My Reality

We prepare for bed, make love and sleep naked. The blinds on our bedroom windows are always open. The windows face a very private backyard; there is only one house behind ours and it is very distant. Yet, if anyone wants to stand in our back yard at night and look up, they can see us naked, walking around getting ready for bed. I don't think there is much to see because our room is on the second floor. Her breasts are gorgeous, and certainly would attract the attention of a voyeur, but it seems to me that little else of interest would be visible looking up from the ground into our room. Nonetheless, I do sometimes wonder if we are being observed and even fantasize about the possibility.

We watch television in bed before going to sleep. The lights are turned off and the room is softly lit from the flickering glow of the television tube. Before making love, one of us will press the mute button on the TV remote and the sudden quiet enables the sounds of the great outdoors to be heard through our windows. Some nights are stormy, loud and unsettling; on these nights, the wind shakes our windows and thunder claps can be heard from near or afar. Storms do not disrupt our passion, but rather, set a different mood, hastening the pace and intensity of our lovemaking. Fortunately, most nights are not violent and the sounds of the outdoors are more subtle. Rain is always pleasant and the gentle pitter patter comforts us, even excites us as we embrace. But, with rain, we become melancholy and fall into a mood inspiring slow, gentle love making. And the many deadly still nights are strangely erotic too. These are the nights when only the crickets and an occasional bark of a dog can be heard. Tonight is such a night, a hot, sultry August night in Georgia.

The sounds of nature are now lost, drowned out by passion. Her guttural noises fascinate and thrill me. Building slowly to a crescendo, each moan gets a little louder than the last, peaks, then gradually subsides until reduced to a gentle whimper. This pattern repeats itself with the peaks getting noticeably closer together as her passion grows. At last, these mini-climaxes become one and her long, loud shrill fills me with joy and wonderment. We are one, blended together physically and spiritually, as our bodies relax and go limp molded one to the other. I often wonder what it is like for her. I'll never know, she says, because of my maleness. It's difficult to explain and I wouldn't understand anyway, she tells me. It doesn't matter; the sound of her pleasure is always music to my ears. The more and the louder, the greater my excitement and the more I want my maleness to remain inside of her forever.

But, inevitably, I must withdraw. I console myself by caressing her body, gently and slowly running my fingers and palms from head to toe. I notice my touches are now affecting her differently, as her eyelids close and her breathing becomes heavy. Men are often accused of rolling over and falling asleep prematurely, but not this man. It is she who soon sleeps while I bask in the euphoria of afterglow. If I smoked, I would light up now. Instead, I turn off the TV and the room fills with darkness.

We are stranded in the wilderness of a Louisiana bayou. Our airboat engine broke down and we are miles from civilization. Nightfall is fast approaching and we are in desperate need of shelter. Our clothes are wet, torn and filthy. We are miserable and sweating profusely, partly due to fear and partly because of the oppressive heat and humidity. Tomorrow, a search team will find us (at least, that's what I tell her), but for now, we are all alone in a dangerous place with only alligators to keep us company. After searching for miles, we finally stumble upon a deserted cabin. We break in the front door and soon collapse on a small bed found in a corner of the one room cabin. We fall asleep and awake hours later, revived and grateful to have a roof over our heads.

She turns on her side, inviting me to spoon. I am much taller, but she has a womanly shape which makes the fit just right. I slip one arm under her pillow to get it out of the way and, with the other wrapped around her, I cup her breast. Our knees connect perfectly, the front of mine to the back of hers. My penis pushes into the crack of her buttocks and, though satisfied, grows slightly. Her back is securely pressed against my chest and my lips are free to kiss her neck and shoulders. She turns her head toward me and we exchange kisses on the mouth and words of love.

I am awake and stare out the bare windows. Each night, as I hold her tightly against me, I am fascinated by the differing views and take note of the fact that this is one of those very dark nights, when the moon is hidden and reflects only the slightest amount of light back to my little spot on planet Earth. There is just enough moonlight for me to see the faint shadows of trees in the distance and nothing else, just darkness. And it is quiet, but I can still discriminate distinct sounds, such as the crickets, the hum of the overhead fan, the occasional creak of the house and, my favorite, the sound of her breath. Now, slower, deeper and more audible, it has become the dominate sound of the night.

It is pitch black and nearly two o'clock in the morning according to the position of the reflective hands on my watch. We slept soundly for nearly five hours, both of us totally exhausted from our ordeal. With no light source available to us, we realize there is nothing we can do to improve our plight until morning light. We talk for awhile, especially about strategies for being found, so we can be rescued. We also speculate about the cabin: Who owns it? Will they return soon? Will they be mad?

