We all have them…the pleasures we reserve for nights on our own, for those times when no one else is watching. Mine?
An unmade bed.
Let me clarify: my bed, with no sheets. Just the mattress cover. Sometimes even without pillow cases (gasp).
It’s laundry day. I’ve stripped the bed. The comforter is piled at the foot of it, the mattress cover says, ‘please, cover me in soft linens!’
Of course that’s what a good girl would do. She would never lay down in an unmade bed, with no sheets, her body naked, the seams of the mattress cover scratching her just-washed skin.
I’m a linens snob, I admit. If I was snooping for clues about a person, the first place I’d look would be what kind of books they read, the next would be the quality of their bed linens.
So then, yes, this guilty pleasure of mine – sleeping in an umade bed – seems a little…incongruous.
But I revel in it. I hope that the day I do my whites laundry, neither of my loves has decided to stay over. It’s just me! Hooray! It feels naughty, and maybe a little indecent – “oh my heavens, you did what?”
I lay in my bed, knowing that no one else will ever get to share this with me. Knowing I am alone in my … lol … “bed of inequity”. It feels good. The mattress pad’s seams are a little scratchy – indecent things should be a little uncomfortable to bear, shoudn’t they? I wriggle down, feeling the comforter atop me with no sheet between. Every sensation feels exciting and raw, specific and integral to this moment.
My hand strays to my pussy.
I am already moist, my lips soft and slippery, my mind drifting to other things, other sensations, other places. I remember two nights ago…
In the park, surrounded by about a thouand people, with the darkness decending as the movie started. I am laying against his side, one leg up to disguise what I am doing from our friends, who relax to watch the movie near us, the other leg twitching as my excitement mounts. My hand is between his legs, sometimes atop his shorts, sometimes snaked inside his pantsleg, where he has removed his underwear for me.
(This is one of those weird moments that I have, being in relationship with a switch. That simple instruction: remove your underwear for me – engenders such an erotic reaction. In us both. How is it that it has never been something I’ve experienced with him? How, as a top, does he not understand the eroticism of that demand? And yet, as a bottom, he obviously does…)
I grasp at him. Feel him respond to my touch, to my desire. To my commands,
“Do you want me to come?” he says, his lips against my ear. “Here? With all these people around?”
“Yes,” I say, “I want you to come for me. Here.”
A shuddering breath. Mine or his? Maybe both.
My excitement build as his does, every clandestine touch, every gasped breath, every repressed moan. My fingers dance over the fabric of his shorts and he shudders.
In my bed, alone, I moan, my fingers dancing over my clit, my back arching in bed. I remember. Oh god oh god I want to come…
I want him to come. Right there, in a crowd of people, because no one has ever made him do that before. Because it’s wrong. Because fuck I want him to release that last bit of control to me…
I buck against him, against his body, so near to orgasm when he finally comes that I might as well be there with him.
In my bed, I pant. I want to be there. I could…so easily…
I do not have permission.
In my mind, laying on that bare mattress, I see us there. I feel us there… The tension, the excitement, is mirrored in my bed now, as my fingers slow, as I pull away, as I deny myself.
I smile, remembering that last moment, his gasp of pleasure as he finally released, there on the hillside, with thousands of people all around. People all around, and yet, it was incredibly intimate.
Just as this space is now, in my bed. Alone. And yet connected to him. Obeying. Submitting. Even here. Even alone.
My cunt twitches one last time. I ache for release. But I ache more for his approval. And so…I curl down into my unmade bed.
My guilty pleasure.