Hello, My Beauties: This is my first time participating in Marie Rebel’s Wicked Wednesday prompt. The prompt was “Timekeeping/Time Management” and my mind went right to the elastic way time moves in dreams.
Content: Genderqueer-positive sex, Genderfluidity, Masturbation.
I woke gasping and wet, an echo of pleasure pulsing in the well of my cunt. You were sleeping beside me, undisturbed. My hand slid down to grasp the flesh at the juncture of my thighs. The rasp of stiff curls whispered against my palm like a secret language.
Watching you, face slack and restful in sleep, I rocked on my fingers. Reliving the pleasure.
We were in a boat.
You hate being out on the water, so I crawled into your lap. Grinding against your cock, I relished the hardness of your shaft. The scrape of denim was rough against the folds of my sex.
“I’m seasick, how does this help me?” You asked.
“Are you saying it doesn’t?”
“No,” Mouthing at my neck, you bit my shoulder. I yelped and a rumbling laugh rolled through your chest. The moment stretched on without end, in the same impossible way long shadows creep across a summer lawn in the late afternoon. Fingers of darkness lengthening with each tick of the clock, grasping at the earth for one more moment of life before they’re swallowed by the darkness.
A wave struck the side of our small vessel and we fell back, plummeting through the wooden slats of the boat, and into the sea. Writhing and falling like a comet, quick as light until we crashed into our own bed.
“My head is a weird place,” I said.
Grasping the backs of my knees, I spread myself open for you. You sucked the small pearl of flesh at the apex of my vulva. Its many names were a secret I kept for myself.
“I love your clit, your tiny cock,” you said. The final consonant cracked in the back of your throat like a walnut.
Embarrassed, I rushed to cover myself. How you knew my private language, went unquestioned.
“No, don’t hide it,” You moved my hand out of the way. “I love it. You.”
“You don’t mind?”
The prickle of your beard tickled when you shook your head. Burying your nose in the crease of my hip, I heard you breathe in my scent before you delivered a stinging nip to my inner thigh.
“I want to fuck your mouth,” I growled, thrusting against your lips. An effervescent pressure mounted in the cradle of my hips. The short strands of your hair clutched in my fists. Reality slipped sideways in a series of flashes, like heat lightning on an August night.
I held tighter, worried I would fall off the edge of the world, crumble beneath you like so much dust. The messy drip of your spit and the huff of your breath, real and humid on my skin drove me to desperation. Setting a hard pace, I rode you over the edge.
I came, sweet and trembling, in the dark.
My fingers were drenched with my own slick.
You turned on your side, toward me, eyes closed, mumbling, “You okay, babe?”
“Yeah,” I threw a leg over your hip and tucked my face into the crook of your neck. “Just dreaming.”