Inside My Head

I've never been much of a pragmatic soul, not like you. I put much of my cerebral energy into the romance of life, attempting to charge each moment with electric passion. If a moment isn't a memory, then I did something wrong.

You are tempered from different primordial goo than I am. You have deep within your soul the security and ability to let a quiet moment be as special and meaningful as the lightening storm I have always sought. And damn you if you're not starting to rub off of on me a bit. Remember last night?

***

We're lying in bed. Not too closely. Missouri summer nights are humid and muggy and unpleasantly sticky. The rotating fan hums and bequeaths a measure of reprieve. The television offers flickering illumination: a murder mystery that hasn't quite engaged my mind. I've been waiting patiently for you to fall asleep so I can flip over to the Red Sox game. You're not cooperating, watching the show intently while lying on your side, your back to me.

I'm not sleepy. I am bored. I am restless. And that makes me horny. It's not the kind of horny that urges me to flip you over and have my way with you. It's far more lethargic. The demon of sloth is perched upon my shoulder suggesting that I just roll over and try to sleep. Wait. Demon of sloth? There I go; romancing things up again like a pock-marked high school hack writing his first haiku. Pragmatically, I just wasn't sure I wanted to go through the effort to arouse you.

It's been awhile since I've gone down on you, and in my mind's eye, I start to create a night of passion beginning with a gentle kissing of your body and neck. I'd slowly move south and lick you to an amazing orgasm. Then I suppose I'd quickly kiss up your body and take you gently until you cum again. Flipping you over and getting primal as I take you from behind for the next stop. You'd orgasm again, and if I was still going, I'd turn you over one more time to finish off.

Damn, that felt like a lot of work.

The slender lines of your shoulder blades draw my gaze down your back. Peaking at me from your lower back (the side that's pressed into the mattress) is your scorpion tattoo. It's your off-center tramp stamp, though I'd never tell you that. You like to think of yourself as a lady. Whether a lady or slut, I love you regardless. I love you best when you manage to be both.

It's no wonder when my shoulders add depression to sloth as they slump a bit more into the mattress. You're wearing those damned granny panties. You used to wear sexy panties. Thongs were never your thing, but the panties you wore were always cute and sexy and a joy to slip off of your body. These damn flowery things are just in the way. It was enough to seal the deal and send me slipping off to Slumber Land.

Yet, from somewhere unknown deep inside my soul (presumably from the horny part of me), I thought I'd at least try and get lucky. Lightly grabbing your shoulder, I roll you on your back, hovering over you with intent. You look at me with confused and unsure eyes. I see the instant debate in your head. "Sex sounds nice, honey, but I'm tired and I'm watching the movie."

Wisely, you don't say the words I imagine you to be thinking. It's clear, however, that I have work to do if I want to get my dick wet tonight. And I also know that I'm not feeling particularly creative. I know that stirring you with kisses is hit and miss and you're definitely not ready for some love biting; unless I want to be shot down immediately.

What the hell. It has been a long time since I've showed you what a cunning linguist I can be. I can manage a bit of oral play on your pussy. If anything, it gets those ugly panties thrown on the floor sooner than later. Straddling your knees, my normal move when I start with the cunnilingus gambit, your eyes still read as not quite interested. Nevertheless, you lift your hips as I pull your panties all the way down, flinging them to some dark corner of the room where I wouldn't mind if they were eternally lost.

And there's your bush. It's an effort to not grimace. I've never known myself to prefer shaved pussy over hair pie. What you have there is just wild and unkempt. I remember when you used to joke about your celebratory shave when your period was over. I guess the end of menstruation isn't worthy of the celebration it once was.

To be fair, your overgrown pubic hair doesn't exactly turn me off. It just makes what I'm about to do a little bit more like a chore. Sure, between my saliva and your arousal, thick bushy pubic hair quickly comes out of play. Well, in for a penny.

I don't waste time kissing your tummy or the insides of your thigh. You really like it, but I'm just not quite in the mood to dally. I really just want to get to it. Well, there's more than that. I also want to make sure that you get your rocks off, too. I really do want you seeing stars. For all the internal bitching going on inside my head, I am madly in love with you. Oh, and I'm still a romantic at heart. Not only will I give you an orgasm, but I'm going to make sure that you have thee orgasm.

My left arm slips under your leg. From there, my arm quickly gets sore if I reach for your breast, so I let it lie inert on the mattress. My left arm comes into play later. My right arm is over your leg, where I can comfortably palm your other breast. I know how much you love it when I pinch and twist your nipples and you probably wouldn't complain if I started with that kind of play. But I'm a tease at heart and I know to not play all my cards at once. For now, only the light squeezing of my hand over the whole of your breast is all you get.

My tongue goes about the business of lightly licking at your pubic hair. For you, it probably feels like a tease before the game. For me, I'm matting down the thick growth of fur so I can get to the game. I hope you don't notice when I snort. You can't play baseball until the field is mowed. You'd kill me if I said that aloud. Game over.

