"Birthday Wishes Come True" with McKenna Grace

[TheLW]

Birthday Wishes Come True
With McKenna Grace
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Alcohol, Fingering
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.


The first thing that hit me was the music. Not just heard, but felt, a low, vibrating pulse that ran under your feet like a seismic wave. The DJ, some local up-and-comer with half a haircut and more gear than sense, had apparently been told “vibe” was the goal, and dammit if he wasn’t delivering.

I stepped through the wide glass doors into the backyard of the Grace family estate, and it was like walking into a glitter bomb. String lights zigzagged overhead like constellations, wrapping the place in a warm, Instagram-filtered glow. A dozen conversations fought for dominance under the bass, shrill laughter, drunken yelling, the occasional awkward flirtation.

The pool in the center of the yard sparkled under the lights, bobbing with half-deflated floaties and at least three people fully clothed, pretending they’d meant to fall in. A girl in a velvet mini dress balanced on the diving board, arms wide, screaming “YOLO!” before cannonballing into the deep end with zero grace and a lot of splash.

I sidestepped the water and some poor bastard’s soaked Air Force Ones and made my way toward the bar setup, more accurately, a white quartz island swarmed by twenty-year-olds who didn’t know the meaning of “wait your turn.” A kid with a peach-fuzz mustache poured tequila like he was trying to summon the dead.

“Tequila or whiskey, my guy?” he asked me, eyes glassy.

“I’m a friend of her dad’s,” I said flatly.

“Cool, so whiskey,” he replied, handing me a half-full Solo cup before dancing away to what I think was Travis Scott remixing Dancing Queen. Somehow.

I leaned against the edge of the bar, taking in the chaos. McKenna was the center of it all, undeniably, unapologetically. Her blonde hair was curled in soft, bouncing waves that danced around her face with every head-turn, every laugh, every full-bodied shake to the music. Her eyes were streaked with silver glitter and eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man’s ego. She wore a short red-and-black plaid skirt that would’ve gotten her kicked out of half the Catholic schools in the state, paired with a skin-tight black crop top that left zero question about whose night this was. Her boots were heeled, her tiara was on making her look like a princess.

At one point, a family member, I think it was her aunt, tried to get a picture of her blowing out the candles on a custom three-tier cake shaped like a film reel. That lasted about thirty seconds before a friend accidentally elbowed it, sending the top layer toppling into the arms of someone else, who then tripped over a speaker cord and dropped the whole damn thing.

About an hour later, with the music still pounding some unholy Frankenstein of pop and trap, probably a Doja Cat remix strangled to death by bass, I caught it out of the corner of my eye, McKenna, slipping away from her own damn party like a magician ducking behind a curtain.

No announcement. No flair. Just a quiet pivot between songs, a flash of plaid and blonde and glitter, and she was gone, ducking through the glass doors that led back inside the house. No one else noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t care. The party had grown into its own beast by then, drinks spilling, bodies sweating, someone playing limbo with a garden hose. The princess could disappear and the kingdom would dance on.

But I noticed.

I stepped inside, letting the door whisper shut behind me, cutting off the tidal wave of noise from the backyard.

It didn’t take long to find her.

McKenna was curled up on a loveseat near the front window, one leg tucked under her, the other dangling barefoot over the side. She noticed me right away but didn’t flinch, didn’t straighten up or slap on a fake smile. Just offered a small, knowing smirk like I was the inevitable adult in the room.

“Party too loud for you?” she asked.

“Only after the sixth remix of ‘Bad Romance,’” I replied, easing into the armchair across from her.

She gave a chuckle.

We sat like that for a moment, her watching the reflection of the party in the window glass, me watching her, just enough space to make it feel intentional.

“So,” I said after a beat, “earlier… when you blew out the candles on that cake before it got obliterated, what’d you wish for?”

Her lips curled slowly, sly but guarded. “If I told you,” she said, eyes looking toward mine, “it wouldn’t come true.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Come on, that’s the kid’s version of the rule.”

“It still applies.” She picked at a strand of her hair absently, then added, “Besides… if I did tell you, you'd probably look at me differently.”

I didn’t blink. “McKenna,” I said, keeping my tone steady, “I’ve known you since you were fifteen. I doubt there’s anything you could say that would make me judge you differently.”

She finally looked at me. And then she said it, clear, unwavering, like she’d been holding it in for too long and just needed it out in the open before it rotted her from the inside.

