Feeling alive

I’ve been awake for two hours. It was a restful sleep, a warm, all enveloping sleep until I was dragged back into a state of consciousness. Now I sit in an empty kitchen, sipping black coffee with a few hours to myself. The husband lies asleep next door. Dawn is outside. All is quiet. My mind wanders.

Perhaps because I was looking at flights back to London last night, or IM’ing the cute barman and planning our first fuck, or perhaps because it has just been too damn long since I had a fuck (with or without the husband). I’m not sure. Whatever the reason, my mind was searching in my sleep. Searching for him. For that deliciously warm feeling of his naked skin on mine, his tongue on my neck, my breasts cupped and kissed, feeling his smooth hot hardness inside me. Fuck, I need a fuck.

I want to abandon myself to the blackness, the red fleshy sea. I want to feel alive, living just in that moment, to hell with everything else. I long, crave, desire. Him. Why is it always him? My older lover. My nights are filled with his scent, taste and touch. I could drink from him and never be satiated. Fuck, I need a fuck.