As You Sleep

More of a creative essay than a story. I'm a die-hard insomniac and my men always sleep hours before me. This is the story of one such night alone.

 

Most nights when I want you awake all I’ll do is tiptoe barefoot round the room bribing the cat with his blue eyes to do the rousing for me. Sometimes, when the ache is deep enough I turn on lights and read aloud in bed, offer to set our alarm for next morning, remind you how you promised me the night. Earlier you’d kept your plans secret, said you’d be my genie: that I had one wish and to make it kinky. When you said you’d be up before eleven, I believed you.

I sat next to you an hour ago, kissed your lips as you tried to turn and whispered nono. I pulled your hair and hoped your eyes would open wide enough to notice my bare skin, the breasts you love so much spilling over the shirt I pulled low at the neck so that you might be tempted, so you’d see. Sometimes you rouse at the sound of my fingers on the keyboard and I try to type as loud as I can, saying: Usually, I let you sleep.

In the morning you’ll look at me sleepy, saying Baby, I told you to get me up. I’ll smile and won’t even mention trying. You don’t remember my bared breasts, drenched lips; I’m embarrassed to remind you. Last night you slept four hours before I climbed into bed and awoke an hour later, just as I was drifting off, rolling me onto my side and spitting on your fingers. I drank your cum in the darkness of my half-sleep, knowing how I’d waited for you. How this was as close as I would get tonight.

I hear you now, turning under the covers, and I wonder if maybe I should try again. I have my wish. As promised, it’s kinky. What is it you had planned to do to me, something you said we’d only done once? But I won’t wake you. Tonight, you sleep in your clothes.