Fun with a candle

The orgasm fades, but the heat doesn't. It lingers, a low thrum in your veins, a second pulse beating beneath Cathy's skin. Your chest still heaves. Your thighs are slick. And already, between your legs, that familiar ache is returning, insistent and greedy.

You sit up. The movement sends a cascade of dark hair over your shoulders, and you push it back with Cathy's hand, feeling the strands slip through her fingers like silk. You look around the room—your room, but it feels smaller now, dimmer, seen through eyes that have sprinted across finish lines and watched sunsets from Alpine balconies.

The jersey lies crumpled on the floor. The leggings are a dark puddle beside it. You slide off the bed, feet landing on the cool laminate, and cross to where they lie. You pick up the jersey first, lifting it to your face.

The smell hits you immediately: sweat, but not your sweat. Cathy's sweat. It's sharp and salty, undercut by something floral, the faint trace of her deodorant or maybe her shampoo. You press the fabric to your nose and inhale deeply, and the scent fills your lungs, real and intimate and undeniably hers. You remember pulling this jersey off in such a hurry, desperate to get to the skin beneath, and now you regret the haste. You should have savored it. You should have taken your time peeling each layer away, felt the fabric drag over her muscles, her curves, her sensitive spots.

You bring the leggings to your face next. The waistband is damp, and you press your tongue to the fabric without thinking, tasting salt and the faint, musky tang of her. Cathy's tongue. Cathy's taste buds. The sensation is strange and thrilling, a feedback loop you don't fully understand.

Your pussy clenches. Empty.

You drop the clothes and stand. The air in the flat is cool against Cathy's naked skin, and her nipples tighten immediately, drawing into hard peaks that cast tiny shadows on her chest. You look down at them, at the way they stand out against the pale curve of her breasts, and you remember what they felt like under your fingers. You remember what Matt's mouth felt like on them.

You start walking.

The flat is small—you've lived here for two years, know every squeaky floorboard and cracked tile—but it feels new now, seen through Cathy's eyes. The kitchen counter is too low. The hallway is narrower. You pad past the bathroom, past the closet, your bare feet whispering against the floor, and you catch your reflection in the full-length mirror propped against the wall.

You stop.

Cathy stares back at you, naked and flushed, her dark hair tousled, her lips slightly parted. The light from the living room catches the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the soft shadow between her thighs. You turn sideways, and the reflection shifts, showing the full roundness of her ass, the way it sits high and firm, a perfect globe of muscle and softness.

Your hands rise to your breasts. You cup them, feeling their weight, their warmth. Then you let one go, watching in the mirror as it drops, bounces once, settles. The movement is mesmerizing—the way the skin shifts, the way the nipple bobs, the way the breast finds its natural shape again. Cathy's memories surface unbidden: a teammate in the locker room, Violet, toweling off after a shower, her breasts hanging low and full, swinging heavily as she moved. Cathy had glanced, noted, thought nothing of it. But you see it now through her eyes, the contrast between Violet's heavy, sagging tits and Cathy's perky, athletic pair. You wonder if Violet ever feels self-conscious. You wonder if Matt ever compares.

Matt. The thought of him sends a pulse of heat through your belly. You imagine him behind you, his hands on these hips, his cock pressing against the curve of this ass. Cathy's memories flood in, vivid and specific: Matt's hands gripping her waist, his breath hot on her neck, the sound of his voice telling her how good she feels. You've seen it in her mind—the way he fucks her from behind, the way he spreads her cheeks and watches himself slide into her tight, perfect hole. He loves her ass. He's told her a hundred times. He's spent hours worshipping it, kissing it, biting it, pressing his face into it while she moans into the pillow.

There's a memory of a night last semester. Matt had her bent over the edge of his bed, her knees on the floor, her chest pressed to the mattress. He'd spent ten minutes just playing with her ass, running his fingers over the crack, teasing the tight ring of muscle, before he finally pushed inside. She'd gasped, clenched, pushed back against him. He'd groaned her name like a prayer.

Your hand drifts down your stomach, past your navel, between your legs. Your fingers find your clit, swollen and slick, and you press, just once, before forcing yourself to stop. Not yet. You need something more.

You resume your search.

