Four writers for the price of one blog
I had to work late tonight, again. Goddamn if they could string two middle managers together without creating three idiots. And it’s still not over with. I missed dinner, I missed you. I missed everything. And likely will tomorrow.
I move quietly through the house, since I imagine you’re asleep, grab a hunk of cheese from the fridge, down a shot of Jack, because I want it. OK, two shots. I let it burn my throat and stomach as I pull off my tie and head to the bedroom.
At the doorway I stop dead, breath frozen. You’re lying in bed, asleep, as I expected, but you’re in the middle of the bed, and under the thin sheet, I can see your ass raised like a beautiful, rounded tent-top. You’re lying on that firm pillow we sometimes use. My mind recognizes the aspect, my body remembers how we fit together there. I am instantly hard. I want to push the annoyances and aggravations of the day away and just be, now. Wake you up and accept your invitation. Be with you. But the shit of the day won’t let go. The petty turf war, the boardroom pissing match. The fucking broken coffee machine. It all clamors at me as I stare, intent, at your perfect, upturned ass.
It all seethes in me, below my intellect. I jam my hands into my pockets in frustration and feel the pennies, the crumpled lunch receipt, and a little plastic square. I pull that out and look down. Stupid promo piece. I push the small slider and a tiny blade extends from the casing. What does our company have to do with pocket box cutters? Fucking nothing, that’s what. Thing’s goddamn useless to anyone with even a pathetic set of tools. Good for… what? I look back at you, and feel something slither loose.
Coming up to the bed, one hand still holding the blade, I grasp the sheet and slowly pull it off you. I have to stop, look, breathe you in. How beautiful, how hot to fall asleep like this for me. How long did you wait, awake? I see the wine bottle on the bed table, one of two glasses untouched. Did you lose patience and take care of yourself when I didn’t come home and didn’t come home? The scent of you is in the air. Maybe it’s just anticipation, but maybe you did. In the darkness, I can’t tell if you’re damp, but I’ll find out.
You wore something pretty for me, too. I remember the first time you wore it for me. It’s a simple nightshirt and matching panties, but it fits you just right, and promises such sweet things. But now, they are just in my way. And I don’t want to wake you yet.
Instead, I give my useless little tool a purpose. I slip the blade between your hip and the fabric of the undergarment, and slide. The pretty thing splits easily, and the panty leg opens, revealing your skin underneath. You don’t stir, breathing peacefully in sleep.
Rather than move to the other side, I continue up, nicking, then cutting the nightshirt from the bottom hem. Up your side. Slowly, carefully, because there’s a long way to go, and curves, and I don’t want to cut your skin. I’m sure I don’t. As I reveal more and more of you, I can feel my cock straining in my slacks. So after I’ve carefully come around under your arm to the sleeve, I pause to relieve myself of clothing before returning to the upper shoulder and neck of the nightshirt. Peeling you like this is doing something to me. I don’t know what. As I start down your other side, I decide that I will only ever use this little blade to destroy your clothing, and that I will always have it handy with me. I may never use it again. But I will never use it for anything else.
The blade is new and very sharp. It is easy work to separate the back of your nightshirt from the front, and sliding the sheer fabric off your back reveals skin I want to bury my face in. But I don’t, yet. I move back to your panties, and cut the outside of the other leg, peeling the bottoms back to reveal that delicious ass of yours, and between your slightly parted legs, your juicy, hot little cunt. I lean toward you, inhaling deeply. You smell like sex. Your sex – not our sex. Not yet.
Then, even though I don’t have to, because you’re already completely exposed, I bring the blade to the crotch of your panties, less than an inch away from your skin on three sides, and cut right across the middle. The uncoiled thing inside me roils around, looking through the rubbish of my mind, but my fingers are rock steady. Some things I want, some things I don’t. I retract the blade, pulling the rear triangle of fabric away from you, tossing both aside. I know what I want.
I know you sleep deep. I could slide between your legs now, ease myself into you, and take you quietly, furtively, secretly. I could come in you and pull out. I could leave you until morning, returning as if from having been at work all night, to see how you might react to waking up with shredded clothes and a cunt full of semen. I think about that as I push your knees farther apart slowly, carefully. But it is that little sigh that convinces me otherwise. Sometimes, at night, you make tiny vocalizations. Sometimes it sounds like you’re trying to say something. Sometimes it sounds like a whimper of fear. Sometimes a sigh, like you’re fucking someone, and I wonder if it’s me. Like I wonder now.
So now, I’m not going to sneak. But I’m not going to wake you either. Not right away. I crawl over you, knees between yours, balancing a hand on the mattress while I guide my aching cock to your upturned, ready slit. Oh, yes. It’s ready. I could smell it. I could see the sheen of dew just at your lips, felt it in the panties I dismantled. I know I’m going to slide right into you, and I do, settling my weight slowly over your body, becoming a living blanket as I intrude.
I could wake you rough, now, slamming into you, grabbing your hair and pulling back, growling and cursing, keeping you disoriented until I buried and sated myself like a madman. And that tempts me too. But no. I feel darker yet, pulled by a new thread. Instead, I press myself into you and begin whispering in your ear, talking into your dream.
“What is that? Who is that? What are they doing to you? That’s not right!”
I start sliding in and out, slowly, making you exhale each time I press down. I urge you toward wakefulness, but hopefully not all the way. I don’t really care, I suppose. If you truly wake up, I’ll just take you hard, like I already thought of, but this, this I want in a way I don’t yet understand. Like a spindly claw, twisting and reaching through me to grab at you. I push into you again, thinking about what you might be dreaming, what could I summon with the right words? I try to recruit your unconscious mind as I whisper obscenities.
