The lights go out and the music ceases and for a moment you are deaf and blind, void of sensation save for the feel of her hand in yours. You've screamed yourself hoarse tonight singing along to Come to My Window, and your throat is sore, but when she leans in to place a tender kiss against your neck, the brush of her soft lips soothes you. Your eyes adjust as you lean back to give her better access—because that one kiss leads to several more—and you can see the millions of stars that blanket the night sky. You've been lost in the city for so long that you forgot what stars look like. And here, out in this vast desert, there are millions of them, littering the night-black sky with their twinkling cheekiness.

She pulls you into her body from behind, wrapping one arm around your waist and using the other to scoop your hair behind an ear for easier neck-kissing access. You'd close your eyes and melt into her if you weren't so fascinated by the pinpricks of light above. You still melt into her though. Even the miracle of stars can't make you immune to her touch.

Around you, people are standing, gathering their blankets and picnic baskets and their empty bottles and dispersing. The hum of the music and the electricity of the crowd—that jolt that flows from person to person, from performer to speaker to ear to heart, brain, and skin—is still alive as people begin to mill around you. You feel compelled to follow suit; you couldn't will your body to hold still if you tried in this atmosphere. But she's holding you, wrapped around you, and her neck kisses—which have evolved into little nips travelling in a decidedly southward, shoulder-bound direction—are like a balm to the crowd's energy. She's cooling your heat, your anxious-in-a-crowd nature, with those kisses.

You stay put in her arms and let the crowd mill around you.

You have to admit that when this idea first occurred to you, to fly across several states, drive four hours into the desert, and spend every last dime of your last paycheck, just to meet her at a Melissa Etheridge concert, it was with the barely acknowledged desire that all you really wanted to do was lay her on a blanket on the lawn and make out with her all night without a care to the music playing or the people around you.

But the music was catchy, the performance amazing (fuck, it's Melissa Etheridge!), and the crowd on fire—singing and dancing along—and you never once got a chance to lay down and take your girl into your arms. She knew every word and sang and danced all night, alternating between holding you close and twirling you about with as much verve as she could get away with in this crowd.

In truth, you don't regret a thing: the smug grin on her face, the excitement in her eyes and in her sing-along husky alto, the energy that her loose-limbed dancing has begat, all have fed your soul tonight. You didn't even need to lay down on the blanket for this to be the best night you've spent in a long time. No really, in a very long time. As you settle into her arms and let the swirl of the crowd fade around you, you close your eyes and let your last visit ebb back into your thoughts. Memory by memory, that Spring Break week you spent never leaving her apartment (hell, you barely left her bed) seeps back into your mind and takes it over completely; the heat of it flows into your muscles, reforming your wax-soft bones. A giggle rises in your throat as you recall how you were all over each other that week like you haven't been since high school. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you know it's a lie. It's been hell on both of you since your schooling and her career forced you into this long distance relationship.

Your voice is hoarse in her ear as you turn your head to whisper to her—her ear is coincidentally and strategically right by your mouth (so close, in fact, that you swallow your words for a moment to preface them with a nibble on her earlobe)—that you want to get out of here.

Above the din of the crowd you hear a little moan escape her lips at your touch and you are both instantly energized, breaking apart and packing your picnic basket, blanket, and empty bottles in a haphazard flash.

You tease each other all the way back to the car, grabbing waists and hands, and placing random kisses on available skin as you try to beat the crowd to the exit. You're even more reckless as you wait in the long line for the venue parking lot to clear. You lean across the console to nibble her lips and graze every part of her neck and collarbone and chest that you can reach with your teeth. She can't keep her hands on the steering wheel; you find them edging back under your shirt every time you get close.

The car inches forward. Awash in the blaze of red taillights, you're only thought is that it is taking way too long to get to the hell out of here.

When you're finally free of the traffic (and wet and antsy with desire) she takes your hand, threading her fingers into yours, sewing them up so that not even a crack of light could escape, and punches the accelerator, steering you swiftly toward the giant neon sign that is guiding you home tonight; a beacon to weary travelers and horny lovers the world over.