“I wished for one night with you.”

“You know,” I said, “I’ve wanted you for longer than I’ve let myself think about.”

McKenna looked at me and that’s when I realized she hadn’t needed to practice this moment at all. She’d been waiting for me to be honest. Or maybe just waiting for me to wake up.

“But I never made a move,” I went on, blunt now. “Because I’m your dad’s best friend. Because I’m older, and supposed to know better, and you deserve someone who isn’t going to second-guess themselves out of wanting you.”

“But second-guessing is half the fun.” Her lips parted, then tugged into a smile, uneasy at first.

“Is it?” I asked.

She shifted in her seat. “I’m not a child anymore,” she said. “And you’re not the only one who’s been wanting for a long time.”

She let her bare foot dip to the floor, flexing the painted toes, and then drew herself forward so her knees nearly touched mine. For a second, I glanced past her at the window, where the party raged on outside, flashes of light and silhouettes on repeat, like the world itself was on a loop, waiting for us to decide what we were going to do.

“We don’t have to…” I started.

“But I want to,” she said, soft and sharp at once. “I want you to come upstairs with me. Unless you’re scared.”

I almost laughed at that. I almost said, “Of your father? Of myself?” But there was no point. McKenna already knew.

She stood and offered her hand as if we were about to dance. The gesture was sideways and silly, but I took it anyway, and she pulled me to my feet.

The house was a maze, all heavy molding and polished wood and the faint, ghostly scent of lemon polish and old secrets. Upstairs, her bedroom door was covered in one of those black-and-white “NO ENTRY” tape strips.

She pushed open the door and led me inside without hesitation. The room was a high-ceilinged vault of white walls and silver filigree, an Instagram microcosm of teenage aspiration, but under it all was a lived-in, cluttered chaos: ring light toppled on a pile of textbooks, a desk snowed under with scripts and highlighters, a kitten-shaped humidifier half-steaming on the nightstand. Strewn across the bed were two dresses she hadn’t picked, one a pink confection and the other a sequined sheath that would have looked less at home at this party and more at the VMAs.

McKenna closed the door behind us, not softly.

I took a seat on the edge of her bed. She didn’t move for a moment, standing still in the doorway, before walking over to me.

She kissed me without apology. She pressed her need into me, poured years of watching and wanting into the space between our mouths. Her hand climbed to my neck, nails cool on my skin, and the room filled with the sound of our shared oxygen.

I let her.

Her tongue searched mine, coaxing it out, her breath all cinnamon and vodka. McKenna tasted like rebellion. My hands wanted to roam, but I kept them on her hips, her waist, feeling the slight tremor just under the skin as I pulled her closer. She straddled me on the bed without ceremony, knees bracketing me, skirt pushed up by the angle of her thighs.

She broke the kiss to look at me, a question forming at the edge of her lips, uncertain for the first time tonight. Her eyes seemed to hunt down my fear, seek out the places I'd told myself this could never go, but she found only hunger. She smiled, less queen than conspirator, then bent to kiss me again, slower, deliberate, a tutorial in what she wanted.

I found the thin line of skin at her waist between crop top and skirt, traced my thumb along the warmth there, and she shivered. I waited for her to pull my hand lower, but instead she took it in hers and laced our fingers. For a single, nearly chemical moment, we just sat like that, her in my lap, playing with the calluses on my knuckles, studying them like she could divine the future.

“I used to imagine this,” she said, so softly I felt rather than heard it.

“Your birthday party?”

“No. You. Me.” She looked away, suddenly shy, then back again, fierce in the flicker of the ring light that still glowed from beneath the clutter.

McKenna turned her hand in mine until our palms aligned, her thumb tracing an invisible pattern on the sensitive skin there. The party noise was only a distant thrum. She leaned in, foreheads almost touching, voices down to a hush.

She kissed me again, then tugged my shirt a little, an unspoken challenge. I let her strip it off. The chill in the room prickled my skin, but she pressed against me, legs squeezing my hips. The taste of her lingered on my lips, sweet and sharp.

I leaned up, she let me, and nipped her bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

McKenna pressed my shoulder, then pivoted in one feline move, off my lap and onto the bed beside me, her skirt riding dangerously high. She stretched out, face-down, arms above her head, then twisted to look up at me, hair splayed, half-messy, a dare in the set of her eyebrows.

