It’s well after midnight, I’m tired and I’m sick. I’ve been in bed most of the day and I’m fed up with being here, but I desperately need to sleep. The cat protests as I turn over, positioning a small pillow between my aching knees. My right hand rests naturally on the curve of my hip, I’m in a good position to sleep now. Seconds later I begin to drowsily trace that raised curve with my hand, lightly at first then with a little more firmness, as the silkiness of my underwear and the pleasure of the pressure starts to register. Without thinking I glide my hand further downward, slipping it between my legs, and begin to massage my mound, squeezing, tugging, sliding a finger idly between my lips. Then I encounter resistance. I can’t do this tonight. I need to sleep! I stop, pull my hand away and groaning, roll huffily onto my other side increasing the cat’s annoyance.
Facing the window I think I sense movement outside and become hyper-alert. A whisper of sound and then, nothing. I wait long heartbeats, straining my ears wondering why, if there’s an intruder, the dog hasn’t barked. I give it more time and then finally relax, irritated, against the pillow. The one thing I don’t like about this house is its proximity to the street. My window and the footpath are separated only by a narrow garden bed and the crunchy gravel walk that runs alongside the house. I sometimes wonder whether people can see in as they walk past, and what they can hear too.
The thought of someone eavesdropping on one of my regular late night sessions amuses and arouses me, in a way I’m sure the real experience would not.
What would they hear?
Sometimes music: raunchy, melancholy, hard driving rock. The faint suction of my favorite clitoral vibrator, the slap of avid sex as I thrust my favorite vibrator hard inside me, harsh whispers as I encourage myself to come, calling myself names I would abhor in the light of day. They’d probably have to wait a while for the gasping sounds of orgasm. All too often it takes a couple of hours: interspersed with trips to the toilet, hand massages to relieve my cramping fingers, frantic rummages through my wooden storage drawers as I search for other bigger, more vigorous toys; more lube, condoms…
This half developed fantasy somehow overrides my aching body, my need for sleep. I suddenly remember I have unfinished business with a lovely glass dildo…
Only I hear the muted grumbling protest from the cat as she complains about being disturbed again.