Before it's even closed, she's turning around and pushing you up against the motel room door; pressing against you hard, breast to breast, her knee wedging between your legs, her hot mouth all over yours, and you swear you forget your own name. Frantic hands grab and pull clothing away from hot bodies. You don't think you've moved this fast since you were seventeen. It's amazing what not seeing her for a few months can do to your libido.

Before you have a chance to think, she is pinning your hands above your head in one hand, her other hand snaking a fast trail up your stomach to palm a breast. You gasp and moan, a rush of warmth flooding your panties at her insistence.

You throw your head back against the door as she works her hot mouth back to your neck. This time her nips are sharp and each time she catches that tender nerve under your skin, a sharp jolt shakes you to your quick. You shudder and moan and when her mouth reaches your ear and she whispers, in that breathy, sex-tinged voice that she wants to see you naked, now, your knees threaten to give way.

She smiles slyly, knowing the effect she has on you.

All you can do is nod in response, but the good girl that she purrs into your ear as a reward makes you question if you were even wet before, because you sure as hell are now.

She releases your hands and smirks down at you while you collect yourself. You snatch a quick kiss as you move past her into the room. You've already pulled your shirt off when she stops you with her voice—her voice you've trained yourself to respond to in Pavlovian fashion—and says that she wants to see you undress, slowly and with purpose.

You grin. Okay, you can do that. You can give her a show.

You hold up a finger to indicate that you'll just be a moment as you slip into the bathroom with your bag. Your real motive isn't to do anything remotely bathroom related. Instead, you have a surprise for her.

You grin that same ridiculous grin you can't seem to control whenever you're around her and she replies in kind.

You continue grinning as you remember a certain phone call you received earlier tonight. It seems your credit card company thought that concert tickets, a room at the Motel 6—hey, it's clean and you are grad-school poor—along with a certain sex shop purchase, were considered "unusual activity" on your account. You quietly assured them that the card was safe in your wallet and thanked them for their vigilance. As you clutch your purchase, wrapped in its plain brown paper bag, a little thrill runs through you. You've been dying to try this one with her and tonight is the night.

You unwrap your (well, both of your) reward and wonder how you're going to present it to her. Normally, it would be her directing you in matters such as this, and you'd be more than happy to accommodate her. But this time is different. You've got a little fantasy in mind that you've been dying to act out—tonight; you're going to take charge. And with nothing but her voice and her image on your computer to get off on for the past couple of months, the desire to touch her, to put your hands on her body, to make love to her, is overwhelming you.

You exit the bathroom, your new purple feeldoe hidden behind your back, and are shocked to see her stretched out on the bed, clad only in a black lace bra and panty set; a set you realize you've only seen her wear online. Somehow, her camera did not capture the intricate lace of the material, or the way the design frames her curves just so. She's covered every horizontal surface in lit candles and the room shimmers in a light haze, a corona of rays that surround her. She is your sun.

You gulp and slide your toy onto the nightstand. It can wait. You have a job to do.

She tells you she wants her show. Not in so many words—although you love it when she bosses you around—but with a subtle gesture of her hand, a nod, and a cutting glance. She's good at this kind of non-verbal communication. An expert really, well-studied in reading you like a book as well as making sure you understand her every desire.

You lick your lips.

You're suddenly nervous; she has no idea what's on your mind or that tonight will be different. You're used to bending to her commands, but tonight you're going to take charge. Despite your plans, the idea of not giving her what she wants right now never even crosses your mind. You're antsy about the show you're really going to give her later, but for now you smile and start to strip. There's low jazz playing from the bedside radio (trust her to pick jazz, your favorite) and you start to sway to the tune. You're no dancer like her, but fancy footwork isn't exactly called for here. You allow your hands to caress your arms first before bringing them up to stroke the edges of your bra. The closer your fingertips get to the creamy skin of your breasts, the more the fire ignites in her eyes. You've seen that look before.

You know you're on the right track.

You remind her that she's not allowed to touch the dancer as you move closer and her hand reaches for your breast. Pouting, she reaches behind her head to catch the headboard in a bold show of acquiescence. You both know it's just for show. She made it clear a long time ago that she practically owns you (and you happily allow her to) so you both smirk at her willingness to play along with your rules.

