In the Dark

It hit me in the dark, in that funny space between consciousness and the blissful nothingness before the dreams start; that place where you try to silence the cacophony in your head, your eyes flickering under closed lids as the images flash by. Just as the voices started to become muffled, and the pictures darkened and stopped flickering, the image was there, as vivid as the moment it happened: his voice, quiet, with a smile behind it; his eyes dark with desire but still crinkled at the corners; his body lean and tense, poised over me.

With that small fissure opened, related images tumbled around, fighting for my attention, their clarity and intensity sucking the air out of my lungs and causing an involuntary rush in my groin. I could remember the small details of each incremental moment of satisfaction we’d had; I could also remember the mounting frustration that each brought, knowing that the next step could be so much better, if we’d just take it.

And then the image was back; him, poised over me, my heart still hammering in my chest from the last hit, the memory of his mouth against my flesh and his tongue flickering over concentrated nerve endings. I wanted more; he moved between my legs, leaning over me. His one hand came under my hip, tilting me closer to him, and I could feel him hard against my wetness, heat radiating from him. His face was close enough to see his lashes and the smile lines near his mouth; I could smell the faint traces of his soap. I wrapped one leg up over his hips; he was lean and his skin smooth, the curve of his lower back irresistible.

“I hope you’re not claustrophobic,” he murmured, almost rhetorically, as he wrapped his other arm over my head, not giving me a choice to protest, as if he knew I wouldn’t. He shifted his hips, and in one swift movement, buried himself inside of me completely, the base of his shaft thick. All the desperation and frustration of the previous day faded; there was a moment of instant satisfaction in feeling this full. The day before I’d found myself wanting to be inside of his skin, unable to get enough; now he was inside of me, literally, and I realized I’d underestimated how good this could feel.

I wrapped my legs tighter, running my hand across his smooth, warm skin curving perfectly over his ass, letting his hardness penetrate as deep as it could while my hand urged him on, the rush not far away. He hit a rhythm, keeping me tight against his body, and I shifted my hips, trying to take as much of him as I could, feeling the pressure mounting. And then it hit me in huge, perfect waves that made me twist and arch and cry out, the blood rushing in my head and muffling all the sounds in the room, except my own laugh: a deep, comfortable, satisfied laugh that I could feel in my stomach, which burst out without plan or forethought as the waves subsided. It was perfectly unexpected, much like the whole experience.

And now, here in the dark, without him covering me and filling me, I shut out the other images and sounds, letting this one brief moment replay over and over on the screen in my head, my fingers a poor substitute, but a substitute nonetheless. And after the ensuing wave hit then receded, sleep crept in, pushing the images back into the dark recesses where they would nestle comfortably until I wanted them again. The smile, however, I couldn’t hold back, even in the dark by myself.