Waking to Wanting

The dream had been filthy. Not the kind of hazy, half-remembered nonsense that usually evaporated by the time her feet hit the bathroom tiles, but a vivid, technicolor production starring some faceless man with a talented tongue and zero inhibitions. In the dream, Demi had been sprawled on a sun-warmed rock by a lake, her copper hair fanned out like a metallic halo, while this phantom lover worked between her thighs with the patience of a saint and the skill of a sinner. The orgasm had been building, coiling tight in her belly, a cresting wave that never quite broke.

Then the wave changed texture. Became softer, wetter, impossibly real.

Demi surfaced from sleep in stages, her body aware of the pleasure before her brain caught up. The first thing she registered was the heat—a concentrated, liquid warmth circling slowly, deliberately, around her clit. The second was the weight of the sheets, bunched down around her ankles, and the cool morning air kissing her bare breasts. The third was Ben.

Her husband was lying on his side next to her, propped on one elbow, his other hand buried between her legs. His fingers moved with the casual confidence of a man who had been doing this for years and still hadn't gotten bored of the topography. He was watching her face with a small, knowing smile.

“Morning,” he said, and pressed the pad of his middle finger directly onto her clit.

Demi’s hips jerked. A sound escaped her throat that wasn’t quite a word.

“You were making noises in your sleep,” Ben continued, as if they were discussing the weather. He traced a slow circle, feather-light, around the swollen nub. “Sounded like good ones. Figured I’d help you finish whatever started it.”

She should have been embarrassed. Instead, she let her thighs fall open wider, her heels sliding across the fitted sheet. The remnants of the dream clung to her like a second skin, blurring the line between fantasy and the very real, very wet reality of her husband’s fingers exploring her pussy with lazy precision.

“Don’t stop,” she managed, her voice rough with sleep. “Fuck, don’t you dare stop.”

Ben didn’t. He dipped lower, gathering the slickness that had accumulated at her entrance—she was drenched, had probably been wet since the dream took hold—and spread it upward, painting her folds with her own arousal. His fingers were a study in controlled torment. He would glide right up to the edge of her clit, circle the hood, apply just enough pressure to make her gasp, and then retreat to safer territory. Her inner thighs. The crease of her groin. The soft, sensitive skin just below her belly button.

Demi grabbed a fistful of pillow and groaned.

“You’re edging me.”

“Obviously.”

His thumb found her clit again, and this time he didn’t retreat. He pressed down with the flat of it, grinding in a slow, steady rhythm that made her see stars behind her eyelids. Her back arched off the mattress, her heavy breasts bouncing with the sudden movement. Ben’s free hand came up to palm one, his fingers finding her nipple and rolling it between thumb and forefinger with the same unhurried expertise.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his gaze tracking down her body. “Forty years old and you still wake up like this. So fucking ready.”

Demi would have laughed if she hadn’t been so busy trying not to come. He always got talkative when he was turned on, a mix of genuine appreciation and deliberate filth designed to push her buttons. It worked. It always worked.

He pinched her nipple, hard enough to make her gasp, and simultaneously eased off her clit. The sudden absence of pressure was almost painful. Demi’s hips bucked, chasing his hand, but he was already moving, trailing wet fingertips down her thigh.

“Ben.”

“Mm?”

“If you don’t let me come soon, I’m going to kill you.”

He chuckled, a low, rough sound that vibrated through the mattress. “Promises, promises.”

His fingers returned to her pussy, two of them sliding inside her with no resistance at all. She was so wet that the intrusion was nothing but pleasure, a deep, satisfying fullness that made her clench around him involuntarily. He curled them upward, finding that rough patch of tissue on her inner wall, and stroked it while his thumb resumed its lazy assault on her clit.

Demi’s world narrowed to the space between her legs. The dream, the morning light, the faint sound of birds outside—all of it faded into static. There was only Ben’s hand, Ben’s fingers, Ben’s relentless, patient destruction of her sanity.

“You’re so big here,” he said, pressing his thumb flat against her clit and rubbing in a circle. “I love that. Love how swollen you get. Makes it so easy to find.”

She was big there. Always had been. Her clit was prominent, a thick little pearl that emerged from its hood when she was aroused, demanding attention. Ben had always been fascinated by it, and right now, with the dream still humming in her bloodstream and his fingers working her with surgical precision, it felt like the center of the goddamn universe.