A minute later, I'm grazing my lower lip across your bush, stopping to give a proper kiss in the vicinity of your clit. Your hip twitches towards my face. Have no fear; clit-play is eighty percent of my game. Repeating the same action, I think I can feel the petals of your sex starting to puff past your fur. So, no time like the present to get my tongue into the game.

My tongue starts to drag from your opening to your clit. The pressure is very light and tentative. There's no saliva and you're hardly wet. But that doesn't stop you from gasping and undulating beneath me. Alas, I know that in a few strokes, you'll stop moving and you'll relax. You're almost passive beneath the ministrations of my tongue bath. A long time ago, I learned to occasionally move my left hand over your tummy to gauge how taut it is. I listen to your breathing as best as I can from down here. I pay attention to where your hands are. If they're on the bed, I need to step up my game. If they're on your thighs, than I'm on the right track.

Apparently I'm on the right track.

My stroke stays consistent for awhile. In fact, the only thing that really varies for a time is just how much pressure I'm putting on your nipple. Of course you like it tweaked and pinched, but I know better than to be a human vice clamp. A hard twist here. A soft brush there. All in time to the metronome of my tongue and your pussy. Things are pretty straight forward and simple for me. I would never confess this to you, but that act of going down on you is basically rote in the middle part.

No wonder my mind wanders. Damn it all if I'm not suddenly paying attention to the television. Apparently it's a far better movie if I'm simply listening to it. I'm betting the butler did it, but I'm horrible at solving murder mysteries.

After listening to the television through two commercial breaks you let out a gasp. My left hand gently covers your tummy. You're not trembling, but there is a slight quake. I know that you're not going to have thee orgasm that I'm after, but I'm definitely zeroed in on you. Except that my neck is starting to hurt. Well, suck it up.

The next phase of my oral attack involves the play of my feet. The wall is close to the edge of bed and I press them both against it. This gives me just a bit of leverage to really grind my tongue into your clit and pussy. Not too much pressure so that I'm pushing you around, but just enough for you to notice.

Still, my neck is really tweaking me out. I decide to change my angle and focus on the opening to your pussy. I stab and press against the rim of your succulent and inviting opening. This is the only part of my game that I really feel kind of deficient in. My tongue lolls from my mouth like a, well, a tongue (I'm so prolific). There's no massive tentacle snaking from between my lips ala pornographic anime style. I'm pushing into you as hard and as much as it feels like I can, which is to say that I'm barely wading in the shallow end of the pool. I can't even tell that my tongue purchases any penetration. I'm just poking at your opening.

You grind into the mattress, so I know you like it. But now my bottom teeth are cutting into the underside of my tongue. Kinked neck and a sore tongue? I don't think so. I return to the familiar strokes of my tongue against your clit. I may as well call it the ole stand by. Whatever works, right?

Except that I think I've taken a step backwards. You're not grinding and gasping and you've become a bit silent. I don't mean the hold my breath oh god I'm on the edge of the most amazing orgasm ever kind of silence. No, I mean that you didn't cum; not even a little. You're probably stewing how you were right there and I loused it up.

For my part, I'm not happy about it, either. My dick is waiting to go where my tongue has been. My neck is sore. My eyes are starting to burn a bit, begging for sleep. And what's this? The next television show has started? Who was the killer? Shit, I hate missing the ending of flicks. It's made worse that if I never see the flick again I'll be better for it. But to make it all the way through the movie and miss the ending; it just seems so unresolved.

Sort of like your orgasm. I guess that's fair.

My right hand abandons your nipple and purposefully starts to slide down your body. The night isn't getting any younger and I'd really like to hurry along to your orgasm. I'm soon cupping your bum in my right hand, effectually pulling the lips of your pussy against my face. My tongue stabs a bit deeper into your opening from this angle.

My nose is wet. The smell of your aroused pussy is erotic. I catch the salty almost slimy tang of your increased arousal. Did you cum after all? My cock jumps against the mattress and for a moment I think about just sliding up your body and getting to the conclusion. Only for a moment.

Your ass settles back against bed, my tongue returns to your clit and my hand slides from your ass to your pussy where two of my fingers start to rim the opening of your sex. There is nothing surprising here. This is a dance we've performed a million and one times. I know you want me to slide my fingers deep inside your pussy. I also remember that time when I jumped the gun and you complained that I was a one trick wonder. Well, this pony has two tricks. Trick number one: tease the opening for a bit. Trick number two: slide fingers inside pussy. Damn, my oral resume is impressive.

Actually, I really like this part. I like to swirl my fingers around your opening with a circular touch. I love how you respond, your perfect ass (along with your legs, your best feature) rotating in sync with my touches. Your breathing is louder, too. You very seldom moan, and I'm okay with that. Hearing your arousal in your breathing though is a rush of blood to my cock.