Smiling at her, you stroke just under your bra, fingertips grazing your nipples, causing them to perk up. The look in her eyes and the touch of your own hand makes you gasp involuntarily. You're impatient to touch her and so you sway closer to the bed, your eyes following her eyes following you. You pull the bra aside just enough to show her a glimpse of your hard nipple and when she licks her lips and nods, you know she's happy with your performance.

Relieved that you can move on, you reach behind you and unhook your bra, allowing the straps to drag tortuously down your arms as you cup the bra in place until the last second. When you fling it aside, exposing very hard, very red nipples, and she moans, you're proud that you've done such a good job of pleasing her. You're rewarded with yet another flood of wetness in your panties and you wonder why you're even still wearing them. Surely, they're ruined by now.

You tease along the waist of your skirt, lowering it centimeter by centimeter, watching her eyes lower accordingly. You know she loves the cut of your abs, the hollows next to your hipbones, and the dip of your belly button, so you trace a finger along each as they are revealed by your lowering skirt. You edge closer to the bed, dying to touch her, just waiting for the signal. When she gives you that subtle nod that tells you she's ready, you drag the skirt downward exposing your lacy, see-through, pink panties first and then your satiny thighs.

She licks her lips again, inserting a finger to the edge of her mouth. She inhales. And squirms. And a smug grin overtakes your face. You love pleasing her.

When she tells you to leave the panties on, that she'll take them off herself, and beckons you to come to her with a crooking finger, you practically fall onto the bed. You grab your new toy from the table and crawl toward her, until you are poised over her, eyeing her smirking face, and anxious to move on with your plan. You remind yourself who is in charge (you—you keep forgetting) and bat her hand away from your panties, telling her that only if she's a good girl might she get to see what's underneath and that tonight you'll do as you please. She crooks an eyebrow at you and you almost lose it. You grin when she moves her hand away, again acquiescing to your demands with a pouty lip.

You could get used to this "being in charge" business.

You start to tease her by dragging your taut nipples against her breasts and stomach, relishing in the goosebumps that pop up in their wake. And when she finally begs you to please kiss her, you do, hard and hot and with purpose and like you can't get enough of her. And really, you can't. It's been way too long since you had the pleasure of her skin against yours.

As you sink down onto her, allowing your breasts to press against her breasts and your hips to settle between her thighs, you sigh with relief. You've waited so long for this moment. And the rush you feel is intoxicating. Suddenly, you are drunk on her and on this moment and on the heat that's emanating from both of you like liquid lava.

Your kisses turn languid, searching and soft. You want to relish this time with her. To bask in her scent and her touch and her warm skin pressed against yours. As you brush your lips tenderly against hers, she sighs, and you understand that she wants the same thing, to savor this night.

So you slow down and explore.

You allow your mouth to roam and you revel in the warm hollows behind her ears, in the salt of her collarbone, in the sugary remnants of alcohol on her breath.

Your hands explore too. The gentle caress of your fingertips leaves a trail of goose bumps behind as you trace paths up her arms and along her neck. You map her face with your feather light touch, all the while staring into her eyes with the kind of intensity you've only now realized you don't get talking to her online every night.

You are breathless with desire for her.

As you kiss your way down her neck and chest, removing her bra in the process, you see her close her eyes and settle back into the pillow, relaxing under your mouth. You've been wanting to surprise her with your new toy since you booked this trip, and so, in between tiny nips that edge closer and closer to her already erect nipples, you tell her to keep her eyes closed. She's so eager for you to make love to her that she's quick to indulge you. She clamps her eyes closed with a smile and you quickly reward her by taking a pert nipple into your mouth. Her back aches, pressing her breast into your mouth and you both moan at the touch.

You'd gladly spend the rest of the night with your lips and teeth wrapped around her breasts (you give them both equal attention, wanting neither to feel the loss of your mouth for long) but when you feel her grind her hips up into you and press your head gently south, you want to oblige her. To move your kisses down a circuitous track covering every inch of her belly and hips until you are tracing a tongue tip along the edge of her underwear. She's so wet you can smell her; like pungent earth and salt and bright copper and just… girl, that your mouth waters.

But no, you remind yourself that she is yours tonight, and pull her hand away from the tangle of your hair and place it on the headboard again. She frowns at you and you wonder if you'll be able to pull this off, but when she grasps the wood in her hands with a sigh, a gloating swell of power comes over you. And you like it.

