Breakfast

The fade-sleep fog obstructs the view through sleep-blurred eyes; like framing a photograph through a glass partition, my mind comprehends the dream reflection as well as the waking world on the other side, one superimposed over the other in surreal clarity. The former is warm with soft wanting, the latter a cool kiss of morning air on drowsily aroused skin.

His form, passing the open door to my chamber, reminds me of my dream — sexual, decandent, delicious — and I crook a finger to beckon him in.

He comes to me, lays over me.

But this is not what I want.

It is morning. And I am… Hungry.

Wrapping a leg around his thigh and placing a hand on his shoulder, I use two limbs to urge his lips away from my neck and push him further down my body.

He is slightly startled by this turn of events, but hungry dreams have given me an appetite this morning and I expect him to sate it.

Guiding his head between my legs, I stretch and sigh as I open my thighs, giving one simple direction as his lips land on the swollen damp evidence of night-time’s desire aroused.

One. Simple. Direction:

.

.

.

“Eat your breakfast.”