Remember to Lust and Subscribe
My wet dream of my influencer flatmate and futile crush held more truth than I realised
For a moment I pause, my fingers and eyes resting on her abdomen’s light dusting of freckles.
I’m panting, my mouth wide; and I can feel shreds of some recent ecstasy drifting over my consciousness. But I remember nothing of the orgasm, or even whether she gave it to me.
She shifts position, perhaps impatiently. My breath catches at the rippling of muscles, which lift my fingertips unevenly. I want to lower my face and kiss those shapes; but that would interrupt my view. She lies arrow-straight beneath me, her arms outstretched above her head, her legs clamped together between mine.
If I allowed my eyes to roam, they would see the exquisite interlacing of curves, some soft, some firm, defining an elaborate silhouette: in one direction, hints of rib under shallow flesh of breast, then sculpted shoulders and triceps, wrists and fingers; in the other, smooth power at rest. I know those shapes well: I film them for her; and for her thousands of followers, almost every day.
In reality she would never want me to touch them, or kiss them, or hold them under the frame of my excited loins. She doesn’t know my desire; and more: she would never want it.
But here, in my dream — here I can be with her.
Like in real life, it is the long, long gap between her sternum and pubis that holds my attention. The tortoiseshell scaffold that normally sustains its perfectly linear shape is relaxed now, so that it sags a little between her ribs and the tips of her pelvis. But the expectant life within is manifest in the gentle rise and fall of her navel: she is not completely relaxed. She knows I cannot resist her long.
My need is overwhelming. I’m twisting a little as I lower my head, and I’m unsurprised by the sensation of running wetness between my legs. I reach there with one hand, fingers tentatively pushing into slick warmth. I was not intending to quicken my own arousal, but the pressure is so compelling that I find myself moaning; and the hand does not return.
Meanwhile my torso has come down until her abdomen fills my sight; and the tips of my nipples are lightly touching her hips, the friction of her skin bringing them to life. Then I feel fingers tucking between my body and hers, to cradle one breast. Her palm is hot and dry, almost painfully abrasive to my tenderness. But once it finds its place, it just holds me, gently, wistfully. So clearly can I imagine the sensation, of that firm nub set in heavy softness, that it could almost be my own hand.
More fingers find the close-cropped hair over my ear, and so finally, I shut my eyes to beauty and instead reach for it with my lips. As they broach the invisible feathery defences of her skin it rises reflexively to greet them, accompanied by the slightest gasp from above. I kiss down greedily, to savour that muscular tension against my lips; but as quickly as it appeared, it is very deliberately gone. I smile. I know she is teasing me.
Two can play at that game. I reach out again, this time, with my tongue. And as I trace it slowly, deliberately, upward, I can feel the agitation of her breathing. The fingers above my ear twist, thrusting into the longer hair on my scalp, clasping and pushing at my head. I open my eyes to laugh with her, but all I can see is the rise of her chest and the fall of my own wayward fringe.
Pretending to accede to her demands I allow my neck and back to relax and bend sideways, my tongue maintaining its contact with her skin, until my face is almost at right-angles to her body and my tongue drops into her navel. The breast she holds has come away from her hip, and I can feel her hand clutch at it reflexively, then disappear; at once to join the other upon my head.
Ironically, it is the effort she puts into pushing me down that finally gives me what I desire. Her stomach muscles rise to meet my lips; I groan with lust for her. Supporting myself on an elbow, my fingers find those firm fruits of her endless hours in the gym: trace their outlines, consume them; while my other hand erratically presses and tucks, almost forgotten.
She is growling with effort and anger. Her legs are spreading, twisting, trying to escape from between my own. Finally, I half-rise to release them, still watching the incredible interplay of her sinews. Now, though, a new compulsion draws my eyes, down to where her abdominals fade into flame-red hair, where her legs begin their powerful rise; and between, where hints of delicate crushed tissue-paper are held tightly between the fingers of her labia.
She is lifting her hips, pushing my head; and though she is smaller than me, her strength is beautiful, magical to defy, just for a moment, to absorb and adore.
No more. I allow my head to be guided down, and at once I am looking along the length of her torso, still drinking in its shape, lingering. But her pubis rises and falls before me, seeking my lips; and so I close my eyes; and kiss.
I pour tenderness and passion into that kiss, and the more it wells from me the more it grows, until I am kissing her with all my might, as though our time is ending, as though there will never be anything more than that kiss. My lips push, my tongue darts and lingers, my need is overpowering me. I am moaning loudly now, almost shouting my terrible desire. And meanwhile, my fingers recreate the same tumult upon my own wetness.
