She’s asleep beside me, snoring comfortingly.
For me, sleep won’t come, so I sit at the edge of the mattress and stare.
The bedroom by night seems an infinite void. The darkness reflects things back at me like a polished mirror.
I see life’s trials, great and small, all insurmountable. Agonizing details burrow through me like toothy worms. The bedroom unfolds into a mental landscape, a desert of bleak tracks and dry wells.
Life is bare. The future is uncertain.
Tears would be a relief, but they don’t come. So I sit and stare.
The darkness conjures up words and phrases, concepts and ideas. Dread. Anguish. Desperation. By daylight, words can be dismissed with laughs, intellectual rationalizations, distracting chores. By night, they swell to fill the void and seem larger than life itself.
I feel alone.
Behind me, she stirs.
I freeze, hold my breath.
I hope she will not stir again.
I should be alone. If even my body fails to comfort me through sleep, then I must be beyond help. The desert should be mine; no others should suffer it.
I want her to stay asleep.
But she doesn’t.
Her breathing changes. The sheets pull and twist beneath me. I hear movement.
Her hand finds mine and brushes against it. I can feel her desire to pull me back down under the covers, and rest by her side.
But I don’t move. I have no desire to lie back down. I prefer to sit up, eye-level with my melancholy.
No words are spoken, but she senses.
The bedding rustles as she rises. I feel fleshy breasts press into my back. Hands wrap around my chest and clasp one another, and her forehead pushes into my neck.
Her body fails to relax me. I sit ramrod straight, a tower of sharp nerves. I’m still looking at the darkened room, seeing calamity after calamity, each one a cut that bleeds me dry. Life as the walking wounded.
She doesn’t ask. She knows everything I know. Yet she hugs me close, as if her mere presence could dispel the gloom.
It won’t.
I want to apologise, beg forgiveness, then push her away.
She knows it.
A sigh. Her hug loosens.
I expect her to fall back into the bed.
Instead, lips touch the back of my neck.
I shudder.
Her hands slide across my belly. One drops lower.
I see what’s happening. I reach down to stop her.
Her other hand intercepts mine, holds me in place forcefully.
Lips touch the back of my ear. Hot breath covers my cheek. My limp cock is delicately massaged by her fingertips.
My desolation should leave me drained, empty of appetites. But instead, I grow hard very quickly. My cock expands out into her fingers, which tighten into a firm clasp.
Lips press against my cheek.
A moan escapes me.
She pulls my cock gently. Each stroke makes my groin tingle.
She leans into me with thick breasts and hard nipples. Her free hand runs up to my chest and tweaks my nipple.
She runs a thumb over the swollen plum of my cockhead. The feeling causes a stinging pain. I enjoy it.
My teeth clench and grind. I taste enamel.
Her fingers brush down against my balls, tangle themselves in pubic hair, then rise up to clench me.
I feel tense around my eyes, and squeeze them shut. The darkness of my eyelids is different from the bedroom at midnight.
She keeps stroking.
I’m still sitting upright, spine still arrow-straight . But my mind – still wallowing in the dark – can’t keep ignoring the feelings in my body. Those empty wastes are eclipsed by other vistas – curving breasts, smooth lips, loving hands.
I realize I’m breathing fast and making little gasps. Her strokes get faster, her grip tighter.
Desire unwinds my tense muscles. I feel cravings, needs that, moments ago, seemed far away.
One of my hands reaches back and touches her thigh. It’s rich and fleshy, like her breasts. Like her kisses, her arms and stroking grip.
Skin and warmth.
Lips and strokes.
I’m touching her thigh, and it’s enough. It’s too much. I’m going to come.
She knows it.
She leans back, pulling me down on top of her.
Come spurts out in sharp, painful ropes, splashing up my chest and belly. I make a low groan that doesn’t do justice to my orgasm. A sensation of heat fills my cock and spreads around my body, and I spasm slightly, and the warmth of my semen is as rich and soothing as her embrace.
Her strokes get slower, milking me down to a few sticky rivulets. Her fingers slide down and run through my pubic hair again, and I shudder.
For a moment, I don’t breathe. Another moment, and I’m still not.
Then the tears start. I can breathe.
She wriggles out from behind me, letting me rest on my back. She curls up beside me and puts her arm over my chest, streaking her fingers through drying pools of semen.
Tears flow. I’m not wailing or bawling, or wracked with sobs -just gentle streams from my eyes that she lies beside me through.
I cry, until I stop.
The darkness reflects nothing but dread. I see the desert. I am alone.
But the moment of lust has stirred and loosened me. And I know the night won’t last forever, and when I wake, the room will smell of sex and she will be there to smile about it with me. The world will be busy and bright.
I sleep.
© 2012 Elliot DeLocke. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Bio: Elliot DeLocke was born in small town Australia and raised in big city Southeast Asia. Having spent so much time abroad, he has since returned to Australia. He works in local government by day and writes by night. He’s interested in fantasy and horror, feminism and history, politics and poetry, and how human sexuality connects it all together. He’s battled wildfires and insomnia to be here, and feels very grateful to have the chance to share his stories.