Try her ass

Your breath is still ragged, your chest still heaving, when the thought forms. Not a question this time—an intention. Cathy’s memories pulse beneath your skin, vivid and specific, and among them, one set burns brighter than the rest: the nights Matt spent fucking her ass, the way she learned to relax into the invasion, the strange, electric pleasure of being filled where nothing is supposed to go.

She loved it, you can clearly see that, even if they didn't do it often. And now, so should you.

You push yourself up from the couch, your arms trembling, and shift onto your knees. The cushion beneath you is damp, cooling, but you don’t care. You turn, lowering your chest to the couch, and your hands find the backrest. You arch your spine, and Cathy’s ass lifts into the air, presented, offered.

The position feels obscene. Vulnerable. Perfect.

You look over your shoulder, and the reflection in the dark TV screen shows you: Cathy on all fours, her back curved, her ass high and round, the lips of her pussy visible between her thighs, slick and pink. You shake your hips, just a little, and watch the flesh tremble, the cheeks jiggle, the crack shift with the movement. The sensation is new—the weight of her ass, the way it moves independently of your spine, the faint brush of air against unused skin.

You bring your hands back and spread yourself open.

The crack of your ass parts under your fingers, revealing the tight ring of muscle beneath. The air hits it, cool and sharp, and you feel the skin pucker, a reflexive clench that makes your breath catch. You pull wider, watching in the reflection as the hole stretches, the pink interior just visible. It looks impossibly small. Impossible tight.

But Cathy’s memories tell you otherwise. They show you Matt’s thumb pressing in, his tongue circling, his cock stretching her wide. They show you the trust, the patience, the way she learned to breathe through the burn until the burn became the best part.

You let your left hand drop to your pussy. Your fingers find the wetness there, still warm, still copious, and you gather it on your fingertips, slicking them thoroughly. Then you bring your right hand back to your ass.

Your index finger circles the opening, slow and deliberate. The sensation is electric—every nerve ending in the rim firing at the lightest touch. You press, just a little, and the muscle resists, a firm wall that doesn’t yield. You take a breath. You exhale. You press again, steady and patient, and the ring softens, opens, accepts the tip of your finger.

The sensation is like nothing you’ve ever felt. The tightness grips your knuckle, hot and alive, and the pressure radiates through your pelvis, a strange, full ache that makes your pussy clench. You push deeper, past the first ring, into the channel beyond, and the heat inside is shocking—warmer than your vagina, softer. Your finger slides in to the second knuckle, and you stop, panting.

The reflection shows you: Cathy’s ass, a single finger buried inside it, her thighs trembling.

You begin to move.

In and out, slow and shallow, your finger dragging against the walls. Each pass spreads the sensation, sends sparks up your spine. You add a second finger, and the stretch is sharp, a burning pressure that makes you gasp, but you push through it, and the burn fades into something else—a fullness that feels right, feels necessary. You fuck yourself slowly, fingers pistoning, the wet sounds of your pussy mixing with the faint, slick noise of your ass accepting the intrusion.

Cathy’s memories arrive, summoned by the rhythm.

A night in their flat. Matt on his back, Cathy riding him in reverse, his cock buried in her ass. She controlled the pace, took him inch by inch, watched his face contort with pleasure. She came without further touching herself, the friction of his shaft against her walls enough to tip her over.

Your fingers are moving faster now, and the stretch is no longer a stretch—it’s a welcome, a need. You pull them out, and the emptiness is immediate, aching.

Your hand finds the candle on the floor. It’s cool and slick, still coated in your juices. You bring it to your lips—Cathy’s lips—and lick it, tasting yourself, salty and sharp. Then you guide it to your ass.

The tip presses against the opening, and you pause. The cold wax against your hot skin makes you shiver. You push, gently, and the resistance is there, but softer now, tempered by your fingers’ preparation. The candle enters, an inch, and the sensation is overwhelming—the hard smoothness of the candle against the sensitive walls, the fullness spreading through your pelvis. You push deeper, and your vision blurs.

Two inches. Three. The candle slides in, slick and relentless, and you feel it reach deeper than your fingers could, pressing against a spot inside you that sends a jolt of pleasure through your entire body. Your mouth falls open. A sound comes out, high and broken.

You start to move.

Your hand grips the base of the candle, fucking yourself with it, your hips rocking back to meet each thrust. The candle slides in and out, in and out, the wax catching the lamplight, slick with your juices. The wet sounds are louder now, obscene, filling the flat. Your breasts swing beneath you, the nipples grazing the rough fabric of the couch with each movement. Your pussy is dripping, a thin stream of wetness running down your thigh.

More memories flood in, skipping like stones across water.

Matt eating her ass for the first time, his tongue probing, his fingers spreading her, the shock of pleasure so intense she nearly fell off the bed.

The time they fucked in a hot tub, the jets pulsing against her clit while Matt took her from behind, his hands on her hips, her ass filled with his cock, the water sloshing around them.

Your wrist aches. Your thighs are shaking. The candle drives deeper, harder, and the pressure builds, a coil in your belly that tightens with each thrust. Your clit is throbbing, neglected, and you reach under yourself with your free hand, pressing two fingers against it, rubbing in frantic circles.

The orgasm hits you like a fall.

Your legs give out. Your knees slide apart, and you collapse onto the couch, your chest pressed to the cushion, your ass still in the air, the candle still buried inside you. Your pussy clenches, hard, and a warm gush of liquid escapes it, spraying across the couch, across the floor, a thin arc that catches the light. Your anus contracts around the candle, squeezing it, holding it, and the double sensation—the gush from your pussy, the clamp of your ass—sends wave after wave of pleasure through your convulsing body.

You moan into the cushion, your voice muffled, your fingers still pressed against your clit as the orgasm rips through you, endless, devastating.

Then it recedes, leaving you trembling, gasping, the candle still inside your ass, the couch soaked beneath you.

You don’t move. You can’t. You lie there, hollowed out, filled, ruined, the candle a permanent presence in your body, and you don’t want to pull it out. Not yet. Maybe never.

The flat is quiet. Your heart is slowing. And you are still Cathy, still naked, still impaled, still hungry.