Wake
I wake. I don’t know the time nor what I was dreaming. I’m not really
awake yet, and it seems very natural that my hand should move lower,
between my legs. I part my thighs and arch my back a little. My eyes
are still shut, and it’s so cold out there, I don’t want to leave this
small part of warmth here under the duvet. I don’t want full
consciousness yet.
I sigh. My fingers trace my labia, then part them. I slide one finger
inside. I’m already a bit wet there, and I trace myself, spreading
that slippery wetness. It brings out more, and I feel a single pulse
deep inside my cunt, that ache to be filled.
I push my hips up, towards my fingers, but I won’t let them descend
fully yet on my clit; I want to prolong this, just as you would.
Now up. To my clit, and I gasp a little and bite my lip when I get
there. It springs up as it always does, grows plumper, more sensitive,
more slippery. One finger, rubbing, dreamy slowness, circles soft,
then more firmly, then soft again. . .
I slow down. I don’t want to come too soon.
I slide a finger inside myself and clench around it, and then I bring
my fingers up to my mouth and taste myself. I don’t why but the taste
changes, I don’t know if it has to do with where I am in my cycle, or
with diet, or some other weird alchemy of body and mind. There’s
always a similar note though, I think there must be for all women,
some individual scent and taste that is the base note for all our
variations. I don’t taste or smell quite like my one girlfriend’s cunt
did, nor did she smell or taste quite the same all the time. I lick my
fingers, and now I open my legs more, as I bring my fingers back.
I could come very quickly, and sometimes I do; those orgasms that are
had for the relief of tension, or on the edge of falling asleep. Or I
could spend three hours, break out the toys. Not today, neither of
these. This is the waking up kind of wanking.
On my clit now, again. Slow circles that bring me suddenly so close, I
did not know the edge was right there, and I have to stop, before
going on.
I’ll bring myself to this edge 3 or 4 times, coming to the cliff and
then backing off from the plunge. I don’t dread falling, I long for
it.
My hips press down now, rocking in their own rhythm. pushing me
forward.—and then I come, and shudder helplessly, I shake, and there
are no thoughts now, the blackboard of the mind wiped purely clean. My
thoughts fly, scatter like sparrows, my mind empties like that
abandoned wire against the sky, and ll I am conscious of now is pure
sensation, the wetness coating my fingers, the heat of my cunt pulsing
around them.
I’m helpless now, opened up in more than the physical sense, and
though I have scrupulously not thought of you, not at all, nor of
anyone . . . This is when I am suddenly filled with your voice, as I
come, although I don’t want to be, at all. I’m flooded with the image
of you kneeling here, your tongue slipping into me, the rough velvet
of your tongue gently and urgently tracing these soft folds, while
your fingers open me to you even more. How I’d push upward against
your tongue, my hands on your head, my fngers gripping your hair, as I
lift my hips to help guide the chalice of myself to your lips. I push
these images away from me as quickly as they occur, yet not quickly
enough. I can close my mental eye to these images and banish them, but
I don’t seem able to control what I hear, and it’s your voice that
stays no matter what; it invades me and undoes me as I come, as I
shake. I’m inundated with it, like drowning, like diving.
I can’t drive it out. I cry out, in coming, I can’t ever help that,
and as the memory of your voice saying my name fills my head I think I
come harder, because of it.
I lie still in my bed after, heartrate and breathing returning to
normal, hand still between my legs. I hold onto myself.
I don’t think of you but you’re here all the same.
I open my eyes.
Wake.
