Midnight

She was tired. A long day at work, a strenuous workout session in the gym, a full fledged cooking session later, and a visit to an old friend later, all she wanted to do was collapse into her bed. And not wake up for two days.


She left him working at his workstation in his study, kissed him goodnight on top of his head and dragged herself to their bedroom. A minute later, she was asleep.


Her dreams were fuzzy, violet satin slipping away to the floor, his eyes, a random song playing in the background, the shocking sensation of cold water on her skin, and the welcome rush of warm moonlight on her bare body. She turned in her sleep and her dream turned too, from royal colours to dark browns, the brown of her blanket as it was swept away and she felt smooth fingers cupping her breasts.


She smiled at the man who brought her lips to meet his, as her hands rode up his chest, grabbed his shoulders. A throbbing guilt consumed her at the same time as she struggled to realize whose hands these were that she was allowing on her body, when her man was a few feet away, working.


She partly also knew that she dreamt and her pleasure at this dream broke a dam of fresh guilt on her again. She struggled to open her eyes as his hands swept down to her hip, riding up her legs to find her womanhood. She awoke with a start, panting and felt his hands dragging her down again. She glanced at him, relief breaking over her as she realised he lay next to her, his hands on her breasts again, carressing, squeezing, sucking, licking, teasing, her breath catching in her throat in short gasps as waves of pleasure overtook her senses.


His hands travelled back to her womanhood as she pushed the guilt of not recognizing the familiar contours of his body. She clasped his shoulders as he climbed over her, his fingers between her lips, her tongue drawing lines on his smooth skin. He scooped his fingers out of her eager mouth and led them to her wetness, checking her readiness.


She was moist beyond measure and he tickled her, teased her, sliding his fingers in and out, drawing wetness with every stroke. He loved the wet sound of his fingers pulling out of her flower, climbing down then to taste her sex.


She tasted of musk and her perfumed bath salts. He lingered there, taking in her scent, smiling in anticipation for he knew what she would go through in a little while, the sounds she would make, the way she would egg him on to enter her, the way she would moan in pain, her hands clutching his hair, pushing his mouth, his tongue deeper and deeper until she would surrender and come, her breath shallow, her face aglow, his manhood hard and ready to pleasure them both again.


He drove his tongue in then, flicking her lips, tasting the new wetness that emerged, while her hips threatened to shiver out of control. He pinned her legs down with his hands and then...


He woke up, his manhood hard against him, his breath shallow and raspy, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands clutching the sheets crumpled up around him. He glanced to his side then, and saw her.


Asleep. A smile on her lips. That glow on her face. One hand limp on her breast. He caught his breath, gazing at her. He had had a long and tiring day. He curled up against her and kissed her forehead.


"Goodnight, baby."

Catching Her Scent

I regret sharing this with my colleague.


It was so casual; I walked past her one morning, on my way to the work station, when she looked up.


"What are you wearing?"


I was taken by surprise - was I not dressed right for a day packed with client meetings?


"Why what's wrong?"


"Nothing, I am just trying to place your perfume."


"Oh!" I breathed, relieved. "It's Dior. Midnight Poison. It's the only one I ever wear."


I regretted saying that immediately. Like I had spilled some family secret. No, even worse. Like I had admitted to some disgusting intimate secret that would be the death of me.


She nodded and said she would check it out. I hated that. I did not want anybody else smelling like me in a fifty mile radius of him. No, five hundred.


He knew me by my scent. He knew it would draw him to me eventually, every night, every weekend, and he would start by sniffing exactly the places I had dabbed  a bit of it on. We eventually turned it into a game and he would tell me exactly where he wanted me to smell like Midnight Poison. He would start by smudging just a bit of it onto his fingers and then continue leaving those marks on my shoulder, my eyelids, my ear, my lower lip, my left nipple, my navel, my thigh, my clit...


He would then bend down over me, lower me into the bed, and start smelling the fragrant traces he had left on my body while I writhed and moaned under his fingers, his mouth, that gorgeous tongue that was capable of inflicting as much pain as it inflicted pleasure. I would beg him to not stop, not tonight, not ever and he would tease, slow down, talk, whisper, and tease and bite and lick again until I would beg him to fuck me, to make love to me, to tear me up, to use me, to fill me up so I was useless to all other men.


He would oblige when I was incapable of putting up with his slow torture techniques. We would lie spent, minutes later, and he would then nuzzle his nose, tracing my jawline and say he loved how I smelled mixed up with Poison and the combined heat that would leave our bodies.


"I wish I could bottle this scent," he would say.


No way was I going to let my colleague get her hands on the scent that made up my nights.


Did she buy it? No. And apparently, I did not have to plot or buy off all the perfumes in my city either. She just decided it was too expensive.


But of course - it has been paid for, in full with countless sleepless nights. Who would afford it anyway?

Liquid Days

It's one of those days that you keep running to the washroom.


Just to touch your wetness, that's still slick from last night's love-making. That won't stop making you squirm in your seat and get alone with yourself so you can think some more of the night that was.


And touch yourself again.


It makes you want to come all over again today, warm and liquid one more time, from thinking of his tongue on your clit, the delightful lapping and licking that drove spasms of ecstasy up your spine and abdomen. From thinking of how, involuntarily, you drove him to dive his head into your cunt, eat you up entirely until you are so wet, it feels like you have never been dry before.


You talk, smile, chat, eat and work while he still pulls on your mind and body, your flesh kneaded, squeezed and pulped under his able fingers, your moans turning into gasps, from human sounds to animal-like growls.
He pumps into you, you ride on his cock and with each contraction, he drives deeper and deeper into you until your world zeroes down on him and he is all you are aware of and the sensation of having him fill you up, leaving no vacuum unclaimed.


You collapse on him, your head digging into the hollow between his ear and neck and you manage to breathe. Just to remember you are still alive. He finds that ticklish and laughs. Your liquids churn into his and you moan again. The feeling of having him spent inside of you is so intoxicating, you wish you could hold him in, inside of you all day long.


And you do. You do hold him in. For until you can find that oasis again, that reservoir will help you survive.