“Close,” she breathed. “I’m close.”

He knew. Of course he knew. He could feel her pussy fluttering around his fingers, could see the flush spreading down her chest, the way her copper hair was sticking to her temples with sweat. He increased the pressure on her clit, rubbing faster now, his fingers inside her pumping in counterpoint.

“Come on,” he said, his voice dropping to something almost tender. “Let me see it. Woke me up with those little sounds, now give me the real thing.”

The orgasm hit her like a freight train. Demi cried out, a raw, unguarded sound that she would have been embarrassed about if she’d had any brain cells left to spare. Her thighs clamped around Ben’s hand, trapping him there as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her. Her pussy spasmed around his fingers, her clit throbbing under his thumb, and he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just rode her through it with the same steady rhythm until she was gasping and pushing weakly at his wrist.

“Okay,” she panted. “Okay, okay. Fuck.”

Ben withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately, and brought them to his mouth. He licked them clean while maintaining eye contact, and Demi felt a fresh pulse of heat in her belly despite the orgasm that had just wrecked her.

“Good dream?” he asked.

“Shut up.”

But she was smiling, loose-limbed and boneless against the rumpled sheets. The morning light was stronger now, slanting through the blinds and painting stripes across their tangled bodies. Ben’s erection was obvious, pressing against her hip, but he hadn’t done anything about it yet. He was still watching her with that patient, hungry expression.

“Your turn,” Demi said, reaching for him.

He caught her wrist. “Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she was draped across his chest, her copper hair falling around them like a curtain. His hands found her ass—her big, round ass that he had been obsessed with since the day they met—and squeezed appreciatively.

“I want to take my time this morning,” he said. “We don’t have anywhere to be. Nobody’s expecting us. I want to see how many times I can make you come before I even think about my dick.”

Demi’s breath caught. “That’s ambitious.”

“I’m an ambitious man.”

He shifted her higher, positioning her so her pussy was hovering just above his face. Demi grabbed the headboard for balance, looking down at him with a mixture of anticipation and mild disbelief.

“You’re going to suffocate.”

“Best way to go.”

Then his mouth was on her, and coherent thought became a luxury she couldn’t afford. Ben ate pussy like it was his job, like he was getting paid by the moan and angling for a bonus. His tongue was broad and flat one moment, lapping at her from entrance to clit, and pointed and precise the next, flicking at her oversensitive nub with rapid, teasing strokes. He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked, and Demi’s vision went white at the edges.

She ground down against his face, chasing the sensation, and he let her. His hands were on her ass again, guiding her movements, encouraging her to ride his mouth. His stubble rasped against her inner thighs, a rough counterpoint to the wet velvet of his tongue, and she knew she’d have beard burn later and couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Fuck, Ben. Your mouth.”

He hummed against her, a vibration that traveled straight up her spine, and slid two fingers back inside her. His tongue never stopped moving, circling her clit, tracing patterns she couldn’t identify, dipping lower to taste the source of her wetness before returning to its primary target. He was relentless. Methodical. Absolutely fucking obscene.

The second orgasm built differently than the first. Slower, deeper, a pressure that started in her pelvis and radiated outward until her thighs were trembling and her grip on the headboard was white-knuckled. Ben sensed it—of course he did—and doubled down, sucking her clit into his mouth and flicking the tip of his tongue against it while his fingers curled inside her.

Demi shattered. She might have screamed; she wasn’t sure. Her hips rolled against his face in a primal rhythm, and he took it, took all of it, his mouth never leaving her until the last aftershock had faded and she was slumped against the headboard, gasping.

She climbed off him on shaky legs and collapsed onto the mattress beside him. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating at a frequency slightly out of sync with the rest of the world.

“Two,” Ben said, and there was a smugness in his voice that she would have found irritating if he hadn’t just earned it.

“Give me a minute.”

“Take your time.”

She didn’t need a minute. Her body, apparently, had decided that two orgasms were merely the appetizer. She rolled onto her side and reached for him, her hand finding his cock. He was hard, achingly hard, the skin velvety and hot under her palm. Average length, maybe, but thick enough to fill her perfectly, and she knew every inch of him by heart.

She stroked him slowly, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered at the tip. Ben’s eyes fluttered closed, and his hips lifted into her grip.

“Thought you were being ambitious,” she said.

