Bed

My dreams of you almost always include a bed.

Beds of all manners and descriptions and sizes. Sometimes they are elegant, luxurious, high four poster affairs with thick, heavy covers in a large airy room. Expensive rooms.

Other times, just a dark, worn pad covering part of the floor in a room with no or flicking light. Abandoned building rooms, filling an immediacy.

An endless variety of beds in between.

Some beds we rush into. The destination and our intentions clear.

Other beds found at the end of a wonderful day together. Enjoying every minute with you, knowing that we will end there but in no hurry. Savoring the slow passage of time.

Beds we sneak into. Taking great care to avoid being recognized.

Beds in which we tempt fate. Chosen close to home, friends and family. Paid and entered in haste.

Familiar beds.

Strange beds.

The bed in my apartment where I long for you most nights.

Or your bed on those intoxicating nights when your family is away and we risk all.

Beds requiring entrance and exit in the dark of night. Silently.

Beds we go to proudly and openly. Our destination and intentions clear.

Beds found on short notice, the result of a midday call or chance meeting.

Other beds long planned. Found after an exchange of e-mails, rearrangement of schedules and with stories of our supposed whereabouts ready.

Beds in rooms we enter separately, discreetly.

Other beds where we check in together. Taking only one look to know we plan to share a bed.

Beds where we try to be quiet, but often failing.

Other beds where we have no need or concern for discretion. Our cries rattling walls.

Beds we leave and avoid contact with others.

Beds where we seek to draw attention. Matching smiles with the hotel maid as she finds us still in bed. Or when leaving, just as she is ready to make up the room.

Beds where we whisper our hopes and desires. Our fantasies. Our needs.

Beds where desires are fulfilled.

Beds where actions shock.

Beds where we spend little time.

Beds we refuse to leave.

In the end, the beds themselves are of little matter to me. I don't really notice them.

Hard or soft.

Stinking or heavenly.

Having you in them with me is all that matters.

Some dreams visions of endless cuddling and whispers of love and contentment. Sleep comes to me in those dreams and I drift off with a sense of completeness radiating from deep within me, hoping it to envelop you along with me. The bed cradling us.

Most dreams though involve acts of love, sex if you like. Where a bed is not needed but where you take me.

Often the sex starts fast, as if it might be our first, or last, moments together. I, putty in the furnace of your desires. The fires burning bright and undaunted throughout. The bed shaking, squeaking, smoldering in our heat.

We speak of fucking and fucking we do. Kisses taking rather than giving. Bodies slamming together. The bed a platform, raising us up.

Tasting. Touching. Biting. Licking. Grabbing. Taking. Wanting. Offering. Panting. Sweating. Incorporating dampness, odors, makeup, hair, skin within the fabric of the bed.

Our cries expanding but the words nonsensical. But we know what each other desires, needs. And we give and take. Cumming. The bed sometimes muffling the cries when we don't face away to the ceiling or the wall.

The sex hard at times. But never as hard as the need stewing beneath it all. Some beds standing up well to the barrage, others left broken in our wake.

Humping. Trying to fit the other inside. Clutching, never to be released but never fully gained. The bed bouncing under us, or holding firm as if assisting in our embrace.

Wild eyes. One set intent upon the actions of the other. Toys, objects, hands. Pushed and lubed and inserted. The bed assisting by keeping them near. Large beds, spacious and scattered. Cramped beds, unable to fit us all.

You take me and use me. At the end, I am under you. Drinking fully but never enough. Unable to be sated. Instead, only increasing my thirst, my need, my wants. The bed holds me, for you. The place of my offering, accepting the remains that overflow me.

In the darkness on the damp mat, and in the bright light of the clean sheets, its all the same. You fuck me into submission, a submission that demands more from you. Never spoken, but sensed. As you take my spent body into your arms, you promise me more. The bed our witness.

Our breathing in sync as we descend from the heights. Both dizzy from the experience, catching a glimpse of the peaks beyond. A caress, followed and returned. Without words, relaying the knowledge that we will scale them all together. Make a bed out of the clouds daring the heights. A bed always awaiting us there.

But relishing our time in the valleys as well. Catching our breath, savoring past delights, perfect in the moment together. Where the clean, fresh, warm grass is all the bed we need.

Dreams born of our times together. In bed.

Waiting for the next dream to come. Laying my head down, the bed's siren song reaching me. Singing to me of all it has seen and of what is to come.