Missing You

I lay in bed, the sounds of crickets and a gentle breeze drifting in the window beside me. I can't sleep. A song runs through my head, the tune and the lyrics so familiar.

"Cuz I don't want anybody else but you/I know what to say but I don't know how/I don't want to go through the rest of my life/without you my baby."

We danced to it at our wedding. I sigh. It was only two years ago, but it seems so long ago. I remember, but sometimes I wonder if he does. How simple life was back then.

But Dex must remember. He wrote the words in a letter to me the morning he left for his business trip. The letter he left on my pillow while I was in the shower.

Just like every day this past week, I have trouble falling asleep. But I know a surefire way to distract myself. To make myself sleepy.

I think of Dex. The last time we made love. Everything about him turns me on. His image is burned into my mind. I imagine he is here now.

The broadness of his chest with the dusting of dark hair that tickles my face as I snuggle against him. The tight muscles of his abs under my fingertips as I stroke his sides. The hard pebbles of his nipples as I flick them with the tip of my tongue. The tension in his arms on either side of my head, supporting his upper body. The strength of his thighs as they part my legs and support his weight below. The long thickness of his cock as it claims me over and over again. The softness of his lips and tongue as they caress mine. The musky natural scent of him mixed with his woodsy cologne that always makes my head dizzy as he presses against me.

I moan softly, closing my eyes. My lower lip slips between my teeth, my tongue running over the trapped flesh. The muscles in my stomach clench, followed by the ones in my groin.

I imagine that my hands are Dex's when I cup my breasts through my T-shirt. His fingers, not mine, gently pinching and rolling my nipples between fingers and thumbs. His voice murmuring naughty words that make my heartbeat speed up and my breath catch.

I slowly tug my shirt up as he would do. My hands stroke my sides, slinking across my skin until they can cup my breasts again, skin on skin. Then I slide my right hand lower over my stomach, inching toward my pelvis.

Every muscle quivers at the thought of where my fingers are going. I whimper, knowing the pleasure they will bring me once they reach their destination. My legs part, welcoming my touch, begging to have the building pressure released.

I love how Dex teases me, always running a finger around my swollen labia, never quite touching my clit at first. I whimper, remembering how he likes to joke, "If you build it, she will come," a play on one of his favorite moves, Field of Dreams. And he is so right. Once again, I imagine my fingers are his as I tease myself. Oh yes, it is quite arousing. I can't hear the crickets anymore over my own panting. How long can I do this without giving in? Do I want to prolong it? Or do I want a sweet, quick release?

Distracted by my own thoughts, my finger brushes against my clit. I shriek, my body arching off the bed. Now, I cannot resist the temptation. I rub harder, in circles. My legs spread wider, my knees rising to accommodate my exploration.

I stroke that one finger down further, coating it in my fluids. It dips into my vagina, all tight and hot. The shudders begin then. One finger becomes two. Stroking, pressing, circling while my other hand mauls my left breast. Squeezing and pinching before caressing away the sharp pain.

I can almost feel his mouth on my breast, his hot breath against my skin. His tongue rasping against my straining nipple. His lips closing around my areola and suckling like a baby. That thought makes my hips arch again.

My fingers press harder, move faster. I can feel the tension rising but the peak is right beyond my reach. I cry softly, wanting so badly to get there. A small orgasm ripples through me suddenly, but it's not what I want. What I need.

The shudders die away, and I'm left lying on the bed, listening to my panting, and the crickets, and the gentle breeze outside the window. The air smells like cut grass and lilacs and sex. I lick my fingers, moaning softly at the tangy taste and smell that fills my head.

I'm still not satisfied. And I still can't sleep. This calls for reinforcements.

Reaching for the bedside table, I open the drawer, the warped wood scraping loudly against the otherwise quiet sounds around me. I only have to fumble around for a moment before my fingers close around the prize. Lucid Dreams No. 5. It's purple and waterproof and the best all-around tool to get the job done when Dex isn't here. Like tonight. Thank you, Doc Johnson.

It takes a little shifting around until I've got myself situated properly. I am lying halfway on my left side, a pillow behind my back on the right. The comforter is balled up between my open thighs. My left hand is free to do whatever is necessary—play with my breasts, stroke my sides and thighs, grasp the slats of the headboard as if I'm bound to it—while my right hand controls the vibrator.

Ever so slowly, I graze the tip of the toy along my labia, barely brushing my clit. I haven't turned it on yet, but just the touch if against my already sensitive skin makes me shudder and gasp. It easily slides between my well-lubricated lips, and the feeling is pure heaven, as if it's Dex's tongue or fingers touching me there.

A quick twist of the other end and the vibrations flow gently down the rod and into my most private areas. Against my clit. Back and forth through my lips. Parting and stimulating. Down further to circle my entrance. A little further to graze over my anus before moving back up again.

In my mind, Dex is teasing me once more. The vibrator's tip is the tip of his swollen cock. When I arch my hips and it slips easily inside me, I cry out, grasping at my breast with my left hand.

And then I am fucking my vibrator. Slow and steady, a little faster or deeper sometimes. The tension is building again.

I make use of the balled-up comforter, propping the end of the vibrator against the fabric so it remains inside me. I pump my hips, the toy penetrating me like a stroking cock now. My right hand is now free to rub my clit, my left hand still occupied with my breast.

As I speed up, feeling that precipice calling me to come closer, to fall over, I release my breast and weave my hand through the slats on the bed. I love it when Dex binds my hands there. I have no control then, and he always draws out the pleasure. Sometimes even making me suck his cock while bound.

I shudder at the thought of his cock in my mouth even as I can feel the hardness of the toy pulsating within me below. I imagine his throbbing tool in my mouth. I open my lips as if he's stroking there, my tongue lapping at the air as if it is his skin.

I'm so close. My fingers rub harder, moving fractionally to the left. Then I'm crying out Dex's name, my body shaking violently, my head rolling from side to side. I must look like a possessed woman.

Waves upon waves of pleasure ripple over me. I can no longer control my right hand. When it falls against my hip along that line where my leg joins my abdomen—one of my most sensitive spots— I stroke my fingers there and come again. I can still feel the vibrator moving inside me, my vaginal muscles clenching and releasing around it as if it were a real cock inside me. And I come a third time, imagining that Dex is still stroking me through my orgasm as he comes himself.

I lie still, panting and unable to think clearly. Somehow, I manage to pull out the vibrator and silence it. I try to place it on the bedside table, but it falls onto the floor. I giggle, wondering if Dex will find it there. I curl onto my right side, hugging the pillow to my chest. The smell of my arousal is on the comforter as I pull it up to my chin and finally drift off to sleep. Goodnight, Dex, wherever you are.

~ H