Night's Rest, © 2000 by Dorothy B. Tyler
It's nine o'clock on a Friday evening. The kids are planning a late one, celebrating the end of school-night bedtimes, but the dogs and I are too used to our weekday routine. As they oblige me by going outside for a final pee, I gather up dog bowls, cat dishes, and sundry people stuff to load into the dishwasher. Each kid gets a hug and a kiss, wishes for a good night, and I let in the dogs. They know just what to do, immediately heading up the stairs for first shot at your empty pillow.
But it won't be empty tonight. You're home. Still wired from a hectic week at work, you're oblivious to everything, immersed in your latest Tom Clancy. You promised yourself a chapter a night, but it's a hard promise to keep.
"Good night, Sweetie," I call to you as I head upstairs.
You look up at me, startled out of the politics in your fiction and disappointment crosses your face.
"You're going to bed so early?"
"Not necessarily. I may read for a while."
I turn to climb the stairs, not waiting for your reaction. I understand if you want more time with your book, but I'm hoping you would rather spend the time with me. If not, there's always the morning.
I don't hear you, but you follow me upstairs. As I release the doorknob, having pulled the door partially closed behind me, not wanting to shut you out, you take it from me and pull the door open, stepping in and closing it behind you. I hear the lock click and my heart starts to race. Leaning back against the door, you reach for me and pull me into your arms, circling me, holding me close and tight as you move your lips to mine. Your kisses, which usually begin so softly and gently, are this time hard. One hand moves up to the back of my neck, holding my head, as the other moves down to cup my ass and pull me into you. You're hard already.
"Like this?" You ask, as you barely let air separate our lips.
"Yes, I like it very much."
"No, dopey. I said, "Like this," not, "Like this." Do you want me to hold you like this? Kiss you like this? Take you like this? I know you like it. There isn't much you don't like."
I answer by moving back into you and beginning another kiss. My hands are on your hips and move together to your crotch. Oh yes. You're hard.
Still holding the kiss, you drop your hands to my jeans, quickly releasing me from them, pushing them down, hands buried in my underwear to take them along for the ride to the floor. As soon as they begin the slide on their own, you return to my ass, pulling me into you harder, caressing me, cupping me, lifting me just enough to allow me to step out of the clothes pooled at my ankles.
You move one arm around my waist, bending me back with your kiss.
Your other hand snakes around to the front and slides between my thighs. Your mouth moves to my chest, circling a breast whose nipple shows clearly through the cotton of my shirt and the satin of my bra. I reach my arms under your face to grab my shirt and pull it over my head as you move a hand up to unclasp my bra. A one-handed trick which was the pride of your misspent youth and which does come in handy yet.
You release my nipple with reluctance when my shirt pushes against your chin, and roughly reattach when it passes. Impatient, you shove my now unclasped bra out of your way, moving from a snared breast to a free one. Lips over hard teeth, but gently, you capture me, sucking my small erection into your mouth, lavishing it with your wet tongue.
One-handed, you cup one breast, as your other hand begins to rub the length of my slit, fingers together to prevent any slippage inside, heel of your hand hard against my swelling clit.
My hands are still above my head, as I struggle to free myself from the cluster of straps and t-shirt, my glasses tangled in there somewhere. My coordination begins to suffer as my heat rises. Pushing my pelvis harder into your hand, trying to do the same with my breast at your mouth, I somehow manage to discard my impediments and finally stand before you naked, feeling more revealed than usual as I realize you are still fully zipped, buttoned and tucked. I reach for your belt to even things between us, but you straighten, pull me in to you, and begin to kiss me once more.
Pressing against the hard denim of your jeans, I can feel the growth of you and I want it. You know. You're smiling at me. Even as you suck my tongue into your mouth and press hard against my crotch. Even as your hand runs down my spine to cup the curve of my ass. Even with your eyes closed. You smile at me.
Slowly you back me up onto our bed. It touches my thighs, but you continue pushing me back, leaning over me as I bend. You stretch me out across the bed, lying flat on top of me. I can feel your hardness now as you roughly rub it against me, fully clothed against my nakedness.
Holding my hands high above my head, you reluctantly pull your mouth and tongue away from mine, and, like water flowing over me, you drag your entire body down against mine until your mouth again finds my breasts, the belt you wear hard against my clit, your fingers at my face. I suck them in, lavishing wet tongue licks on them in imitation of the actions you are taking at my chest.
You suddenly bring your hands to my breasts, cupping them, pushing them together. Your mouth is greedy at one nipple, your fingers at another. While you roll one roughly between two callused fingers, you bare your teeth to threaten the other that you still hold in your mouth, sucking it deeply, so that the tender tip escapes sharp edges.
My hands begin to grip the sheets as I anticipate what's coming. My slit begins to pulse with the incredible pounding of my heart. I wonder if you can feel it through the thickness of the clothes that you have yet to shed.
Keeping two hands on my breasts, each busy testing the height and hardness you have brought to their tips, you roll further down my body, dragging your tongue over my skin as you do. You stop to French my navel and I feel a bolt run from my belly to my groin. It's getting harder to lie still. I know what you have done to me in the past. I try to bring my level of excitement down, not to come too fast, trying to remain in the moment.