To make it up to her, you ask her if you may remove her panties and she gives you a nod, careful to keep her eyes closed and her hands on the headboard. You are thrilled to see the dark, wet patch you've created at their center. You secretly love it that you can turn her on like this.

Okay, maybe it's not that much of a secret.

Because as you toss the black lace aside and kiss your way further down, you realize you've got your own wet patch, and a familiar ache, between your legs. Settling between her legs you eye her for a moment, overcome with desire. You want to dive into her, to calm both of your anxieties—her body is wire-taut with suspense—but you also want to make this last. So you tease her with just a fingertip along her center, reveling in the way her body leaps at your barest touch. You stroke her again, allowing that same fingertip to lightly part her swollen lips, and are rewarded with a squirm and a pleading moan. You stroke her a third time and as your finger sinks lightly into her and her hips arch into your touch, you realize you can't wait a minute longer.

Fuck who's in charge, fuck teasing, you want this as much as she does.

As you finally sink your mouth into her and taste her for the first time in months, you are dizzy. You realize that you have actually forgotten to breath as you run your tongue the length of her center and back, rejoicing in how much you really just love making love to your girl.

Her sharp, inhaled groan reminds you to breath and you look up at her desperate face, eyes closed, hands clasping the headboard, and you are overcome with desire for her. So often you wonder what the future holds for you two, but in this moment all you know is that you love her and you love this and there is nowhere you'd rather be than right here between her legs.

With renewed vigor, you inhale and settle in to worship her.

Your tongue starts a gentle, teasing, up and down motion and you moan again as you taste her. She's intoxicating. You can't get enough of this. You don't ever want to stop, so you sink your whole face in, subtle licks becoming harder strokes, your chin and cheeks and lips getting covered in her juices as you press into her. Her hips rise to meet you, rolling against you with every stroke. You feel her hand settle onto your head again (she is just terrible at doing as she's told and you make a mental note to say something about it when your mouth isn't otherwise occupied) and you pull it away and direct it back toward the headboard without skipping a beat. Your hands trail up her thighs until you're able to reach under them and gently raise first one leg and then the other and place them over your shoulders.

You love being enveloped by her.

Her head is thrown back in wild abandon, her breaths coming quicker now, and you know she's ready. You trace a fingertip around her very wet opening three times, each circle edging farther in, until both of your patience wears thin, and she begs you to please go inside with a moan.

Nothing pleases you more than to give her what she wants.

You sink two fingers in to the knuckle and she writhes under your hand and your mouth. Despite your orders, she can't keep her hands on the headboard. One hand goes to her throat where she traces that tender, just-kissed line you know drives you both crazy. She does it to tempt you, you just know it, tracing the line of red marks you left on her neck, and you answer her temptation with another hard thrust that bottoms out inside her. She gasps and shivers, her back arching as her hands move to nipples that are still wet from your mouth. As she takes them between her fingers and squeezes, you groan. Your tongue is still working its magic and you know that after all this time, she's got to be getting close. In her place, you know you'd be crazy by now. Hell, you are crazy now; squeezing your legs together to relieve the ache that making love to her creates in you.

You know you don't have much time.

You give her a few slow pumps and are entranced by the way her hips rise to meet your hand. You raise your eyes to see her; hands grasping her breasts, nipples pinched between two fingers, and her head thrown back, hair wild, her lower lip creased between her teeth. Looking at her sends a shiver through you that ends in a spark right between your legs.

Neither one of you is going to make it if you don't get a move on.

She hisses and almost cries when you remove your hand, but you compensate by sinking your tongue as far into her as you can and start lapping and thrusting. She whimpers and arches her back—thrusting herself into your mouth—out of breath and out of control. She tastes so delicious, warm and wet, that you almost forget what you're doing.


Reaching down you pull the brand new, lacy, pink thong you bought for this occasion off without a thought to ripping it. It's drenched through anyway. You grab your toy and with only a few circles to warm yourself up (who are you kidding, you've been wet and aching since you boarded the plane) you insert your end. The sigh it brings takes you by surprise and you shiver and your mouth stops as you moan so loudly you have to take a breath.

