through the ring. The sudden explosion skittered up the length of my frame in a fluid, flawless slice that incapacitated everything else.
I came awake with my fingers pumping inside my pulsating sex. Hot, thick cream spilled down the crack of my ass to stain the sheets. My low tortured whine sang through the room as I milked the last shudder from my pussy by assaulting my clit with wet, sticky fingers.
Spent and exhausted, and feeling exquisitely sated, I slumped against the damp pillows and stared at the patches of shadow stretching across the ceiling. My breathless pants echoed around me and I squeezed my eyes shut.
Well, that had been unexpected, or maybe not as unexpected as it should have been. I hadn’t had a man in four years and Q had opened things for me in the short few minutes we’d spoken that I never thought myself capable of. But I could honestly say that I had never orgasmed in my sleep. That was new, even for me. I didn’t know whether to give myself a high five, or take up smoking. However, I did know one thing; I had to tell Q.
I exhaled.
It wasn’t that I believed in the whole don’t orgasm because I said so thing, but there had been an understanding between us that we would both wait and he was, or at least, he said he was and I believed him. It just wasn’t fair that I had, inadvertently, had a cheap thrill in my sleep while he was sitting on a hard dick … metaphorically speaking … I hoped. Except the problem I couldn’t get my head around was whether or not to wait until Monday to tell him. The annoying little shoulder angel kept insisting I should purge my freaky little soul sooner rather than later, while the shoulder devil pointed out I had three days. What was the rush?
Shoulder angel won.
I glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed and inwardly cringed. It was still only six in the morning. While it was time to get up, shower, and get ready for work, it was thirteen hours before I could call him, assuming he would be home. But what if he didn’t want me to call unless he said so? What if he thought me experiencing happy hour mid REM cycle was news that could have waited until Monday? But no, my shoulder angel was insistent. Of all my sins, this was one that required a confession, which made me question my shoulder angel’s priorities; I was pretty sure I had much more confession worthy sins.
Yet, it wasn’t about cleansing my soul and doing what was right. It was about equality and, believe it or not, trust. Q and I had an unspoken agreement and I was nothing if not honest. Okay, and there was guilt.
Realistically, I shouldn’t have been as enthralled by the man and his smoky, Brad Pitt voice, but I was and I wanted to keep hearing that voice whispering dirty things into my subconscious. It was insane, but having a guy never see my face was apparently the only way I could get a man. No one else would understand me, or want me if they could see me in person. While I wasn’t grotesque, I knew what I was and what I wasn’t and I had worked hard to get to a place where I could finally accept myself and I accepted that I was not any guy’s cup of tea. My own mother had been appalled by the daughter that wasn’t like other children and she claimed it was why she drank as much as she did.
Growing up, my mom hadn’t understood my fascination with keeping to myself, to being that shy little girl who watched people from a distance. She thought it was dirty and abnormal. More importantly, she thought there was something mentally wrong with me. Normal children didn’t behave like that. So, she did what any parent would do; she took me to see a shrink.
Dr. Wilber Woynim was the leading psychologist in child behavior. He believed there wasn’t a thing that couldn’t be solved with fear. If you could scare a gay kid enough, he’d eventually go straight, or a bed wetter, or a kid afraid of the dark. In my case, my perverted obsession deserved humiliation. He wrote me a sign that
I came awake with my fingers pumping inside my pulsating sex. Hot, thick cream spilled down the crack of my ass to stain the sheets. My low tortured whine sang through the room as I milked the last shudder from my pussy by assaulting my clit with wet, sticky fingers.
Spent and exhausted, and feeling exquisitely sated, I slumped against the damp pillows and stared at the patches of shadow stretching across the ceiling. My breathless pants echoed around me and I squeezed my eyes shut.
Well, that had been unexpected, or maybe not as unexpected as it should have been. I hadn’t had a man in four years and Q had opened things for me in the short few minutes we’d spoken that I never thought myself capable of. But I could honestly say that I had never orgasmed in my sleep. That was new, even for me. I didn’t know whether to give myself a high five, or take up smoking. However, I did know one thing; I had to tell Q.
I exhaled.
It wasn’t that I believed in the whole don’t orgasm because I said so thing, but there had been an understanding between us that we would both wait and he was, or at least, he said he was and I believed him. It just wasn’t fair that I had, inadvertently, had a cheap thrill in my sleep while he was sitting on a hard dick … metaphorically speaking … I hoped. Except the problem I couldn’t get my head around was whether or not to wait until Monday to tell him. The annoying little shoulder angel kept insisting I should purge my freaky little soul sooner rather than later, while the shoulder devil pointed out I had three days. What was the rush?
Shoulder angel won.
I glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed and inwardly cringed. It was still only six in the morning. While it was time to get up, shower, and get ready for work, it was thirteen hours before I could call him, assuming he would be home. But what if he didn’t want me to call unless he said so? What if he thought me experiencing happy hour mid REM cycle was news that could have waited until Monday? But no, my shoulder angel was insistent. Of all my sins, this was one that required a confession, which made me question my shoulder angel’s priorities; I was pretty sure I had much more confession worthy sins.
Yet, it wasn’t about cleansing my soul and doing what was right. It was about equality and, believe it or not, trust. Q and I had an unspoken agreement and I was nothing if not honest. Okay, and there was guilt.
Realistically, I shouldn’t have been as enthralled by the man and his smoky, Brad Pitt voice, but I was and I wanted to keep hearing that voice whispering dirty things into my subconscious. It was insane, but having a guy never see my face was apparently the only way I could get a man. No one else would understand me, or want me if they could see me in person. While I wasn’t grotesque, I knew what I was and what I wasn’t and I had worked hard to get to a place where I could finally accept myself and I accepted that I was not any guy’s cup of tea. My own mother had been appalled by the daughter that wasn’t like other children and she claimed it was why she drank as much as she did.
Growing up, my mom hadn’t understood my fascination with keeping to myself, to being that shy little girl who watched people from a distance. She thought it was dirty and abnormal. More importantly, she thought there was something mentally wrong with me. Normal children didn’t behave like that. So, she did what any parent would do; she took me to see a shrink.
Dr. Wilber Woynim was the leading psychologist in child behavior. He believed there wasn’t a thing that couldn’t be solved with fear. If you could scare a gay kid enough, he’d eventually go straight, or a bed wetter, or a kid afraid of the dark. In my case, my perverted obsession deserved humiliation. He wrote me a sign that
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