The moment when you are kneeling before my spread legs. You bring your hands to my thighs, gently pushing them further apart, pulling my butt closer to the edge of the bed, arranging the perfect view, the perfect access. I can feel your breath against my cunt. I can feel your eyes. I find it hard to wait to feel your tongue.
You begin with fingers. Gently, but firmly, you trace the nooks and crannies of what you see, first spreading open, then gently closing. Rubbing my lips together, you must be able to see and smell the moisture gathering there. You can surely hear me begin to mew.
Spreading them now, you lower your face to me, tongue extended, flat and strong, running it slowly up the length of me until the very tip slightly touches the hardness of my clit. Flicking it lightly, you roll your tongue back down. You don't say, "Not yet," but you don't have to. Again you lick upwards, again barely touching my sensitive bundle of nerves, backing off.
Both of your hands are needed now to hold down my thighs as I strain with each tongue stroke upward to catch you at my clit. Forearms along the skin of my legs, you keep your fingers free to keep access open for your mouth. Very open, as you spread my labia, allowing your tongue to dip into the cavity revealed.
Sucking now, you take each side of those lips seldom seen into your mouth, running your tongue around them, first one, then the other, then circling the mouth I make with them, rushing over my clit again and again, but not stopping, never stopping, pulling me higher and higher, but not granting me my release.
My moans increase, my thrashing, too. Realizing that even this small contact is driving me over the edge, you pull back, breathing soft kiss-breathes towards me as your fingers continue to massage me. You nuzzle your nose against me, warning me to take it easy, to ride it out, that there is still so much more to come.
As my panting begins to subside, as I manage to hold my torso firmly on the bed, you use your fingers while you carefully watch my cunt engorge with blood. You rotate your thumbs until they both touch atop my moistness and then you slowly insert them into me. Both of them, pushing in together, but separating inside me. Leaving an inviting space for a hard, driving tongue, you plunge yours into me, now pulling it up to land on the mountaintop of my clitoris. You surround it with soft lips, taking it all into your mouth, beginning to suck it gently, rolling your tongue around its base, over its top, pulling it into your mouth, pushing it firmly against the roof of your mouth, rolling it with your tongue.
Thrashing now in earnest, I know I haven't long before I lose it so I start begging for more. More fingers, more tongue, more lips, more sucking. With renewed vigor, you remove one hand as you plunge the fingers of the other into me. You begin sucking hard at my clit as you reach up to squeeze a breast, reach down to grip the flesh of my ass. The hand you have inside me moves in ways I can't translate into up or down, filling me, rubbing me. You release a thumb to lie along the crack of my ass, pushing, rubbing there, too. All the while continuing to pull my clit impossibly further into your mouth, sucking me hard, covering me with a moving tongue, pushing me higher, rising with me as my hips lift off the bed, ignoring my vulgar cries for more, my pleas for less, you know how much I can take, how much I need, how easy to push over the edge.
You ride me through the peak of my orgasm, waiting, waiting, knowing I'll cry out for you soon, when the pain of pleasure is just too much.
And then I do. "Now!" I demand it. "Now!"
Still you pull me into your mouth, bruising the nerves with the joy you give me, releasing your hands to free yourself from the clothes you still wear. Then you stand, spreading my lips once more, but this time for a different entry. Laying your hardness against me, you stroke my clit with it, never letting me down, watching my spasms continue. Then slowly pushing into me.
"Oh, yes." Your first words. "Oh, fuck me, yes."
You're standing now, hands at my hips, plowing into me, pulling me onto you, ramming your balls against my ass. You must hold me as I have lost control of my motions, twisting as if to get away from you and the ecstasy of an orgasm that won't stop, won't let me down, won't let me go.
Then you pull out of me and I cry in distress. You push me further onto the bed and roll me over, lifting me to get my knees on the bed.
And you climb up between them. Riding tall above me, you grab your shaft and plunge it into me again, again slamming your balls into me.
But this time it's not my ass that they bounce against, it's my clit.
No rest for me, no coming down. Minutes into my orgasm, I keep coming and coming, holding tightly to the sheets, pushing back hard against you, feeling the drag of you leaving me, the slam of your re-entry.
And then you finally begin to moan. Silent up to now, in control, your body takes over as you lose the rhythm of your dance. The cadence of enter and release changes from a steady, deep in and a long, slow out, to an unpredictable series of thrusts and pushes as you empty into me, holding me tightly, digging fingers into my flesh, pulling me closer than close.
Staying kneeling between my thighs, as your groin quiets its spasms, you stroke the skin on my back, murmuring my name. I slowly sink down onto the bed, taking you with me, feeling you spoon against me, still holding me tightly, trying vainly to maintain contact with the warmth and wetness of me, still tangled in clothes.
Copyright by Dorothy B. Tyler Tylerbrandt@novagate.com . All rights reserved. Not to be distributed, reproduced, or transmitted in any manner without the express written permission from the author.
About The Author: I am a stay-at-home mother of three teenagers. I have two dogs I adore, and a husband who travels much too much. My erotica is primarily the result of the kind of wishful thinking that keeps me up far too late at night, when my only companions are the four-legged kind. This particular piece was written especially for him.