Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Thoughts of Him Late at Night

He is steady asleep beside me and has been for quite some time; laying in the very same spot, very same position as in every other night. It’s as if each night is a continuum. Knowing that he isn’t a corpse next to me is rather telling. His peculiar breathing alludes to more than death happening within him. He is the only individual I know who snores in proper “dream vernacular” – whatever that means. It makes sense, to me at least, that I have used it as I have for sometime.

I’ve come to enjoy the very nights where sleep is too great an effort. I spend them listening to that intriguing breathing. Wondering if he is announcing a dream in which the fun to be had is better than the rest gained from sleeping bodies. The intimately-familiar sounds are reminiscent of the good times we’ve shared. I relive as many memories of copulation as I can. He is, of course, unaware that the unintended audible cues lead to my instantaneous climax. The result from those welcoming noises are often the last memory upon awakening in the morning.

Lately, I have made staying up late into the night a hobby of mine. His sleeping lingo coupled to the memories of us role playing sexual fantasies, catapult thoughts into physical sensations. I require not a single physical touch to feel immersed in intimacy. The feeling of being penetrated is as real as the physical action. The feeling of his ego grasped tightly in my hand following my directions gives me purpose. I want to feel like he is dispersing millions of “little hes” on my hand. The view of my hand covered in him… only to be cleaned by my very lips seconds later make me feel like a very good girl.

I can taste him, too. Both his scent before climaxing just as I can after. By now I’ve smelled his aroma enough times that a hound dog wouldn’t stand a chance against me searching for him were he lost in the wilderness. That’s how aware I am of this man, aware of the times I have attacked him. He’s nothing short of part of me.

My mouth is always opened during these ethereal nightly escapades. I eventually realized that it stays opened just the same as when performing oral whims on him. My tongue even reaches outside the mouth to meet the sensation of an invisible penis coming its way. It is as if it’s too impatient to wait the soothing that it has to reach out to grasp the pleasure. Sometimes in the morning, in that state between awake and sleep, I touch my face frantically looking to clean the residue of a night well spent. It always makes me smile to know that my face covered in semen wasn’t his physical doing, but my mental wonders.

Waking up is the most wonderful of feelings; makes it feel like I’ve been handled, having reciprocated the fight enough to defeat him at his very own game. The feeling that I’ve just been pleased stays with me throughout the morning. I look at people walk by and wonder if they can perceive my nightly rendezvous. If they can tell that sounds from a sleeping man have made me relinquish my body to thoughts of adults at play. It’s exciting to feel this way, to feel invigorated by the most of minuscule sounds.

Sleeping ManI look forward to staying awake at night. And, this isn’t just for the nights that I, all alone, fantasize about the very man that when awake leaves me panting, hurting a bit, face down laying on a pool of our very own sweat. The one, but just only complaint I face from all of this mind-boggling, is that in the morning my hair looks like I’ve been asleep. I wish for it to look, well, more physically distressed. Just like I do when it sticks to sweat or semen on my face. When strands are still around my neck and inside my mouth as if the Gettysburg battle had been a stalemate.

Before all of this… I used to masturbate, and rather often. Now I only close my eyes, listen, then feel my body being taken over by thoughts of him late at night.