In which, Feve fellates Bon Jovi.
(Just Jon. Not the whole band.)
It’s after midnight, dark but for the gray-white glow thrown across the living room rug by the black and white TV. The flicker of light from the screen moves across my post-shower soft-terry robed form, and my flushed-warm skin prickles at his nearness.
Jonny.
It makes sense, but doesn’t, in the way that dreams do.
Soundless. Intimate.
Visually obscurate. Alive with sensory detail.
Plausible, impossible.
The ridges of his fingerprints trail sparks in a rough-soft singe against the backs of my thighs; their imprint sends blush-fire shivers down my spine, awakening a long-unquenched thirst.
Taste.
I am liquid light dawning, flowing over the red-fire landscape of his lean, swallowing his hard, coaxing the salt-sweet glistening spring forth from within his well of desire. My lips form an open-O kiss at the root of his cock, and I am flooded with dream-state sensation:
his veins swell tighter, pulsing outward along his turgid length, filling the spaces between my swirl-lick tastebuds;
the drenched velvet of his swollen head twitches with heartbeat spurts of glistening pre-cum, lubricating the back of my throat;
the earthy spice of his arousal saturates the air between us,
and the tickle of his pubic tuft against my nose echoes in the pinprick itch of my nipples grazing against the fleeced lining of my robe.
There is more –
impressionistic and scattered, in the haphazard style of Picasso-paint dreams
– and I feel…
- the turgid ridges I so recently tasted grow more pronounced as they stretch against the tight-framed canvas of my need, painting pleasure in a spectrum of warmth;
- my nails dig into my palms with the force of my grip, holding his silken strands in pull-tug demand.
. . .
Yes, there is more.
Jon is dimpled chin and faded jeans, feel-good music and not-so-bad boy mischief, and we rock to the rhythm we instinctively hear in one another before rolling – beat to beat to slap/slide/thrust/arch beat – again.
The sound of mewling —
Wait.
Sound?
Mewling…?
The silence of my dream shatters in the abrupt-awakening demand of dark-hour morning. Staring accusingly back at my blurred-sight searching gaze from behind expectant eyes is a hungry feline, who is demanding his breakfast.
I blink awake, exhaling the breath I didn’t know I was holding, and slowly stumble out of bed.
As I walk toward the kitchen, shuffling reluctantly into Day, the dream-induced slick between my thighs makes me smile. Diverting me from the mundanity of my morning chores, the slipping slide serves as a somatic reminder of an album-title truth:
Slippery When Wet
.
Excellent! Thats cats for you – gotta love em 😉
He has timing, that’s for sure.
Really BAD timing. 😛
What a dream, and tsk at that cat!
He has a knack for interrupting at the WORST times!
Aw but cute though!
I absolutely love this…and not just because I can relate with my own recently interrupted erotic dreaming. The way you describe your dream…I could almost see it in my own head. And damn that cat (no matter how much we love them) for disrupting!
Getting the surreal-but-somatic nature of dreams into words that people can ‘see’ is a challenge. So that’s a lovely compliment! Thank you. 🙂
And yes, “Kitten Interruptus” describes SO many parts of my life — ack! 😱
” tight-framed canvas of my need” — Feve, you have such a way with a phrase. Lovely.
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Thank you. 🙂
Wonderful wordplay, beautifully painted picture of words and a hot, beautiful fantasy. Really enjoyed reading this.
Thank you!
My imagination runs wild sometimes; it’s usually best to just hang on for the ride. 😉
Beautifully poetic and highly erotic! Darn those cats, but we love them anyway. I just don’t understand how one little feline can create so much force that she feels like a herd of elephants running over me when she decides it’s time to party at 4AM. *rolls eyes* Oh and I love Bon Jovi too–especially Slippery When Wet. 😀
Best Bon Jovi album EVAR. 😀 (And now I have even more reason to like it. 😛 )
And the herd of elephants: I know right?!? I get tromped awake when he’s hungry at 4:00am. Every. Morning. I haven’t yet been able to convince the little bugger that it’s not my problem til at least 6:00. (And it’s been 12 years.)
Cat: 43,763
Feve: 0
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