“What is this thing, Love? Something that shouldn’t have you – that doesn’t belong near you. Doesn’t belong inside you. Like it is now. Oh, it has – he has? – wanted you for a long, long time, but you’ve always evaded him. Now he has you. He’s got you, fucking you now. You can’t let it happen.”
I’m mean. I whisper, warning you I am something, someone you don’t want. I want your mind to fill it in, trapping you beneath me. I pour it into your ear, ominous, nonspecific, letting it grow and twist inside you as I push deeper in and press down.
And I know I’m getting to you. The hot, liquid feel of your flooding arousal caresses and squeezes my cock. I don’t know what it really is, but I imagine your dreams – a manic, masked rapist; a devil come to take his due; an alien horror with nightmare visage – You squirm under me, just a little, the echoes of calls to muscles in dreams, as if you were trying to get away from something. That tiny little whimpering noise. It makes me swell harder, and it is all I can do to keep myself from letting it all go and fucking like a savage.
But I want to hear those small sounds, feel those tiny motions instead; I want to read what they say about the story in your head. Am I the gang of men holding you down and taking turns? Am I the werewolf behind you, teeth at your neck? A great shiny black insect, embracing you with many limbs and boring into your body and mind? I slide a hand down between the pillow and you, just above where we meet. My warnings become more urgent as my finger finds your hard little clit and begins stroking it.
You’re making little disturbed sounds. More than the tiny whimpers of dreams. It sounds like a nightmare. I am hoping it is. My teeth grit, and my whispers rasp.
“Why are you so wet? How could you be so hot, so ready for this thing? You can’t want this. You can’t be fucking it back. What is happening to you?”
Because you are. Whimpering and squirming, your back also arches for me – no, not me – whatever you think I am, letting me sink in just a bit more. You can’t be completely asleep anymore. But you’re not really awake, either. Perhaps midway between, I want to keep you there, battling whatever demons I have evoked. Punish you for getting turned on by this other thing. But maybe you are dreaming only of me – perhaps a dark vision of me sometimes torments your dreams. Fuck him, too. This time it is not just a vision. I am the nightmare.
And that almost gives me pause. Can I be that thing? Should I? I could stop, rouse you, ‘rescue’ you from the torment with my love, and my real, caring everyday self. Or not. This selfish, angry, conniver blooming inside, here, now, has answered the questions already. Can I be that thing? Yes. Should I? Probably not. But it doesn’t care. Right now, I don’t care.
“There is no escape. Whatever it is, whoever it is, has you.” I realize I am whispering those words to both of us. But for you:
“It is taking you. It wants all of you. But all is not lost unless you come. You must not. Must not.”
I feel cruel, but I am grinning, pouring evil into your ear. I have let go, letting the shadow take me, riding you rougher through your quiet whines. While I whisper, harsh, breathy, I thrust harder, rub insistently, find a breast with my free hand and pinch, my chest pressing your back.
“I’m not there to save you,” I chastise, “because despite all my warnings, all my help, I can feel it coming.” I do. The little giveaways in your body of tightening muscles, clipped inhalations, they are the gathering storm in you. I imagine it in your mind, building, ominous, inevitable.
“Your time is running out, your last chance. You have to get away! But why are you squeezing so hard down there?” My voice becomes almost mournful, trying to cover how close to the edge I am. I’ve pushed your knees wider apart with mine, and you’re now arched deliciously; cunt upturned to guide and take me all the way in so I can root deeply. I curl over, covering you, still at your ear. I don’t know what is fucking you in your head, but I am it, him, them, whatever. And you can’t stop me.
I hear you, oh god I hear your small voice now. You’re whispering no, no, no, even as you twitch and clutch at me inside. It sings in my ears. Drives me harder. I echo the words back, mocking, warning you not to come. Pushing you there relentlessly. And perhaps I am becoming that thing, whatever it is, because I can’t stop now either. I don’t recognize my voice, my evil chuckle.
As you tense and seize, closed eyes fluttering, I stop warning. Just before the first contracting of climax hits, I growl:
And oh, fuck. You explode under me. I hold you tight as your body wrenches and shakes, and squeezes me inside like nothing before. It is indeed too late. The dark thing I have become exults in the spasms.
“Yesss” I hiss, “Yessss”, and lock myself in you, letting your body pull and squeeze me over the edge. Too late. Too late for you…
I don’t even know if it’s me anymore, or if you’ve pulled me into your nightmare. I don’t care if you’re lost to it, to me, or if I’m lost in something else. I don’t care. And that is all I wanted. Buried, straining, crying out, I come, pouring myself into your greedy body. I am swallowed by you, by this thing I have become, that we are becoming. I taste it on the sweat at your neck, the tear from your eye. Or is it from my eye? It doesn’t matter. It is horrific, exquisite, unending.
But, as all things, it does end, and we are reduced to embers, then ashes, panting and drenched. I lie full weight on you, head lolling to the pillow, turned toward you. Your eyes are open, staring. Shocked. There are tears there. I can’t tell if there’s anger there or not. I wouldn’t be surprised. I should care.
“B-bastard.” You’re still panting, but your tone says you mean it. Yesterday I would have winced. You squirm to get free from under me. I ignore it.
“Shh. It’s all right,” I say. I’ve freed my hand from your breast, and use it to stroke your hair, gently lovingly. I do mean it. It is all right. It will be all right.
My other hand is still between your legs. My cock is still hard inside you. Whatever had uncurled inside me stretches, feeling its new environs.
“It was just a bad dream. It’s over and gone now. I’m here.”
I stroke your hair, slide my finger across your clit, flex my hips once, pushing though our mingled cum.
“Oh, no-o,” you moan, still squirming, but suddenly not as hard, not like you really want to get away.
“I’m here. It’s going to be all right.”
I bend my neck and lick the tear from your cheek, Under me, you shudder and buck back.
Yes. It’s going to be all right.
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