I lay face down on the bed, pillow half under my chest, arms lightly braced, legs comfortably widespread. It’s been a long day at Uni, my car is not air-conditioned, and while the journey is not overly long, I was happy to strip off my jeans and blouse as soon as I arrived home. The undies were abandoned a short time later. Summer is not yet here and already it seems too warm for clothes. I am not envious of the office staff, who feel compelled to wear dresses, stockings and high heels…
A slow trickle navigates down my side as sweat pools and runs in the mid afternoon heat, dripping onto the doona cover. The textbook in front of me blurs and fades, my head jerks toward my hands and I allow it to sink. The music Ryan is playing in the other room abruptly disappears as I slide into a state of semi-consciousness…
A hand slides slowly up between my legs, lightly catching my sweaty skin, the drag enough to create a drowsy sense of erotic possibility. The hand moves purposefully onward and long cool fingers begin to probe at the juncture of my thighs. Another hand sweeps firmly over my buttocks, oiling my flesh with sweat. Soon it moves to my cleft, begins to smooth cool moisture, which, in my torpor, appeared like magic; across the puckered opening.
At this point I’m dimly aware I have choices: to complain, deter and surrender completely to sleep, to awaken fully and actively participate, or…
The dull heat in our small west facing bedroom, my continued sleepiness and growing arousal combine deliciously to make it easier to do nothing. I lie there barely feigning unconsciousness, even as those long, cool, musicians fingers open me wider, pressing, teasing and thrusting, creating a slow hypnotic counterpoint which spreads like a brush fire through my cunt and arse. Knuckles and fingertips undulate creating rhythms which echo through the flexible internal wall of skin between both openings.
I am a ball of wanting, biting back moans of pleasure.
Wanting to be able to touch my clit, knowing this will give the game away….
Wanting to push back against his insistent digits, to roar out the words crowding in the back of my throat: “Fuck me Ryan! Fuck me!!!”
Wanting his cock searing into my cunt, yet impossibly, also wanting it hard, persistent and deliciously hurtful in the place where his saliva coated thumb is now working up a silky, burning rhythm…
A cool hand touches my hot shoulder. I jump, roll abruptly onto my side. Ryan’s face looms over me.
“Indie. Are you ok? You shouted something.”
He crouches by the bed, his fingers smooth away sweaty strands of hair from my sleep befuddled face…
I reach up, grasp the fingers, bringing them to my mouth. Kissing softly, taking the tips in between my dry lips, tasting. Smelling for evidence.
I let go his hand.
“I’m ok. I was dreaming that was all.”
“It’s hot in here.” Ryan stood and stretched his long frame, raising both arms above his head, revealing his pale muscled belly, line of red-blonde hair, under a tatty t-shirt. “I’ll put the fan on and get you some water.”
He turned away, reaching the doorway in two easy strides, found the switch for the fan, bringing it haltingly to life. “Then,” he said, turning back to look at me. “you can tell me about your dream.”
A protest rises, I lock it in my throat. The cool drink would be welcome. I nod. “Thanks hon.” My smile is grateful, yet tinged with anticipation.
When he comes back I will drink my water, invite him to lay down beside me.
Then, I will tell him, in detail, about my dream…