I reached for her, but she rolled again, so I caught her by the hips and flipped her onto her back. She yelped, half-laugh, half-surprise. I took her wrists and pinned them gently to the pillow, holding her there. Her breathing sped up, but her eyes, god, her eyes, they were all-in.

It crossed my mind that any second, someone could walk in. Her dad, her aunt, some wasted friend looking for another bathroom.

A second later that thought left my mind, as I slipped one hand down, slow enough that we could both feel it, the kind of slow that’s more a dare than a hesitation, the other hand holding her in place like she might blow away if I let go. Once I reached under her skirt, I realized she wasnèt wearing any panties, as I felt the heat and want radiating off her like a fever.

McKenna arched, mouth open in surprise at how direct I was. Her thighs tensed around my hand, then relaxed as I curled two fingers inside her, slow at first, then with a deliberate push as her hips met the rhythm. The noises she made were nothing like the versions I’d imagined, they were real, high and hungry, full of effort and pleasure and the thrill of it all.

I fucked her with my fingers, watching her face transform with each pulse, each new pressure. Under my thumb, the nub was swollen, so I worked it in circles, feeling her tighten around me, her breath cutting to gasps, then laughter, then “fuck, yes,” a barely audible whisper against the bedsheets.

Every time I pumped my fingers inside her, she rocked up, knees falling open, skirt bunched at her waist like a ribbon on a gift. I watched her eyes flutter, those sharp, clever eyes reduced to pure want. I kept at it, curling my finger, coaxing another gasp, then a moan she tried to swallow but couldn’t. She was so tight, every squeeze a pulse around me, her need rising faster than even I’d expected.

McKenna brought her hand down between us, covering mine, guiding, showing exactly how she liked it. I caught the rhythm, matched it, played with it, She bit her lip, almost hard enough to bleed.

She shuddered once, long and arching, then again, her voice stuttering in the back of her throat as her whole body snapped tight and let go. I didn’t pull my hand away. I kept it inside her, feeling the small, echoing aftershocks as she writhed, little after-tremors running through her hips and belly.

McKenna was still trembling when she reached for my fly, nails raking over the metal with the grace of impatience. The zipper sounded like a gunshot in the quiet of the room, a sharp, stuttering click as she pulled it all the way down. I moved fast, fumbling at the button, pushing jeans and boxers off my hips while she watched, taking all of me in with a lustful stare. Her breath poured out in a shaky, shallow rhythm.

It was nothing like I imagined, it was more. Too hot, too real, a tightness that stole my breath and replaced it with hers. She bucked up into me, hair flinging wild behind her, and for the first time all night her eyes lost their composure, no smirk, no clever mask, just need and wonder.

We moved as one, a dream made real, tangled in limbs and the slow spread of sweat. Her muscles clamped around me and I had to fight to keep from embarrassing myself then and there. I dug my fingers into the downy flesh at her waist, gripped tight, and drove in deeper, with each hard thrust. McKenna’s hands never stopped moving, up my back, clawing shoulders, squeezing biceps as if she needed to confirm this existed outside of fantasy.

She hooked a bare leg around behind me, pulling me in tighter, driving the rhythm as much as I was. With every slide, every thrust into her wet sex hole, she let out these tiny little moans. My hips continued to rock back and forth, as my dick slid in and out of her, she bucked up, demanding more, and her arms circled my neck, pulling, clutching, not letting me go.

"Harder," she hissed, and I'd never heard her voice like that.

I gave her what she wanted, what we'd both clearly wanted for too long. The headboard began to creak, then slam with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the muffled music below. I buried my face in her neck, and she tasted sharp, sweet, salt and vanilla and bare skin. I drove harder, faster, until she stuttered under me, her legs clamping, her breath catching. Her fingers dug in, leaving marks that would last for days.

She groaned, all raw-throated and near-desperate, as I pounded her into the mattress, neither of us pretending to be careful anymore. I gripped behind her knee and lifted it, folding her open further so I could angle into her deeper.

A few moments later, we rolled over, and she straddled me again, the princess on her throne, grinding down and riding me for all she was worth. The plaid skirt was bunched high, one tit half-out of her crop top, pink nipple perfect and flush. I reached for it, teased it, enjoying the way her whole body seemed to light up at the touch.