The flat is sparse when it comes to potential objects. You rule out the TV remote—too bulky, awkward angles. The handle of a hairbrush is too thin. A marker is too short. Then your eyes land on the counter, on a thick candle in a glass jar, unlit, unused. The candle is cylindrical, smooth, about the right length. You pick it up, weigh it in your hand. Cathy's memories compare it to Matt's girth. Close enough.

Matt's last birthday surfaces: Cathy waking him early, the morning light slanting through the blinds. She'd slipped under the covers, taken him in her mouth, worked him slow and steady until he was fully hard. She didn't love giving blowjobs—they made her jaw ache, and she never quite knew what to do with her hands—but for his birthday, she made an exception. She'd let him finish on her face, warm and thick, and she'd laughed afterward, wiping it from her eyelashes, and he'd kissed her, tasting himself on her lips.

The memory makes your pussy ache.

You carry the candle into the living room. The couch is old, upholstered in a faded gray fabric that's seen better days, but it's clean. You sit down, sinking into the cushions, and spread your legs wide. The air hits your wet folds, cool and sharp, and you shiver.

You hold the candle in your right hand, running the smooth surface along your inner thigh, up to the crease where your leg meets your hip. Then you drag it higher, tracing the outline of your labia, not entering, just teasing. The candle is cool against your heat, a shock that makes your breath catch. You slide it up and down your slit, parting the lips, coating the candle in your own wetness. The sound is wet and soft, a faint, slick whisper in the quiet room.

You don't insert it yet. You hold it at the entrance, the tip just barely pressing against your opening, and you pause.

Cathy's body trembles. Cathy's breath hitches. Cathy's voice, when you speak, is barely a whisper.

"Not yet."

You want to savor this. You want to feel every second, every millimeter, every sensation that this body can give you. You close your eyes, and you wait, the candle poised at your entrance, your pussy dripping onto the couch cushion beneath you.

The flat is silent. Your heart is pounding. And you are ready.

Your fingers release the candle, and it doesn't fall. It rests there, pressed against your opening, a cool promise you've already decided to keep. Cathy's breath catches. Your hand finds the base again, and you tilt your hips, angling the smooth wax against your slick folds.

You push.

The resistance is immediate—a tight ring of muscle that clenches against the intrusion, holds for a heartbeat, then yields. The candle slides in, an inch, two, and the sensation is overwhelming: the cool surface against your searing heat, the stretch of your walls accommodating something thicker than your fingers, the fullness that spreads through your pelvis like warm water.

"Fuck," you whisper, Cathy's voice cracking.

You push deeper. The candle glides now, coated in your wetness, and you feel every ridge, every curve of the wax as it passes through you. Your eyes are closed. The world is reduced to sensation: the weight of your breasts on your chest, the slick sound of your pussy accepting the intrusion, the pressure building low in your belly as the candle reaches deeper, deeper, until—

Your cervix.

The tip presses against it, a firm, unyielding barrier, and the sensation is electric—a deep, resonant ache that makes your toes curl. You hold it there, feeling the pressure, the way your body clenches around the candle, trying to pull it deeper even though there's no more room. A sound escapes your throat, something between a moan and a whimper.

You start to move.

Slow at first, shallow thrusts that drag the candle in and out, each pass coating it in more of your slickness. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and rhythmic, and you match them with your breathing, in on the withdrawal, out on the thrust. Your free hand finds your breast, squeezes, rolls the nipple between thumb and forefinger, and the dual sensations blur together, a feedback loop that makes your head swim.

Cathy's memories surface, summoned by the rhythm.

The trail is steep, switchbacks cutting through pine forest, the air thin and cool. Cathy's lungs burn, but in a good way—the burn of pushing, of testing her limits. Matt's ahead, his pack bouncing with each step, and he turns back to grin at her, sweat shining on his forehead. "Almost there," he says. She nods, doesn't waste breath on words. The summit opens up suddenly, a bald rock face with a view that stretches for miles, valleys and ridges painted in shades of green and blue. They drop their packs, drink water, eat trail mix in comfortable silence. The sun starts to set, painting the sky in layers of orange and pink, and Matt's hand finds hers. "We should do this more often," she says. He squeezes her fingers. "We will."