For a moment she is satiated, but I know that she will soon need something more directed, more rhythmic. But then: I am surprised to feel fingers interpose between my mouth and her clitoris. She is rubbing, dragging her flesh in a circle. And when I pause in confusion, the message in the renewed clench of her other hand on my head is unmistakable. So I return my mouth to her, opening it wider to accommodate her fingers, and by the tension inside her I know precisely where she wants me.
So together we work on her pleasure: my tongue, my lips and her fingers finding a harmony so much greater than the sum of their efforts. I feel her using a single finger to draw upward, and then the spasm as she targets her clitoris. I growl with arousal and annoyance. I want my tongue there! I want to give her that jolt of ecstasy myself! But her command is clear: my domain is below.
Then, I smile at a new impulse, and immediately act upon it. Renewing the attack of my lips to cover my subterfuge, I tuck a fingertip just beneath my tongue. Nothing changes to tell me that she has noticed, and so I gently, gently slide it inward, timing each millimetric advance between the sporadic tensing of her flesh and nectar-cloaked vagina.
Her breath is coming in fitful gasps and hums — possibly she is biting her lip — and hints of words, snippets of some bestial language of affirmation and profanity. She still shows no sign, even as my finger begins to be clenched with every tight circle of her own. I’m curling upward now, reaching for my goal.
When I find it, time comes to a halt. Suddenly, she is still. I am still. I have been discovered — or more likely, the sensations have finally resolved — and a tiny voice in me wonders: will she be angry with me?
‘Fuck!’ she shouts. Then, perhaps knowing my mind, ‘Fuck, yes!’ She is arching her back, pushing her vulva down onto my face and hand. ‘Please!’
And her fingers return to jarring life, trembling, erratic; and she shouts her surprise, and mine, because neither of us knew she was so close. Hardly have I begun to rejoin her rhythm but her breath stops again, and suddenly both of her hands clamp my head to her. My mouth is wide, my teeth buried in softness, and finally, finally! I have her clit to myself.
Ravenously my tongue falls upon her. Her vagina is clenching around my finger, though her body is silent and rigid. Oh! to have command of her only now, so fleetingly, in orgasm! I cannot control my passion, I am pushing at her with all my might; surely I am hurting her; I cannot help myself.
But the moment does not pass. Still thuds of frantic joy grasp my finger, until her need for air brings with it rasping, incoherent shouts. Time seems to end, and we are rising up, weightless.
But, strangely, though my lust feels as though it will burst from me in some winged manifestation, the fingers upon my own clit are yet to find an ecstasy equal to hers. They have been moving of their own volition, pushing, trembling; but unrewarded. And now, as she fades, to the sound of panting breath that seems like an echo, my desperation for release grows.
My mouth has lost her, and I am kneeling up, trying to look upon her, to steal consummation from the sight of her. But her shape is indistinct, a memory: only glimpses remain, like pieces of a broken statue behind my closed eyelids. In the end, the only image I have is the beautiful tension around her navel; but then she breathes, and it is gone.
And so when I wake, I am alone.
I rose, in the grey of dawn; showered away the sordid remnants of my dream.
As I dressed, I heard her in the kitchen. My heart sank. I had assumed she was asleep. Perhaps I could wait, pretend to do something, until she went out? But somehow, that trick seemed more dirty than usual. My dreams were not her fault, but mine. She would not even recognise herself in them.
Because she’s an ace: an asexual. Whether related to her extremely low body fat, or her puritanical upbringing, or just innate, it didn’t matter anymore. Her self-acceptance was absolute, awe-inspiring, and angelic. She didn’t like sex. Didn’t even understand it, and didn’t care to.
“Heya,” she called lightly, from the sink. “I’m going to the gym,” she stated — redundantly: she was already in her kit. “Can you work your magic?”
“Already?” I complained. Familiar bitterness lapped like spilled bathwater in my mind. I knew she had turned to me, so I focused on the coffee maker.
“Please?”
She didn’t know. Not about my dreams; not about my hunger. She had arranged our lives to her satisfaction, not knowing. I was her flatmate, her friend, the reliable and invisible videographer of her gym-girl social media. As far as she knew, I was not even among her followers.
“There’s a new girl on reception,” she observed, ignoring my silence. She had stepped towards me. “Su-uper cute.”
My pain made me laugh tightly, while I clattered the water container out of the back of the coffee machine.
Normally my disengagement would have dissuaded her, but not this time.
“Emma,” she said gently. She was close by. I tried to hide my cringe with a deliberate movement, but ended up looking askance at her while awkwardly cranked over the counter.
“Emma, you haven’t dated in months,” she stated. “I’d like to help. You always help me.”
She was so damn genuine. Not like me.
“I don’t want to date,” I fumbled.
“You do.”
How do you fucking know?
My self-loathing was like a flood of filthy blood. I could not speak the words that would hurt her. But in my mind, they grew ever more rancid. You have no idea what it’s like to be me. You don’t need anyone!
