As the first tinge of pink lightens the sky and creeps through the window shade, Gypsy’s eyes open. With her first movement, she encounters a body in her bed. She smiles, then smiles even more broadly, remembering why there’s a body in her bed! Yes! This is the stuff of which her dreams are made. She is living a dream and has been since yesterday.
Tommy slumbers on, unaware of her yet, the quiet sussurations of his breath unchanged. Gypsy slowly and quietly slips from bed, and freshens up, then returns, slipping her body into bed and moving close to him to touch his body. Inch by inch she molds her softnesses to his sleep-heated skin. Gypsy is in heaven or as close as a mere mortal can be.
As she contemplates him, loving each part of Tommy on which her eyes focus, she begins to gently stroke him, her front to his side. Her hand strokes his arms, his shoulders, the accessible parts of him. Then moves lower to his flanks, the slight flare of his hip from his waist, to the swell of his buttocks. Her moving hand is slipping into his unconscious mind, dragging him upward from the shores of Lethe, as his breath changes and then settles back to a peaceful rhythm.
Slipping her hand over the rise of his hip, his body lifts to meet her feathery touch; his breath again telling the tale of his waking. Tommy presses his body back into Gypsy, exposing his belly and chest to her ministrations. She uses the same gentle touch as his body passes from the shade into her world of wanting, a finger tracing the juncture of his muscles, one by one, neck to shoulder, shoulder to pecs, then to his rippled abdomen, each little bump of male flesh receiving attention. Her hand flattens and moves over his abused ribs, caressing each nobby reminder of pain and adding a path of fire seeming to emanate from her touch. Back down his flank to the point of his hip bone, Gypsy’s hand wanders. Then led by her fingers, her hand follows the curve of groin and thigh. Following her progress, Tommy’s breath quickens and a sharp intake of air marks her arrival at his warming center. Gypsy moves her hand between his thighs and tugs gently separating them, tenting his upper leg and opening access to him.
Now trailing butterfly touches, her fingers seek that sheltered flesh at the inner reaches of his legs, running from knee to pelvis and then down the other leg. Tommy reaches to pull Gypsy closer to him and she murmurs, “No, love. My turn.” He relaxes into the sensations she is creating in him. Her hand reaches his pelvic floor again but this time does not avoid that touch. Slowly trailing her fingers from his buttocks she encounters his sac, with the sensitive orbs. With light touch she traces the crepe of the flesh, and then grasps them in her hand squeezing them with a gentle pulsing. As this sensation sinks into Tommy, the molten hand moves again with the feathery touch, exploring his hardening shaft, circling the crown, gathering the moisture there and then moving to encircle the column of him and to stroke him with a firming grasp, the outer coat sliding over charged nerve endings.