When she asks Babe? you look at her and remind her to keep her eyes shut. She does and with a whisper-thin voice you then ask her if she trusts you. You know the answer, but you need to hear it. She nods, lip pinched tight between white teeth, eyes clamped shut.

You instruct her to place her hands on the headboard again as you kneel between her legs. You're not sure if you're nervous or thrilled, but the knots in your stomach and the throbbing in your center are at odds with each other. You've wanted this so badly for months now, you can't chicken out. So, with a deep breath and one last look at her beautiful face, you gather your courage and slowly tilt the dildo against her opening.

She gasps and arches off the bed when she feels your cock enter her. Knuckles white against the burnished wood of the headboard, she bites her lip attempting to stifle her gasp. But as you slowly sink into her, she can hold onto neither and as she moans—a loud, shaky gasp, lip freed, but scored by her bite—she releases the headboard and reaches for you. Nails sink into your back and with her aid, you slide all the way inside of her as she gasps for air again, the dildo bottoming out, and simultaneously pressing up into you.

You both groan. Loudly.

This may or may not be heaven, but you're willing to bet your salvation that it is.

She pulls you tight against her; breasts and bellies fuse, and she wraps her legs around your thighs as if she could swallow you up with skin and muscle and sinew-wrapped bone. You melt into her, allowing your face to fall into her neck, and for a moment you just breathe her in.

Then you begin.

As she grinds up in you, you start a slow thrusting. You know she's most sensitive at her opening so you linger there, allowing the bulbous head to stretch her before you drive the shaft back into her again. Each time you push into her, you angle up hitting that spot that you know drives her crazy, before you pull back out and start all over again. You love the way her breathing syncs with your rhythm; inhale at the opening, exhale as you pull out. You time the thrusting of your hips with the rise and fall of her chest.

You can't decide if you want to just close your eyes and settle into the rhythm of her breathing, or if you can't tear your eyes away from the serenity of her face. She moans though and your decision is made for you.

You shut your eyes, throw your head back and grind into her with all you're worth.

You know you were right when, as you speed up your rhythm, her breath starts to hitch. She's close already. Hearing that gasp that tells you she's going to come, accompanied by the tightening of her nails into your back, makes you clench around the dildo end you're wearing. Each time you thrust into her, it hits against your clit and you suddenly realize you can feel your own orgasm coiling in your belly, slowly crawling out to your extremities.

You're not going to be far behind her.

Her moans crescendo in pitch and frequency with each of your thrusts. She alternates between holding her breath and gasping for air and when she begs you to Please touch her, you're all too happy to oblige. You balance yourself on one shaky arm and reach between your bodies to rub her clit. It's hot and throbs under your fingertips. She's too close for you to take your time; you rub hard and fast circles, her body writhing underneath you. Her back arches off of the bed and she grinds up and into you at your first touch, which produces unexpected and very pleasant results for you as well.

Your circling hand pinched between your bodies does double duty and you grind you own clit into the back of your hand, and with a half-strangled moan she sobs out your name as she begins to shudder uncontrollably underneath you unable to stifle her half-screams, half-moans.

You don't let up, thrusting and rubbing even harder as she comes undone, convulsing below you. The moaning, the trembling, the flush of her face, neck and chest, the heat and the sweat between you, the overreaching smell of her; it all hits you, and you're overcome with the everything of her. That sense of power, of being in control that you've been flirting with all night, overtakes you and you are suddenly lightheaded with the idea that you did this to her. You revel in the sense of love and accomplishment and incredible heat it creates in you. You don't let up, thrusting into her again, your hipbones digging into her stretched thighs, your clit bumping furiously against your hand against her clit as you feel that power translate into a coiling in your belly and a tightening in your toes.

When you come, white light clouds your vision and everything stops: your hips, your breathing, your heart, and all you can feel is an involuntary shudder as your every nerve seizes at once, flooding you with the kind of electrical charge that freezes and then release your muscles instantly, rendering you ragdoll-limp as you shudder into your aftershocks and slump down onto your girl, still shaking.

You bury your head into her neck while you both heave with the effort and exhaustion and release of your twin orgasms.