They set up the tent as the last light fades, a small two-person dome that fits snugly on a flat patch of ground. The sleeping bags zip together, forming a single cocoon of down and nylon. The air is cold, sharp, and they strip down to their underwear, shivering as they slide into the warmth of the bags. Matt's body is solid against hers, his chest to her back, his arm draped over her waist. She feels safe. She feels free.

The stars are impossible out here—no light pollution, no city glow, just a blanket of pinpricks so dense it looks like a photograph. She's lying on her back, staring up through the mesh of the tent's roof, and Matt's hand is tracing lazy circles on her stomach. The circles get lower. Slower. His fingers dip below the waistband of her underwear, and she gasps, the sound loud in the quiet night. "Someone might hear," she whispers. "We're miles from anyone," he whispers back.

His fingers find her clit, and she bites her lip to stay quiet. The tent rustles as she spreads her legs, giving him room. His touch is expert, patient, circling and pressing until she's squirming, her hips rocking against his hand. She's wet, so wet, and when he slides two fingers inside her, the sensation is amplified by the cold air, the risk of being heard, the vast, indifferent sky above them.

She comes silently, her body arching, her hand clamped over her mouth. The stars blur above her.

The next morning, light filters through the tent fabric, pale and golden. Cathy wakes to Matt's erection pressed against her thigh. She's still half-asleep, warm and loose, and when he rolls her onto her back and pushes inside her, she's ready, slick and open. The angle is awkward in the confined space, his elbows braced on either side of her head, his breath hot on her neck. Each thrust rocks the tent, makes the fabric shiver, and she doesn't care who hears. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulls him deeper. He comes with a groan, his face buried in her hair.

They lie there afterward, tangled and sweaty, the tent smelling of sex and pine. Cathy's fingers trace the lines of his back. She's never felt closer to anyone.

The candle is moving faster now, a relentless piston that drives into you again and again. Your hand is slick, your thighs are slick, the couch cushion beneath you is darkening with your wetness. Your other hand is kneading your breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to hurt, and the pain sharpens the pleasure, cuts through the haze.

More memories flood in, skipping, jumping.

The time they did it in the back of his car, parked in a secluded overlook. The windows fogged up. A flashlight beam swept across them—a park ranger—and they froze, naked and tangled, until the beam moved on. Cathy laughed afterward, giddy with adrenaline, and Matt kissed her until she forgot to be scared.

The time she tied him to the bed with silk scarves, took control, rode him until he begged. The power in it, the way his eyes widened when she straddled his face, the way he groaned against her cunt.

Your wrist aches. Your thighs are trembling, the muscles quivering with the effort of staying open. The candle slides in and out, in and out, a wet, rhythmic sound that fills the flat. Your clit is throbbing, begging for attention, and you press the heel of your free hand against it, grinding in circles as you fuck yourself with the candle.

The pressure builds. It's different from before—deeper, fuller, spread across your entire pelvis. Your pussy clenches around the wax, trying to hold it, and you push back, driving it deeper until the base presses against your labia, the candle fully sheathed inside you.

Your legs snap shut.

The movement is involuntary, a spasm that traps the candle inside you, your thighs clamping together so hard they shake. Your back arches off the couch, your head thrown back, and the orgasm hits you like a wave—not a crest, not a building, but a sudden, total collapse of every muscle, every nerve, every thought. Your pussy contracts around the candle in violent pulses, each one wringing a sound from your throat, a high, broken keen that you can't control. Your vision whites out. Your fingers dig into your breast hard enough to leave marks.

The world narrows to sensation: the candle inside you, the heat, the wetness, the trembling of your own body as the orgasm rips through you again and again, wave after wave, each one weaker than the last but still devastating.

Then it stops.

You lie there, gasping, the candle still inside you, your legs still clamped shut. The cushion beneath you is soaked, a dark patch spreading across the gray fabric. You can feel it, warm and damp against your skin.

You don't care.

You pull the candle out slowly, feeling every inch of its passage, and let it fall to the floor with a wet thud. Your hand drops to your side. Your chest heaves. The ceiling swims above you, familiar and strange.

Cathy's heart slows. Cathy's breath steadies.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought forms, quiet and dangerous:

What next?