Almost Cold

Every now and again, I don’t hear your alarm. It goes off at 4:45 whenever you work days and I usually grumble quietly, nudging you to try to get you to turn it off quicker. But sometimes I’m so deeply asleep I don’t even stir. You get up, stretch, knock over your roll-on deodorant in the dark and mutter for fuck’s sake while you retrieve it from under the bed.

After your trip to the bathroom you get dressed, jangle your keys and money into your pockets before snuffling out a soft laugh because I’m either lying with my bum in the air, or my arm draped across your bedside table, or with one brave foot jutting out from my cocoon if it’s a chilly morning.

And on those mornings when sleep chooses not to let go of me, I’m oblivious to it all.

But sometimes…sometimes something stirs me. I don’t know if it’s the snick of the front door locking, or the soft thud of your car door being pulled shut. It could be the hum of the engine, or maybe it’s just that I sense you getting further and further away from me. Whatever it is, it coaxes me gently from sleep and the first thing I do is roll over to find you.

All I find is unoccupied space. I’m not one of those people who rise from their beds to go looking for their missing bedmate. No, I always know where you’ve gone. But I still feel a sense of loss, and when I move slightly over so that the bed doesn’t feel so big without you, I’m disappointed to feel that your side is almost cold. It’s at this moment, in the cold dark of morning, when I long for your heat the most.

While I lie there feeling sorry for myself, something I’m already aware of occurs to me anew.

Your pillows smell of you.

Sliding my hand between them, I’m delighted when I detect a pocket of lingering warmth. I cling to it, push my face into the soft fabric, breathing you in and pausing between each exhalation to stop my nose getting used to your scent too quickly.

I’m still sleepy, lonely and cold, but I’m feeling something else now, too. What follows always begins with the lightest touch. Barely there brushes over a soft, flat nipple. My eyes are closed and I’m thinking about you as I breathe in the scent that is all you. Your smile. The sound of your laugh. That glint you get in your eyes when your mind strays from whatever mundane task you’re performing to something involving sex.

With those few strokes and a few innocent thoughts of you, my nipples are both hard. And I choose to ignore them, just for a moment. Instead, I stroke my chest. My collar bones. Trip the tips of my fingers up the side of my neck, just the way you do. It doesn’t feel the same, but it still feels good. So does running my hand through my hair, brushing my thumb over my bottom lip, taking my fingers into my mouth and sucking.

When I start to think about sucking your cock, I realise my hips are moving. I burrow further into the bed, leaving saliva trails on my chest as I reach for my nipples. The wetness makes them ache for your mouth. You have this way of holding them between your teeth while your tongue rolls across them that makes my toes curl. I nip, roll and squeeze, trying to make myself feel all those things you make me feel.

My breaths come in shallow rattles, and because I’ve parted my lips I can no longer smell you. For a moment I feel bereft, so I press my lips together, bury my face deeper into your pillows and inhale, tugging at the pillow on top until it’s nestled against my chest. When I twist my hips the blanket lifts and I get a flash of cold air on one butt cheek. My skin is so hot it feels like a slap, and that gets me to thinking about the spanking you gave me before we went to sleep.

I can almost hear the harsh smacks as my hand kneads my fleshy belly. I remember how tightly you’d grabbed my cheeks to part them as I open my legs and drag my nails over my thighs. Smiling into your pillow, I stroke my fingers over my knickers. Oh, the noise you’d make if you could feel how wet they were! I know exactly what you’d do. You’d grind your groin against whatever part of me it happened to be touching, and you’d bite my shoulder and tell me how much you wanted to feel my wet cunt coming around your hard cock.

My fingers snake beneath the sodden fabric, seeking out my clit straight away. My writhing shifts your pillows until my tits are pressed into one and the other is between my knees. Fuck, I’m soaked. Not just with the juices that always flow from deep inside me whenever I think about you, but with sweat and my own saliva.

I don’t tease myself. I can’t because I’m thinking of the way your cock feels when you fuck me, the sound my ass makes when it slaps against your skin, the way you fist my hair, mash my face into the carpet and growl out, if you want it beg for it, fucking cumslut.

Even though you’re not with me I still whisper, please give it to me, I need to feel you cum in me. Grinding against my hand, against your pillow, I imagine I can feel you leaning over me, curling into me, you hot breaths exploding over my back as you empty your balls inside me.

And I stiffen. Gasping in little gulps of air, I cling to your pillows and come.

I lie there, still panting, still shuddering with each weakening pulse my pussy squeezes out, and I feel suddenly sad. All of that because of you… for you… and you weren’t there to feel it. But, as I straighten the blankets and snuggle in to go back to sleep I think of something that makes me smile.

Your side of the bed isn’t almost cold anymore because, despite your absence, you still helped me warm it up. And you might not have felt me coming for you, but you’ll know it happened, even though I won’t utter a word of it to you. How will you know? When you lay your head down to sleep tonight, your pillows won’t just smell of you. They’ll smell of us.

Prompt #294: Twenty-One

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