My first wife was a very sound sleeper, it would take the loudest claps of thunder to rouse her. Once she got to sleep she'd be immobile for hours, especially if she lay on her stomach (which was her favorite position). This I knew because I was just the opposite, often stuck with bouts of insomnia that book-reading would sometimes cure, but I was still awake far longer than she.
New England summers weren't as hot and humid then as they can be now, so even in August an open window was all that was necessary. It was on a particularly warm, moonlit summer's night that I came back to the bedroom after a late-night piss and noticed that Cynthia had tossed off the bedsheet on her side; since we both slept in the raw, the light from our bedroom window gave me a nicely- framed view of her attractive bottom.
I got back into bed and listened to her contented deep breathing. I reflected upon how lucky I was to have her there, how much she meant to me, and how even in her sleep she could arouse me physically. That damned moonlight illuminated her backside so effectively that before I knew it I was sporting an aching erection.
Well, as they say: a stiff prick has no conscience, and mine certainly led the way as I gave in to my feelings and reached out to softly caress the satiny cheeks of her ass. Supple, warm and buttery was her skin as I tentatively ran my fingertips over the generous but well-maintained geography of her derriere, watching for a change in her breathing.
Nothing. The same contented, soft breaths continued, unchanged. Emboldened, I moved down the bed just a little and began to caress her flesh with the palm of my hand, becoming more aroused as each second passed. My desire was caused as much by the novelty of the moment as by the feel of her; it was far from the first time I'd felt her backside up, the difference here was that she was asleep.
She stirred not a bit as my hand roved over her cheeks, feeling both the softness and the musculature beneath. After a bit I used just my fingertips to gently probe the division between them, careful not to use too light a touch as to be ticklish. Her skin was warmer there, and in my mind I imagined what lay in between and below, which caused my arousal to grow more fierce.
I expect part of my strong feeling was the illusion of control; it was a common fantasy of mine (and, I suspect, of others, especially during that rage known as puberty) to be able to magically explore a woman's body at will, without fear of consequence, and even to bring such a fantasy woman to life with my touch. So, here I was, reliving that feeling.
"Cindy?" I whispered, trying to make sure she was asleep. No response. I said her name again, a little more loudly, but still nothing.
I felt my heart pounding with excitement in the silence of the room. A soft breeze drifted through the window as I raised up a bit and rested on my elbow, intent on getting a better view if I could. But there was only so much the moon could impart. I made do with bringing my face as close as possible to her naked form as I ran my fingers slowly down to the juncture of her thighs.
Cindy's legs were tightly held together; did I dare try to urge them to loosen up? I did, feeling the super-smooth flesh of her inner thigh skin give to my touch, gradually, as I painstakingly pushed with the ever-so-lightest pressure of my fingertips. This seemed to take hours, but I feared that rushing things might rouse her prematurely.
I almost gasped aloud when my wife suddenly shifted in her sleep. Holding my breath, I kept my hand in place between her thighs as she miraculously moved them slightly apart and then abruptly settled down. I stayed there, frozen in place, waiting an eternity to be sure her breathing hadn't changed.