“I am. Doesn’t mean I’m not dying over here.”

Demi smiled and shifted lower, her mouth replacing her hand. She took him deep, relaxing her throat the way she knew he liked, and was rewarded with a guttural groan that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest. She sucked him with the same deliberate patience he had shown her, bobbing her head slowly, using her tongue to trace the ridge on the underside of his shaft. Her hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten in her palm.

“Demi.” His voice was strained. “If you keep doing that, this is going to be over way too fast.”

She pulled off him with a wet pop. “Then maybe you should fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He rolled her onto her back, settling between her thighs, and guided himself to her entrance. The head of his cock pressed against her, and she was so wet that he slid inside in one smooth, glorious motion. They both groaned.

He fucked her slow at first, long, deep strokes that let her feel every inch of him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. He leaned down to capture one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking hard, and the dual sensation of his cock inside her and his mouth on her breast sent a fresh wave of pleasure cascading through her.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Ben, please.”

He gave her harder. His hips snapped against hers with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall, a rhythmic thumping that filled the room. Demi’s nails raked down his back, and he hissed but didn’t slow. His hand found her clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and she realized with a kind of delirious wonder that he was going to make her come a third time.

The sound of a floorboard creaking in the hallway barely registered.

Neither of them noticed the door, which had drifted open a few inches sometime during the night. Neither of them saw the figure that paused in the hallway, head tilted, listening to the unmistakable sounds of sex drifting through the gap. Marcus stood frozen, a coffee mug in his hand, his eyes wide. He had stayed over in the spare room after a late night of drinks and conversation, and had been heading to the kitchen when the rhythmic thumping and Demi’s breathless moans stopped him in his tracks.

He should have kept walking. Should have announced his presence, or retreated to the spare room until it was over. Instead, he found himself leaning against the wall, listening. The sounds were intoxicating—Ben’s low grunts, Demi’s high-pitched cries, the wet, obscene slap of flesh against flesh. He felt his own cock stir in his sweatpants and didn’t move.

Inside the bedroom, Demi was hurtling toward her third climax. Ben was pounding into her now, all pretense of patience abandoned, his thumb working her clit with urgent, circular motions. She could feel him swelling inside her, could tell he was close too, and the knowledge that she had driven him to this edge pushed her over her own.

She came with a wail, her pussy clamping down around his cock, and the sensation was enough to trigger Ben’s release. He buried himself deep and groaned, a long, ragged sound, as he emptied inside her. She felt the hot pulse of his cum, the way his body shuddered against hers, and held him through it.

They lay there afterward, tangled and sweaty and utterly spent. Ben’s weight was a comfort on top of her, and she ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. The morning light had shifted again, brighter now, and somewhere outside a dog was barking.

“Three,” Ben mumbled against her collarbone.

“Show-off.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling through both of them, and finally rolled off her. They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling, their breathing gradually slowing.

“I need a shower,” Demi said eventually.

“I need coffee.”

“You need to check if we woke up the whole house.”

Ben turned his head toward her. “Marcus is in the spare room, isn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“And Bonnie?”

“Went to her sister’s last night. She won’t be back until this afternoon.”

Ben processed this. A slow grin spread across his face. “So Marcus definitely heard that.”

“Probably.”

“Good.”

Demi snorted and swatted his chest, but she was grinning too. That was the thing about them—the thing that had kept their marriage electric for over a decade. They didn’t hide. They didn’t pretend. They liked what they liked, and they liked each other, and if their friends occasionally got an earful of their morning activities, well. That was just part of the package.

Ben got up first, pulling on a pair of boxers, and padded toward the door. He opened it fully and found Marcus still standing in the hallway, coffee mug now lukewarm in his hand, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Morning,” Ben said, utterly unruffled. “Coffee fresh?”

Marcus blinked. “Uh. Yeah. Just made it.”

“Great. Demi wants some too. Cream, no sugar.”

He walked past Marcus toward the kitchen as if nothing had happened. Marcus stared after him for a moment, then glanced toward the bedroom, where Demi was sitting up in bed, sheet pulled loosely over her chest, her copper hair a wild tangle around her shoulders. She met his eyes and smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, and finally managed, “I’ll just… get that coffee.”

Demi’s laughter followed him down the hallway, bright and unrepentant, the sound of a woman who had started her morning exactly the way she wanted to.