Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

Three thirty two in the AM. The dull red glow of her alarm clock pulses the time into my waking brain, some unbidden shock of thought having stirred me from my slumber to leave me lying awake in the darkness, alert and still, pondering nothing but incapable of ceasing to ponder.

I rolled over to my side, spooning against the warm curved backside of my soundly sleeping wife. My left arm draped over her, cupping her left breast naturally in my hand, compressing her nipple slightly between my thumb and forefinger, teasing it into a barely hardened nub. She murmured and nestled and pressed her bottom into my morning rigidity.

For a brief moment, I considered biting the bullet, pulling myself out of bed, starting the day early, but at the same time, I knew the tiredness I would immediately feel if I lifted myself out of the warm cozy cocoon of our water bed. I felt awake but only in my mind. My body still needed the rest. I resolved to wait out my consciousness and trusted that I would slip away into the darkness soon enough

The delicious feel of my wife’s flesh against mine distracted my mind from the emptiness of lying still in the dark. I released her breast to allow my hand to travel along the landscape of her waist, the rise of her hips, the trail beyond reach of her lean legs. I brought my touch to the nothing between and tickled the tight curls of her well-trimmed bush.

My love for her is infinite, slowly and silently dissolved into the endlessness of the lightless expanses of the nocturne. I gently felt the first swells of her pudendum and labia, a soft fortress of puffiness surrounding her still clitoris. I beat a simple rhythm on her body in the near vicinity, impressing her nervous system with a quiet song of love and lust. She smiled in her sleep and wriggled just a tiny bit.

I drew my hand behind her, where my erection pressed intently toward the small of her back, letting my fingers find the slightly fuzzy crease of her pussy exposed by the bed on her body. Tracing the lines of her labia, back and forth, up and down, they swole and parted ever so slightly. Never one to disturb settled slumber, I kept my strokes easy, barely touching flesh, petting her furry lips with grace and tenderness.

I reached back for her breast, playing her nipple in and out of hardness. I reached down to paw a rhythm around her clit. I went back to the dampening lips of her barely distended cunt. I loved my wife in her sleep, keeping her there but only just.

Minutes passed, hours perhaps, my eyes shut, fondling my woman in the dark, waiting for the night to pass by, enjoying my game while it lasted. At some point I must have fallen back to sleep. I opened my eyes when she roused in the blossoming dawn to turn and rouse me with a kiss.

“I had the best dream,” she said and we lovingly finished what had begun in the depths of the night.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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