("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2014. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Saturday Morning by Lyndon Brown (indysheets@hotmail.com) *** Some time ago, I read an essay by Ravensclaw entitled "How to give someone an orgasmic dream." It inspired this story. (MF, wife, rom) *** I appreciate all comments and criticism. If anyone can offer instruction on uploading via FTP into my ASSTR account, I sorely need it! *** I woke before the alarm clock sounded and turned it off without disturbing Joan. I love lying in bed beside her on a Saturday morning, savoring sensations of warmth and comfort that never seem so intense at any other time of day. I could spend whole mornings with her in my arms, hitting the snooze bar over and over, staying on the threshold of sleep, reveling in her heat and fragrance, savoring the best part of my life in nine-minute gulps. She, however, insists on staying unconscious till ten. She was lying on her side, her head half on my shoulder, half on the pillow. She was uncovered to the waist, having, as usual, thrown the covers off her and onto me. Carefully, I shifted the double thickness of blankets, covering her without disturbing her. I kissed her forehead as I reached around to tuck the comforter under her. She smiled in her sleep, murmured and wriggled tighter into me, then settled in. I hoped she was dreaming about us. This time together was made even sweeter by our recent separation. A year ago I convinced myself that she was having an affair. She stonewalled my attempts to confront her. No explanations. No remorse. No reassurance. No attempts to sooth my feelings or counter my suspicions. Just, "If you loved me, you would trust me" and a defiant stare. I withdrew. My employer offered a transfer to another state and I jumped on it. Two months ago I realized I was only hurting myself by staying away. I found my cock stirring as I looked down her lush body. I had arrived late the night before, even later than usual. Her car wasn't in the drive when I arrived, but then, with traffic, weather, and the uncertainty about when I can leave the jobsite, the timing of my weekend commute is hard to predict. She pulled in as I was gathering the second load of luggage to carry into the house, and waved a pizza carton at me. Three microwaved slices and two glasses of wine later, we crashed into bed, without the usual "welcome home" lovemaking. Stray strands of her hair tickled my cheek. My fingertips smoothed it over her temple. There were small flecks of something in her hair, tiny clumps and knots. I began to comb it with my fingertips, straightening and untangling, and remembering. She wears her hair short now, tinted silver gray. When I first noticed her, in the dorm cafeteria, it was chestnut brown, parted in the center with loose braids over her shoulders. She wore it that way only the one day, but that is my first memory of her. I loved her with long straight hair. We would spend hours then with her lying on me, just kissing. Her hair would fall around us in a warm curtain, isolating us, focusing our attention into each other's eyes. The gray hairs were appearing, even then. When she turned thirty, defying fashion, she took it all the way gray, and short. I unbuttoned her sleep shirt and exposed her free breast. The pudgy nipple was still a bud, just beginning to stretch as I breathed on it. Her nipples are a rare treat. Occasionally she responds to full contact with lips and tongue, but generally her nipples are far too sensitive for extended play. This morning they looked red and puffy. I resolved to restrict my touch to the underside of her breasts and the upper slopes. I noticed more flecks of that gluey substance on her throat and sprinkled down into her cleavage. There was a small bruise on the inside of the breast. I kissed it tenderly. There is a sharp edge between arousal and awakening. If the timing is right, the sleeper, like my Joan, will incorporate sensual stimulation into her dreams. If technique and timing are precise and correct, it can lead to penetration and orgasm. If not, a sharp elbow and a cold shoulder. Guided by twenty years of trial and error experimentation, I began a walk on that tightrope. I started slowly. I formed a fist with my left hand, and began rolling it firmly against her spine where it met the very top of the cleft of her asscheeks. She murmured in her sleep, but her breathing stayed deep and regular. I massaged deeply, then slacked off. Firm, then gentle. When she shifted backward to maintain contact, I knew I had her. Ever so slowly, I eased her knee up onto my hip, paused as she adjusted her dream, then added gentle pressure to her mound with my right palm. She sighed, and her breathing grew even deeper and slower. I held her between my hands, applying just warmth and light pressure. I kissed her neck and the upper slope of her breast, clearing the odd speckles, watching the nipple slowly rise and the flush began to grow across her chest. After an eternity, she began hunching lightly against my palm. I extended two fingers of my left hand and began to massage the area between her labia and anus. She was surprisingly slick and sweaty. I dipped the fingers of my right hand into the moisture and began to spread it up onto her labia. She began to twitch, chasing my fingers as they circled sensitive areas. As I rubbed upward, over her clitoris, she jumped forward, then thrust strongly back. The unexpected movement caught my forefinger in her anus. It penetrated easily, slickly up to the second knuckle, but when she moaned. I retreated instantly. Her rosebud is off-limits to me, except when she needs that little extra push over the edge into orgasm. She did offer it to me, just once, three months before our marriage. She was resting, after her first orgasm, my cock in her mouth. She paused, looked up, and said, "Would you like to fuck my ass?" I eagerly positioned her on hands and knees, then dipped my cock into her pussy, just for lubrication. She went wild. Her orgasm triggered mine. I have mourned that one premature ejaculation for twenty years! After she settled, then resumed the thrusts against my hands, I rolled up on my side and slid my cock between her vaginal lips. The motion of her hips strengthened. I greased my fingers in her oils, parted her lips and began stroking her clit. She threw back her head. Her eyes never opened, but her face screwed up in that expression of tortured concentration that precedes her explosion. When my fingers left her clit, to guide my cock into her, she whined. I shifted the top half of my body back to improve the angle, then slid into her. We couldn't manage much length of thrust in this position, but she ground her pelvis against me with frantic strength. I stroked her, rubbing her labia as they stretched around my fully embedded erection. I slickened my fingers and slid them back up and around her clit. She moaned her need. Her hand seized my gently stroking fingers and crushed them against her. She craned her head far downward as if to watch our short battering strokes. She beat herself against me fiercely, convulsively, then exploded in orgasm. She curled up, sobbing for breath. I kissed the top of her head, snuggling her into my chest. My hands massaged her back and eased the trembling muscles of her butt and upper thighs. I slid within her, forward and back, just enough to maintain my erection, waiting. I cupped a breast, cradling her in my arms as she came down from a truly impressive climax. She stirred, turned her head, and gently bit my nipple. "Thank you," she panted, "That was fantastic! You were amazing, Eric. As always." I went cold and rigid. My hands clenched into fists. She gasped as my fingers crushed her breast. My name is Bob. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the hands of children. They should be outside playing in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 79