After a moment your nose finds that warm, sweet spot behind her ear and you nuzzle it, your lips caressing her neck, and despite your exhaustion, you find yourself kissing her again and again until she giggles into your ear.

She's wrapped her arms around you, so it takes an effort to rise up and look into her smirking eyes. But you do and when she whimpers wow and tells you how she did not see that coming, you realize that you are still intimately attached to her. You pull back, wiggling your hips until the dildo slides free from her center, accompanied by her whispered groan.

The thing is, you're not done. That was only part of your fantasy. And as you have only the weekend with her before you both have to return to your busy lives, you're not going to waste it by sleeping. She eyes you as you pull your end out and smirks when it's shiny wetness catches and flickers in the dim candlelight.

You tell her not to laugh; it's her turn now. She answers you with a very smug smile. You love that smile. She reaches for the dildo, but you pull it out of her reach with a nuh-uh that tells her that you are still in charge. You instruct her to place her hands back on the headboard and when she does so—you know she's still humoring you—her willingness shows that she's actually enjoying this side of you. She's still wearing that smug smile, but you answer it with a grin of your own.

You know enough about sharing toys to know you should wash it off, but the idea of your juices mingling with hers secretly turns you on, so you take your still wet end and circle her opening with it. She's already so wet and swollen and inviting, that she practically opens up and swallows the large, round end. She moans as you insert it, settling its ridged crook right against her sensitive clit with a devilish smirk.

You maintain your smirk as you lower your mouth toward her and by the look in her eyes, she can't believe what you're about to do until you take the still wet dildo in your mouth. You wrap your lips around the purple silicone and press down, swallowing first the head, and then the shaft. You can tell she likes it more than her feminine sensibilities should allow her to. Her eyes glaze over as the pressure of your mouth pushes the dildo deep inside her, and her hands, never quite able to stay put, find the back of your head, her fingers threading into your hair.

You can taste her on the dildo and she's every bit as delicious as she's ever been. You lose yourself in servicing her, running your tongue up and down each curve and ridge, lapping up every last bit of her essence.

When the dildo is thoroughly clean, her wetness replaced with yours and the pressure of your mouth moving up and down its shaft has triggered her moaning again, you rise and lick your lips. She eyes you, questioning what's coming next.

Your answer is to quickly straddle her. Her eyes roll back into her head and she moans as you sink down on top of her. Her hands find your waist to steady you as you start to ride her, each rise of your hips meeting the thrust and roll of hers. She seems to revel in the feel of thrusting up and into you.

You reach forward and grab her breasts, both hands palming them roughly. As you rock on top of her, balancing yourself against her hips and her chest, your fingers pinch her nipples and she moans (and god, you love that moan just as much as you love being fucked by her.) You can see her eyeing your bouncing breasts almost hungrily as you begin to ride her as fast as you can.

Your thighs are burning and you're drenched in sweat, but each time your hips meet hers, each time you grind your clits together, you swear you see stars. The same pinpricks of light you saw against that vast desert sky earlier gather behind your eyelids and spark fresh and vibrant, flashing to the rhythm of your thrusting. Once again it doesn't take long before you're right there, your orgasm making its way from your extremities to explode at your center. The shuddering overtakes you and you're coming and crying out her name and collapsing on top of her, spent and exhausted and liquid-soft.

She grinds up into you hard and fast and you use your weight to press the dildo back into her until you feel her coming apart underneath you, her back arching to press your breasts together, writhing and shaking, nails digging into your back, her breath hot against your ear. Good girl you whisper as she loses all control, climaxes, then slumps to the mattress, just as spent as you. Quiet sobs echo the aftershocks of her intense orgasm.

Arms wrap loosely around each other and sweaty bodies melt together as you lie as one and just breathe. You bury your head into her neck and just take her in. You never tire of the smell of her, even now, especially now, when she smells like sweat and heat and sex and you. You can hear her murmuring in your ear and feel her hands push your drenched hair from your forehead, but you barely comprehend through your tired, sex-drenched haze. You are sated and sore and your hands are numb and you're quite certain that you may never move again, so when she whispers in your ear that you are amazing, all you can do is smile through your exhaustion. Your last thought before drifting off in her arms is that you nailed it and you can't wait until tomorrow to do it again.