’ve tried to put you in so many boxes because losing you is not an option. You’re superior to me in all things, including knowing how you felt, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel it.” I raise her hand, laying it where my heart pounds. “There’s this special place right here, and it’s labeled Sammy Lee. Tonight belonged to you, whether it was at this stupid dance or sitting in my room in pajamas. I admit I pitied you for a minute a million years ago, but then you became so precious; I not only need to protect you but want you all for myself.”

  “Mazric.” My name whispers like a prayer and her eyes turn to moss as wetness builds on her lower lids.

  My finger trails her jawbone, my thumb settling on the pad of her bottom lip. “Your first kiss? Was Hendrix so horrible you’ve forgotten making out with him in eighth grade at Asia’s party?”

  Her lips pull tight and her brow forms an unhappy, confused scrunch before her eyes spring wide. “I figured you would’ve put it all together when Asia came to school complaining. Hendrix held my hair while I puked in all the pretty shoes in the closet. There was no kissing, touching, or anything else just a lot of spiked punch purging.”

  A foreign caveman need tightens my stomach. Boisterous and sure my lips tilt. “Did you save your first for me?” I ask.

  A devilish glint sparks between her blinks. “No. That night if my stomach hadn’t been turning itself inside out, I might’ve given Hendrix full access.” I recoil from her verbal punch but her fingers grip the button line of my shirt. “You were all over Asia. I’d heard you bragging for days about what you planned to do. My imagination filled in the blanks, and I decided Hendrix would make me forget my crush on you. It didn’t work out, thanks to my intolerance of alcohol and after, he and I were too awkward to pursue it again.”

  That Neanderthal brick disintegrates to emptiness. My ego takes the biggest hit, though I won’t tell her I couldn’t enjoy my seven minutes in the closet because of what she was doing down the hall. The fact remains: her plump luscious lips are still mine for the taking. Fresh and untouched.

  The cicadas clack their song and the slight chill of the spring night breezes on our faces swirling with the smell of fresh cut grass and damp earth. My hands cup her cool cheeks. In the second she takes to understand my destination, our lips touch. She is tentative at first until I use my hold to tilt her head while fusing our bodies. The ice pack slaps the ground as her nails dig into my forearms and I use her gasp to take my first taste.

  Her chest against mine, the shiver of her limbs, and the fruity taste of her tongue create a sensory explosion. Electricity jolts through my limbs. Blood rushes from top and bottom, meeting in the middle to pool in my dick.

  Not wanting to maul her too much in a parking lot, I pull back finishing with lingering pecks. Her eyes stay closed and pink spreads up her cheeks. The lips I want to dive back into tip and when she forces her lids open, her emeralds seem hazy and drunk. She’s wasted on my kiss and if I don’t get her in the car now, I won’t be able to stop myself from seeing the other ways I can ignite her body.

  Twenty-Five

  SAMANTHA

  MY FINGERS DANCE ALONG my bottom lip, marveling in the lasting tingle. Inebriated by his taste, I miss the short drive through town only snapping out of my trance when he once again opens my door. The plantation is dark, save for a line of fairy type lights lining the walk and one glowing yellow through the windows.

  The interior twinkles with candles showing us the path. The double doors of the ballroom stand open. Beyond the entry, dangling star-like bulbs cut the blackness of the ceiling and the floor swirls with fog. “Amazed” by Lone Star plays through the speakers. Preslee worked her quick magic and created a wonderland.

  He stands before me haloed in golden light, looking like he stepped right off the page of a fairy tale. Hand-holding my fingertips, he draws me to the center. Our bodies woven together we sway to the pulse.

  The songs change but we stay pressed against each other without a sliver of space between. I forget my aching toes, the growl in my stomach, and this pesky voice in my head shouting to proceed with caution. My numbers have left me; replaced by the strong embrace of the boy I’ve crushed on for years.