She rode me harder, the tempo wild and uncontrolled, every bounce pushing us closer to the edge. Her breath was ragged and broken, mouth open, eyes almost feral. I held her hips as she pistoned up and down, the slap of skin loud in the room, louder than the party now. McKenna's hair clung to her cheeks, sweat beading along her brow, but she never looked more alive.

She pressed her palms to my chest, pushed herself upright, back arched, her skirt was so bunched it might as well have been a belt. Her movement was urgent, immodest, the bounce of her tits mercilessly hypnotic as McKenna took every inch and then some. Each downstroke brought her flush, hips smacking into my lap

“Fuck,” she whispered, “oh fuck, oh fuck,”

My hands moved to her ass, guided her, gripping tight enough, McKenna moaned, and kept her on the perfect rhythm, hips bucking as if she needed to outpace the blood in her veins. Every time her body slammed down and swallowed every inch of me, she gasped, and my own restraint faltered.

It was like she was trying to memorize it, the stretch, the fullness, the push and give of bodies colliding. McKenna wouldn’t be tamed, as she rocked harder, dropping so low I could feel her clit grind against the bone of my pelvis, a desperate slickness pouring down my shaft. The headboard thumped in counterpoint, a second heartbeat.

“Fuck, I…” Her voice broke, and she dropped her hips all the way down, grinding deep, trembling as another orgasm hit her.

I could feel McKenna come, spasming around me, milking the length of my cock, her wetness gushing over my balls and down my thighs. I fucked her through the aftershocks, hands welded to her ass, as if I could keep her from ever escaping. Every spasm coaxing me further until the pressure building, as I slammed her down one more time, burying my cock deep as it would go, and exploded inside her.

My vision was blurry as I came and kept coming, filling her, so much it leaked instantly back down the length of me. McKenna just grinned, messy, triumphant, eyes heavy, and held me in tight, like she was claiming it all. I slumped against the sheets, McKenna stayed on top, content to feel every twitch and pulse of me inside her, a possessive little smile creeping onto her face.

We didn’t say anything, not right away. She shifted her hips tentatively, relishing the squelch of liquid and friction, then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, climbed off and sprawled beside me. My cum oozed from between her legs, a hot, sticky mess that she inspected with a lazy, pleased look. She ran her finger along her inner thigh, tracing the slow roll of my cum as it leaked out, then brought the finger to her lips, sucking it with exaggerated delight. It was childish, comical, and absolutely lewd.

The music from outside filtered in again, a muffled return of the world we’d left behind. The throb of it sounded a beat slower, or maybe my heart just hadn’t yet remembered its next job.

She stared at the ceiling, the afterglow painting her skin luminous, and for the first time all night her features softened.

“Worth wishing for?” I finally asked, voice gone quiet.

McKenna didn’t answer at first, just let out a long, slow exhale, like letting go of a breath she’d been holding since childhood. Then she turned her head to face me, cheek buried into her bicep, and smiled with her eyes, the faintest crinkle at their edges.

Down the hall, a toilet flushed, a door opened, and two girls tripped past, shrieking laughter muffled by closed doors and house distance. I lay still, waiting for the guilt to sink in, but there was none.

“Do you think they’re wondering where I am?” She reached for her phone, thumbed through a dozen or so notifications and party snaps, each more chaotic than the last. “Or what I’m doing?”

“It’s your birthday,” I said. “You get to disappear if you want.”

She stretched, an arching three-second reminder of her flexibility, then cradled the phone to her chest. “If my Dad saw us right now, what do you think he’d do?”

The image came to mind, vivid, immediate, then vanished just as quick. “Probably die on the spot. Or try to kill me first, if he could get past the heart attack," I said, matching her matter-of-factness.

“He always said I should have high standards. Guess I’m just following orders.” She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, her other hand roaming the landscape of my torso with a gentle, idle drift.

McKenna’s face changed then, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “You think this is a one-time thing?” she asked, tone almost academic, as if she’d already considered the possible answers.

It was a trap. Or maybe not. Maybe just a test, to see if I’d give her the line or the truth.

“I kind of hope not,” I said, and that felt impossibly large in the small room.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then she rolled toward me onto her stomach, chin in her hands, legs swinging up above her ass, the mess of sex still drying between her thighs. “So what now?” she said, not teasing, just real.

“We should rejoin the party,” I suggested.

She snorted, turned her head away, and stared at the wall. “Give me, like, ten minutes to not look like I just…” She trailed off, then shot me a sideways, self-deprecating smile.

The End