Love Fest…
Auburn Street
Concord NH
I miss my bedtime story!
I would get nice and comfy in bed. And, beg, I want your voice. It’s soothing!
Yup…I must be special…
No, one ever cared enough to change for me.
Whenever I asked for a bedtime story, it was delivered, no matter the hour, no matter the convenience or lack thereof, it just was…
But the beginning of the end of the night was always rough.
Well bed time story means I don’t get to talk to you no more….
Even I know that that isn’t proper English and there is nothing proper about me or my English Slaughter. UNH should have asked my parents for more money or perhaps, giving me a ride on a short bus to a technical school.
However, I am getting pretty good at this erotic writing stuff.
Late at night, when Beckett Couvillion is stuck between a rock and a hard place; hangin’ with Flatulent Father Floyd or the Shameless Mother Theresa. When all the doors had been shut, I would turn all the lights off and prepare myself for Kate’s bedtime stories.
I’d lie back, remove whatever might get in the way and I’d pretend that being a lesbian had been what I was meant to be. That I was okay, normal in a not really normal way!
Then the stories would come. And, so would I.
On rare occasions I just had to feel it! And, on even less frequent moments of shame-less-ness, I needed to let one other person know that I indeed could feel. It is a rare and beautiful moment for me when the shades are shut and I can masturbate my love to someone.
I turn you around. You’re up against the shower. Water is pouring all over you. I lick your neck. I caress your nipples until they become hard.
My stomach is press against the small of your back. You take my right hand and place it between your thighs. Water is everywhere. And, I can feel every inch of you in me.
You whisper for me to go slow and guide me to the sweet spot.
Your clit is hard and you press the flat of my hand against you. You gently move my hand to where you want it to be. You make a noise that is soft and I know you about to cum into my hand.
I’m so wet I rub my wetness against you and it only makes you want more.
Nice bedtime story, huh?
These shows, these fantasies I watch, do not do my homophobia justice. Locked in the attic the guilt my Adopt-A-Mother knowingly bestows upon me fills the shade with darkness. The knife and the cutting are only small facets of the release.
I carve on my inner thigh. I feel no pain for I am the pain. The only release is in the idea that an orgasm is only fingertips away and I am the owner of the key to that map!