Out loud, I said, “Okay. Five minutes?”
My waking dreams are not as precise as in sleep. She is with me; but I don’t yet know how, exactly. I lie on my unmade bed, one hand clamped onto my vulva, trying to find a moment’s breath in which to construct a narrative.
I smile a little at my luck. She went out as soon as we had finished editing and uploading. Today’s video was ‘Work your Core with Me,’ and I have to admit, it was one of my best. Once it was online, she thanked me with a smile, saying, “You’re amazing.” Then she jumped lightly to her feet, pulling out her keys, and sped from the living room.
There was immediately no question what I would do next. Watching and editing, editing and watching her sinuous form, over and over, while she literally sat tucked beside me… by the end I was practically panting, and outrageously, sensuously wet.
And so here I lie, faintly holding the joint of a finger against my clit, wondering how I will make love to her in my mind.
Briefly, I consider whether to involve the new, and undeniably cute, receptionist (who, of course, isn’t at all interested in me — not that it matters, here and now). But there’s really no need; and somehow, it might diminish the purity of imagining her.
My hand unconsciously clenches, just a fraction — and I gasp. I have little time. But I want it to be perfect… and then suddenly, I know what to do. What could be more pure than to simply watch her, once again?
I clamber partially from the bed to fumble with my jeans, still holding myself with my other hand. I find my phone; log into my secret account — and there she is, posing and smiling to camera, music swelling as the words appear to introduce today’s session.
My loins are heavy and wet. I return to lying, but on one side, facing the wall, my fingers squeezed between my legs. As she begins her warm-ups, my arm and my hips begin to move contrary to each other, my hand rigid against my vulva.
The camera closes on the gap between her top and leggings, where muscles slide rhythmically to flex her torso; and I myself am flexing, pushing, humping my hand.
She is powerful, she is confident, she is beautiful. She is everything I am not; but it doesn’t matter. I have her to watch. I even see her reality, my memory of the filming juxtaposed over the sterile, shining screen. I have her.
My arm is achingly clenched against the thrusting of my hips, and in the slick warmth a digit slips deeper, curling to maximise its power. I cannot help allowing my fingers to work, adding desperate irregular vibrations to the rhythmic pushing of hand against vulva.
I moan her name as I close in on the end. I think my eyes are shut; but I have seen the video so many times that it plays on inside their lids.
At the last, I am fully with her, feeling her skin against my face, muscle pulsing against my lips while I kiss with all my might. Strangely I am vaguely aware of the ache in my arm and the sweat of my effort, as power flows outward from my vagina, flooding me, drowning me in her glory.
As the orgasm peaks and begins to fade, I draw a long breath. In my other hand the music plays on — there are still minutes to go. Perhaps I will watch to the end?
I roll onto my back with a sigh.
And she is there.
I cry out, and drop my phone in alarm, reaching instinctively for the covers — even though I’m lying on them.
“Sorry,” she says reflexively. She has taken a step back. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She babbles on, her cheeks flushed cherry red, freckles splattered across her nose. “I heard the music… I thought…”
I’ve managed to extricate a corner of the duvet from underneath me, to cover my breasts — quite why I prioritised them, I cannot say. Obvious reprimands pile up in my mind, but nothing reaches my mouth. I just gape at her.
She’s still there. Embarrassed. But looking back at me.
I should be angry. But somehow the rage that I feel so often for myself, cannot be repurposed for her.
Then, she says, quietly, “I didn’t know you… liked me.”
“Yes.”
I marvel at the word, which spun into the space between us like a magician’s playing card.
“I like that,” she says now, glowing suddenly even brighter as though she too is not in control of her utterances.
“But,” I manage, “you don’t, um…”
“No,” she says, and for a moment her eyes fall. “I don’t. But…”
She steps forward.
“I do want attention. I do want to be looked at.” One of her hands reaches towards me, a tiny movement, but so significant. “I love that you… like to look at me.”
In the spinning confusion of my awareness, I suddenly know that my lower half is naked, that my pubic hair is slick and matted, that I have just been seen masturbating. I don’t know what to do with her words. Like an emergency default, my mind can only feel shame.
She seems to understand. She steps forward again, her shins touching the mattress. And she raises her hands to the lower seam of her tight gym top; and peels it up and over.
When it has fallen to the floor, she cocks her head on one side, and says, “I’d love for you to look at me some more.”
I cannot help my eyes roaming; but they do not come to rest on her small, perfect breasts. They fall below. Where tortoiseshell shapes shift subtly with her posture.
Now I understand my dream. She doesn’t want what I wanted to give. But I can still give.
Perhaps I need not be alone anymore.
I’m Cody Kmochova, and I write lesbian stories, always with a twist. Fancy a sci-fi action-romance?
