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dream (Ver. 2)

June 25, 2010

You are restless again tonight, your eyes move rapidly behind closed lids and your breath becomes shallow.  A dash of light slipping through a gap in the blinds is animated by the wind whipped shadows of the tree outside our window. It defines your shape and form, and caresses your skin as you sleep. Deep red waves of hair scar your pillow.

The delicious curve of your breast and hip and thigh, highlighted in the otherwise dark room, tempt my twitching fingers. I watch as your thighs part, your lithe slim leg bent at the knee exposes you beneath the sheets; your hips rock slowly. I can’t tear my gaze from you, despite the stinging need for sleep. Once again, I try to burn the image of your beautiful shape on to the surface of  my fevered mind.

The taut velvet skin of your stomach, the spot where I love to kiss you most, appears to undulate slightly with your motion. I am, as ever, left breathless by you; captivated by the sight and hungered by your distance.

Where do you go? When the world fades out and you are alone with your conscience, do the daemons inside come out to play?   You guard them closely. Privately nurture them like sick children who must be kept away others; allowing me only the briefest of glimpses, the tiniest, cruelest  hint of their presence.

Your breath is ragged, and underscored with barely discernible sighs. The insistent staccato tap of rain from the window and roof tiles drowns the sound. I strain against the din, hoping to hear my name.

My over-active imagination writes a filthy script for the scenes playing behind those closed lids, inside your private, sleeping world. A pang of jealousy bites at my gut as I picture her, the lover who is with you now behind those deep green eyes. Does she love the taste of your cunt as much as I do?

With a slight arch of your back and a deep intake of breath your hand closes tightly, gripping fistfuls of linen.  The urge to touch you, reach for you, pull your soft, warm body close against mine and fuck away the hunger, is almost too much. But, to do so without prior invitation would be a desecration. Sacrilege. I stay my hand by force of will, though I ache to feel you.

With slow, quiet strokes I touch myself.

No sudden movements, no fucking noise! I caress, stroke, pinch and tease myself. Want streams into the darkest corners of the room, but cannot penetrate your world. I need to be there with you, over you, in you.

Fingers, slick with viscous juices, silently, intently draw my climax from me. Heat, radiates out  from my cunt to my every nerve as I  stroke my clit with insistent circling pressure. Every muscle taut, gripped and tense cannot contain the need.

The smallest flutter rapidly grows and the muscles inside me grasp at my fingers, pulling my fucking hand deeper. I watch you as you tremble and wriggle,  distantly reaching your own orgasm with your ethereal lover. Your  lips part a little, opening with a feint sigh of release.

I always love to watch you come, especially on the nights when I am free to touch you. I devour your body and mind, needful and intense in climax. I love the moments after when, slovenly and languorous we caress and stroke, kiss and soothe.

Peace slowly enfolds you. The stillness of the room returns and you drift back into the quiet.

From → Erotica

5 Comments
  1. Dreamer permalink

    Mmm. Love this. Delicious.

  2. dannnnnggg.. this was so well written! Hotness!

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