I wonder if I'm focused too much on what my fingers are doing and not enough on my tongue upon your clit. Though my eyes are closed, I can feel my gaze shifting upward along your pussy. I tilt my head just a tick to the right. You growl this time, thrusting against my tongue and my touch. That little head tilt always does the trick. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because my spine is out of alignment. For all I know, it's because it puts my tongue delicately on the left side of your clit and it's more sensitive than the right side.

A commercial on television starts talking about car insurance. The one where the scruffy dude in the suit, calling himself Mayhem, talks about all the ways he's going to mess you up if you don't have insurance. Is it just me, or does that read like a Mafia protection racket? Did I pay the car insurance yet? No. Nor the electric bill. How many hours did I work last pay period? Thirty five, right? That should be enough for the bills and keep food on the table. God, I can't wait until my son grows up and I no longer owe child support.

Child support. Man, I'll never try to dodge that responsibility but the rules are harsh. I hate my job, but that's not good enough to quit and find something else. Those child support bills would just keep coming no matter how successful my job hunt was. I guess I could get fired for just the right reason (whatever that was) and I could stop paying support for awhile. Screw that. I'm not a dead beat. It's just that ...

"Oh, god. Baby," you say in the faintest of whispers. "Baby." I'm instantly and gratefully pulled back from the lost tangents of my mind to the task at hand. My left hand hovers over your tummy again, serving as my Orgasm Meter Reading as it were. Fuck, yes. You're close. I just have to not screw it up.

My tongue doesn't leave your clit as I exhale purposefully over your pussy. I call this, "Fogging the Mirror." I once asked you if you ever noticed me doing this and you said that you didn't. I still do it because you always groan, moan and grind.

I slide two fingers inside of your pussy. I've used more fingers on occasion, much to your delight, but it tweaks out my wrist if I go too long. Nah, two fingers are fine. I push my middle finger as deep as it can while my index finger hooks to where I imagine your fabled g-spot to be. I have no idea if I've ever hit that little unicorn, but I know right now you're really writhing against my licks and kisses.

A groan escapes your lips. I smile, quite pleased with myself. Back in the day, about now I would try and look up your body. I love to see your tummy shake and especially your face, so perfectly focused on the impending orgasm. You always seemed to know when I glance upward, though. Without fail, it always distracted you. No distractions, babe. I'm going to make you cum.

"Oh, god," you whisper again with a degree of urgency. The warm, fleshy swollen walls of your pussy are clutching my fingers that curl and push inside of you. Your hips electrically spasm about and it's hard to keep my tongue on your clit. My cock swells when you hold your breath suddenly. My left hand feels how tight your tummy is. The dual fingers of my right hand are trapped and barely able to move in the prison of your clenching pussy. Your hands are paralyzed in the air before latching upon my hair and holding my face against your sex, against the flood of your orgasm.

When you at last cry out, the first syllable is frozen in time before you manage to find the second. "Bay. Beeeeeeeeeee!"

This is the orgasm I was looking for. My fingers push hard inside of you before none too gently pulling out. My tongue presses at your pussy, now, and you jerk your hips in electrical bursts as you ride the crest of your orgasm. A staccato burst of whispering "Oh, gods," fill the room.

It's time for the test, the one where I make sure that you truly had thee orgasm.

My tongue laps your juices up towards your clit. I can feel the jolt spasm your body as I lick your clit and you retreat helplessly. It's too much pleasure for you. Undeterred, I flick against your clitoris again. Your hands go to my head in surrender, silently begging me to desist. I comply.

Moving up your body now, your hand is on my half-mast cock in seconds, pumping it desperately to a rock hard piston ready to fuck the living day lights out of you. Yeah. I had that thought. I can be full of myself, sometimes. Or maybe it was long overdue for me to claim you as my wife again.

You lined me up and I pushed. We know each other's rhythms very well and we settled into a give and take love making somewhere between furious and hard and gentle and serene. We look into one another's eyes. I wonder if you know what I'm thinking. Your pussy feels amazing. When I take the time to go down on you before we fuck, your inner walls are distended, puffy and capable of grabbing onto my cock like at no other time. It feels so great to be trapped inside of you. God, baby, I'm so madly in ...

***

My apologies, baby. I know reading this you must have been expecting the great payoff of our conjoined bodies sharing that incredible orgasm. But about that point, you took me out of my head. I love that you do that to me. I love that moment when I'm not a romantic and you're not a pragmatist. We're simply a man and a woman lost in each other.

There were no more thoughts. We fucked. We came. We came down.

I did wake up in the middle of the night. As always, you were beautiful as you slept. Do you know that as men, we fail across the board to help women realize this? Every man, at 3am, lying with a naked woman, lies with the single most beautiful creature on God's green earth. But that's the romantic in me, helped by a couple of cups of coffee and the chance to wake up.

Last night, in the middle of the night, the pragmatist inside of you was rubbing off on me. Things were far simpler in my sleep addled head. I was tired. You were beautiful. It felt good ... incredibly good. End of story.

And I slept.