  Preslee shouts our names dispelling our trance. Dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt she gives us a quick rundown: snacks in the corner, how to turn off the fog machine, and where to turn off the lights. She wraps me in a tight hug. “You deserve every second of tonight. The boy, the music, the romance; all of it belongs to you. This is the prom you should’ve had.” After another tight squeeze, she grabs Joey’s hand and drags him from the room.

  A break between songs offers a second of silence, long enough for my stomach to gurgle its protest of emptiness. The embarrassing growl is worth the cheeky smile showing Mazric’s dimples. I step forward and my poor abused feet object to further movement within the confines of these strappy torture devices.

  Without the distraction of him holding me, my years of wearing nothing but tennis shoes rushes to vibrant life, alerting me to the blisters swelling on my toes and heels. I wobble, he catches me and for a moment the pain vanishes as I snuggle into the warmth of his chest, breathing in his woodsy scent. If I stay cocooned in all things Mazric Vortex, the world would remain gone—but alas his forehead crinkles in question—which I answer by peering down at my aching feet.

  In slow motion he drops to one knee. Okay, so it’s not really, but with the mist swirling around his legs and my mind’s trickery it seems like it is. Eyes staring up to me from the cloud-covered floor, his hands frame my ankles. Between the flashing lights, and moving smoke, his gaze stays on mine as the heat from his palms burns a path up my calves. His thumbs skim over my knees and his splayed fingers massage my thighs. Back and forth the calluses press into my skin, sending electric shocks to my core. A fluttery flip replaces the hunger in my belly. A pained groan pushes from his lips. Lids squeezed and with a deep inhale of restraint; his hands slide back down. I’m tempted to beg him to reach higher, the words rest on my tongue but nerves and innocence keep me mute. He lifts one foot slipping the heel off, while pressing a light kiss on my anklebone. With the shoe gone, he digs his big thumb into my arch.

  Sweet mother of Jesus that feels marvelous. My legs shake from the relief and I almost fall on my ass. Curling forward I hold his shoulders as he repeats the process on the other side.

  My dress touches the floor when he removes his hands, but he doesn’t stand right away. Resting back on his heels, his eyes peruse my body. Pausing at my waist and chest before stopping on my face. Before I can question, he pushes to his feet, fists his hands in my hair, and attacks my lips.

  Surprised, I gasp giving him the opening to devour me. It's over so quick I don’t have time to close my eyes. Foreheads together, his fingers dig into my scalp. I watch his heavy breaths flare his nostrils and his pinched, tight lids tell me he’s fighting himself. “Sammy,” he whispers on a shaky breath, and I realize I don’t want this watered-down version. He’s holding back, hindering his urges. For tonight, in this moment, he’s mine and I want him undone.

  I swallow the insecurities, ordering them to shut up and allow my body to lead, hoping it knows what to do despite my inexperience. Hands unsure, I touch him. My fingertips trace every lump and strong chord. Pressing in each slight abdominal indent, over the flat planes of his chest until my nails dig into the silky strands dusting his collar.

  Quick as lightning shooting across the early spring sky, I grip his head, controlling his mov
ement by fisting his hair. One breath in, one out. I press my lips to his. Sucking and biting at his bottom lip until he opens. With a small lunge forward our chests connect. My nipples harden to diamond peaks as my head angles to taste more. His hands drop to my ass, fisting the material of my dress he grinds his hips and I feel all of him.

  Oh, holy Jesus. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing but if feels stupid good.

  Around a whimper, I follow my needs. A throb pulses between my legs. The hard length of him digging into my stomach drives my desire. My hands release his head. Trailing down the straining fabric covering his back, I grab his tight globes, pushing him, wanting more.

  A deep growl shakes his chest, vibrating my nipples. Arousal races from my aching breasts to the juncture of my thighs. We’re gnashing teeth and molten fire. Primal and needing. I curse the thickness of my dress. His hands grip my ass, hoisting me high enough I don’t have a choice but to lock my legs behind his back for leverage. I don’t question the wind moving the strands of my hair until a clattering crash awakens a few of the hundred billion brain cells muted by the taste of his mouth. I pry open one sex-drunk lid, eyeing the massacred finger sandwiches littering the floor interspersed with shards of the platter.

