This Is for Me

There are others. For both of us. But this bed we share only together and always.

I wake in the middle of the night. The sound of his breathing, the soft snoring like a sated animal, is like home to me. I hear the rain, a soft patter against the windowpane, and I am at home. I open my eyes. See the light of the one street lamp pooling into our room. Just enough to see his form beneath the sheets. The strong legs I know, the veined forearms covered in hair that lays like soft dark wheat. The slight paunch at his middle that he is self-conscious of, but that I see as an endearment, so human and poignantly so. This is the one thing I wish he could understand—how much I love his humanity.

Those other women I think of, though I never share my thoughts with him. I lie in the dark and wonder, do they know this man as I do. I know they do not. And part of me feels a little sorry for them. They have him only briefly, a few hours to know his love, his warmth. But they don't see him when he wakes, when the sun streams in through our window, and the coming day is stretched taut across his face, and he turns to me in bed to gather strength. When he reaches out his hand to take my hand. The desire in that touch. I share it with him. I'll get up and make us coffee and eggs, and he knows when he sits at the table that I'll lay my hand on his head, that I'll let it wander to the back of his neck—that vulnerability there—and while I let my hand linger there as he takes that first sip, he knows that I love him. And that is all, and enough.

The men I think of less. For me, they are a foil. I am with them to feel more of what he is. I let them touch me to remember what his touch is. I let them fuck me to remember his cock. To feel my longing for it more.

The rain patters softly on the window sill. I stretch and feel the body that belongs to me and also to him but not to the others. I burrow under the sheets, feel my way between those thighs that I know as well as my own, but differently. I know he is aware of me there, but he is not quite awake. And he trusts me. His cock is not soft because even asleep he is aware of me, of my movement. I take it in my hands, that cock I know better than any. It grows harder with my touch. I take his balls, each one, like something precious in my mouth. I let my tongue slide up the length of his cock, I kiss the tip lightly before I take it in my mouth. I take my time because he will let me: he will not fully wake.

I feel his cock harden. I feel it pulse against the insides of my cheeks. I feel him close to coming, and I stop. I hold his cock in my mouth, carefully: I don't want him to come yet. I will have my way a little longer...in the darkness, with him softly breathing sleep, and the rain to keep me company.

With my mouth around his cock, I reach between my thighs that have grown slippery from my desire. I touch my clit, swollen and wet. I want to take my time, but my need is keen, my clit is ready to burst. I can't help that I come quickly, quietly moaning on his cock that starts to harden again against the insides of my cheeks.

I move my dripping fingers to caress his thighs, feel the bristly hair there, the soft skin underneath that he would not think of as manly. I rub my desire into his skin and then let my hands wander to grip the cheeks of his ass, and oh yes, the soft flesh there. I spread those cheeks, lightly, looking toward the face that I cannot quite see. Only the outline of its features, the eyes closed and vulnerable, the mouth parted and breathing what I know as life. The trust and the acceptance is there too. And that is mine. The woman he loves, the woman who loves him, who is holding his cock in her mouth and having her way.

I slide my finger into his ass. He stirs and moans a little in his sleep, and spreads his legs a little more, as I hold my finger there. I don't want him to wake completely; this is for me. I am inside him. And I am between his legs, and his hard cock is pulsing—again—inside my mouth.

I suck it gently, and slowly, and listen to his breath quicken. I know he is close. I fuck his ass gently with my finger, and I fuck his cock with my mouth, faster. I know he won't wake completely, that he'll let me have this. He knows this is for me.

I watch the "letting go" spread across the shadow of his face; I love that face. I hear him barely whisper, baby, I'm coming. I'm coming, baby. He always tells me—though I already know. He tells me so that I can watch that face, the warmth and openness there, and the passion play across it like breaking storm clouds. I love that face.

And he comes, shuddering, with his eyes still closed. I feel his ass clench around my finger and I watch his face and I swallow his come as it fills my mouth. So thirsty for it, I drink his desire dry.

He grows still, and I hold his cock a little longer and gently in my mouth, listening to the rain, before I let it go and kiss it lightly on the tip. One last drop for me. My finger slips out of his ass and my hand wanders back to his thigh. His hand wanders to find it and then moves to rest on my head. I listen to the rain with my eyes closed and wait for the breathing that tells me he has drifted back to sleep completely and content.

No need to ask for more. There will always be more. Always another night for me to fall asleep curled between his legs, with his hand resting on my hair, with my cheek resting against his damp thigh, and the taste of his hunger for me in my mouth, and the sound of the rain dripping on the window sill.