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.
He frowns. “Jolene…”
I close my eyes, irrationally embarrassed by this thing I have no control over. “Bad day, is all.”
“What can I do?”
I shake my head—or that’s the intent; it ends up more of a floppy roll of my head side to side. Like Westley after Miracle Max brings him back from being Mostly Dead. “Just…try to not bump me or jostle me too much.”
“Is there…” A pause. “Is there any, like, medicine?”
I huff, something like a laugh. I forget he knows nothing about this part of my life. “I have some pills, but…” I swallow, wince as a rolling wave of pain sends shockwaves through me. “They’re a last resort. I hate taking them. They knock me out and make me feel like…” I make a face: eyes crossed, tongue sticking out, jaw slack. “I’m okay for now.”