  My remaining active smart parts refuse to correlate the commotion because since age eleven I have wanted to kiss him. A prepubescent realization of my best buddy having a plush bottom lip I kind of wanted to lick and now I was like a groupie with an all-access backstage pass. Forget the food, I want more of his tongue.

  My breasts and hips might have been ‘Susie-come-lately,’ but my hormones arrived years ago. When Mother Nature first appeared in the form of tiny spots on the gusset of my white cotton panties, I believed I was dying. The cramp-inducing, bitch-creating, chocolate-needing monster who took over my body for two weeks every month created more havoc than I wanted to deal with. What begins with pre-menstrual madness ends in bleeding for four to seven days, and having to converse my need for feminine products to Johnny Gentry; pure hell. A few months after the initial appearance of the flow beast, other inclinations made themselves known.

  I acknowledged my crush on Mazric early on, writing it off as the one girly part I allowed to remain a part of my world. While PMS made me want to claw his slimy boy eyes out, other urges fell in my lap like an ACME anvil dropping on Wile E. Coyote. I became a dog chasing its tail, trying to figure out why the smell of his Irish Spring soap made me squirm. A day or two in between the adios to the pre-bitchiness and arrival of Satan, my best friend’s lips, arms, legs, voice, smell...well you get it, right? Every piece of him stimulated a tightness across my pelvis and an urge to rub my legs together. The nights he’d climb in my window during this period of madness were pure torture. I swear I talked myself out of humping his leg no less than a billion times. How did I know I wanted to grind against him? Because it seemed the only ladylike way to scratch the itch his body aligned with mine created. Nature took over and beat me with a sledgehammer until I learned the solution and took care of myself before his leg cleared the window ledge.

  Now he’s under my palms and those kissable, bitable lips are at my disposal. All the times I spent imagining this moment are rubbish compared to the real thing. His sure hands shoving up the heavy material of my dress punctuates the heat between us. In a breath, the blue material pools at the top of my thighs. He yanks me to the edge of the table, exposing the soaked see-through lace covering me. His eyes transfixed between my legs, he nudges them farther apart, grinding his hardness against my clit while once again attacking my mouth.

  My brain picks this precise moment to panic. All the penis euphemisms Preslee has used over the years triple play in my head, resounding in stereo surround sound static. A pencil, candy cane, caterpillar, slug, baby’s arm, and my personal favorite an Amazonian Anaconda. The trunk spreading pleasurable shocks to my core is not the same I bore witness to during the incident he forbids me from mentioning.

  Until this mishap, we spent my summer birthdays ignorant. Thanks to the I-forget-nothing quality of my inner gray matter, reliving the trauma of seeing my best friend’s erection splashes forth in vibrant Technicolor. At age eight, nine, and ten we frolicked with innocent partial nudity, never considering wearing swimsuits. Birthdays celebrated by swimming in our underwear then lying in the grass to dry before returning to the farm for homemade goodies, cake, and presents. As the saying goes “all good things must end” and when they do, they go down in the fiery embarrassment of puberty.

  My eleventh birthday started the same as the rest: a trip to the pond with a picnic basket and a desire to best the oppressive, Kentucky July humidity. We’d both stripped to our essentials; me in my granny briefs and camisole, and him in whatever boyish trend he was following. At thirteen, Mazric started to fill out his lanky body. He’d traded his Power Ranger tighty-whites for a more masculine Hanes bikini brief. I didn’t care what he covered his backside with, so long as it stayed on in the water and could withstand swimming.

  We splashed and wrestled the same as always. But something was off when he hurt my feelings twice, demanding I stop trapping him with my legs around his waist. The afternoon sun warmed my skin as we ate and kicked back to dry. Languid and sleepy, I stretched my arms above my head, fighting the exhaustion a day spent swimming causes and that is when it happened.

  Like a bullet fired from a gun, Mazric jumped off the ground and raced for his shorts. But being a hormone-fueled boy, he had to turn and stare one last time. Before I could ask what was wrong, I followed his line of sight to the thin material of my undershirt where my chilled puckered pink nipples shoved at the fabric. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what he was looking at because I had no boobs only nipples—much like his own—but something sent him reeling.

  While he ogled, I watched the material of his underwear bulge and the tiny head of his penis poked out of the low sitting waistband. Curiosity’s a real bitch. Instead of acting nonchalant about the whole ordeal, I tilted my head and watched with fascination as the baggy crotch filled and a pencil-shaped line formed.

  When my brain registered what I was looking at and I diverted my eyes, he was raging mad. He swore at me for looking, threw his clothes on haphazardly, and left me at the lake. By the time I packed everything up, and made it back to the farm, he’d locked himself in his room refusing to come out. The next day he apologized though refused to answer any of my questions and made me swear to never talk about it again. From that day forth he demanded we wear swimsuits when we visited the pond.

  Judging from the rock-hard mini baseball bat he’s shoving against my clit, I’m guessing he’s also had quite a growth spurt. Craving more I reach for his belt buckle, sucking a hissing breath through my teeth when he slides a finger over my cloth-covered slit. I halt my ministrations, enjoying the heat of his finger and reveling in the difference between the way he touches and the way I do. Up and down he caresses, and my lust-addled neurons want to grab the saturated piece of material and slip it inches to the left. I’m torn between being helpful and exploring what presses against his zipper.

  I need more hands.

  Innocent and virginal are a state of mind as much as a physical limit. Under the duress of hormone-fueled want, a girl’s gotta do what she must. I must climb this man like a tree and use his branch to pound my lady bits like an oak battering a window in a hurricane. I’m not ready for the full shebang, pun intended, but I penned an appointment with his digits in my schedule.

  Or so I thought, until his kisses turn hesitant and his magic wand finger inches down my thigh instead of up. Perhaps he needs a directional compass. I could draw him one, from memory if it’ll reverse his polarity.

  Twenty-Six

  MAZRIC

  HOT, WET, SOFT...TAKE, conquer, own. My blood supply left my brain, traveled south of the border, and the head of my dick controls the wheel. She is the queen of temptation with ebony hair spilling over her shoulders, lush kiss-fattened lips damp and parted to a
llow more air, large tits moving with each panted breath, with a pool of sapphire bunched at her waist and sweet white panties glowing in the black light showing how wet she is. The fog softening everything creates one moment not even my bloodless brain will forget. The way she took control, attacking my mouth sent my mind off and my body into horny overload.

  I’ve never wanted the woman to call the shots, but then it’s never been shy, backward Sammy under my hands. She’s the one who yearns to blend in with the walls, unseen. My plan was to keep tonight innocent, but seeing her spread out before me like my favorite dish released the gremlin inside. The one fed after midnight, gotten wet, and mutated from the nice Gizmo into a bevy of sex hungry monsters intent to devour and steal.

  She reaches for my belt, and while my cock stretches and preens reaching for her touch, a small piece of my brain kicks in with a resounding THIEF, while dropping imaginary railroad crossing bars in front of my crotch. I already stole her first kiss, and I’m kicking myself in the ass for not at least getting a glimpse of those tits, but I can’t pilfer anything else. She deserves flowers, candles, an actual bed, and romantic shit when she gives herself to someone. More than a snack table cliché prom night excursion.

  With the strength and will of the patron saints: Christopher, Sebastian, and I-Ain’t-Getting-Laid, I inch away. Figuring enough room for the Holy Ghost between us means I can’t plunder and pillage. Yes, I’ve become an archaic grunting Viking, but damn, to a seventeen-year-old boy this is a prize worthy feat.

  “Maz,” she whispers just above the pounding of the music, I squint so tight white dots bounce in the darkness behind my lids. With each huge inhale I can feel my nose hairs move. “Mazric, look at me,” she begs, and the waver in her voice slices me open like Jack the Ripper, turning my nuts into wrinkled raisins.