Our sweat-soaked clothes are uncomfortable, so we remove them. Not being able to see her, but aroused by the thought of her nakedness, I now desire her sexually. After all, we are a man and a woman, lost in the wilderness, in love, alone, stranded in bed, surrounded by darkness. What else is there to do? Nothing, I decide after two or three microseconds of serious contemplation.

Not fully recovered from the physicality of loving, I am hot and her body pressing against mine heightens the sensation. I roll on my back and push the covers off me, while carefully keeping her covered. She gets cold easily, even in the summer, and I don't want to spoil the moment by causing her to get agitated. Now, I am aware of a new sensation as the breeze from the overhead fan caresses my exposed body and causes the sweat to evaporate from my skin. This has a wonderful cooling effect that seems to instill new life in me. My skin tingles with delight and even arousal. I need her next to me now, so I pull the covers up and once again resume our intimate embrace. I caress and kiss all of the parts of her body I can reach in this our standard after-play position.

Sometimes, my brain sends false signals to my body; or, maybe, it's the other way around. I'm not sure which it is, but I find myself once again sexually excited even though we just finished making love. She has that effect on me. I have always been drawn to her sexually in a powerful way, but my feelings certainly transcend sex. It was love at first sight years ago and my love has only grown deeper over time. This, coupled with the fact that my emotions and my genitals are hard wired, causes some sort of bodily confusion to take over. I am not young any more and a second release is not necessary and, probably, not even possible. Yet, in spite of this physical limitation, my emotional need for her grows stronger with each passing minute.

We wake up again after another few hours of sound sleep. We observe the early morning light shining in the cabin and understand it will soon be time to go about the business of being rescued. The sex I desired in the middle of the night didn't happen; we were just too tired. So now, we go at it hard, fast and furious. She cries out and our bodies turn to mush.

Almost simultaneously, we spot two shadows in the doorway and realize we are being watched. She screams, only this time not from pleasure, and quickly covers herself with the bed sheet. We fearfully notice that each of the shadowy figures is holding a shotgun in his hand.

Predictably, we change positions and she is now spooning me. Her body envelops me and I take comfort in her warm embrace. Her breath falls upon my ear and I instinctively synchronize our breathing, so each is in unison with the other. This breathing ritual, performed nightly, is an important rite of coupling; it is part of our oneness. And I feel her breasts flattened against my back. And I feel pubic hair stubble rubbing against my buttocks like sand paper. She shaves, but not frequently enough to avoid stubble and heightens the sensation by grinding her hips as she settles in against me. Even in her sleep, she senses my needs and, without warning, slides her hand slowly down my chest, belly and pelvis until she reaches her destination. Once there, her fingers gently fondle my penis until it is fully erect.

She is a sleeping hard-on maker who gives no conscious thought to her actions. Like most women, she is genetically wired to excite penises. It matters not that she is unconscious and unable to fully enjoy the fruits of her labor. On most nights, this is not a problem. I merely enjoy the sensations until my erection subsides. Her fondling then becomes after-play and a pleasant prelude to sleep. Tonight, however, is different. I was aroused even before she began her erotic playfulness, so now I am more than ready for her. In truth, I have seldom wanted her more than right now, at this very minute. Whether or not my semen spurts is of no concern. We will each take our pleasure in our own way.

My mind is playing tricks on me again and, before long, I feel the sexual tension slowly slipping away. I must reluctantly accept the present reality that there will be no more sex tonight. She is no longer fondling me, but still holding my now flaccid penis in the palm of her hand. The symbolism is not lost upon me. Both literally and figuratively, she has me where she wants me, limp and weak, defeated by her sexual power over me. My hormones no longer pose a threat. Tomorrow will be different; she will want me firm and ready for action. But, for this night, she is secure in the knowledge that I am harmless and a good night's sleep is in the offering.

"Howdy, folks," says one of the brothers. "Y'all sure put on one heck of a good show. And ma'am, you sure are a pretty thing. Did you save anything for me?"

"Shut up, Bo! Don't be a jerk," says the other.

"You're right about that, Luke. I'm sure sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to forget my manners. But y'all are trespassing on our property. Did you break in just to hump like two horny teenagers?"

She and I then relate our story in full, assuring them that we will gladly pay for the damage to their door, in addition to compensating them for any other trouble we may have caused.

Luke says kindly, "Why don't y'all jump into our pickup? We'll give you a ride into town where you can make arrangements to have that airboat towed."

She says sweetly and genuinely, "I don't know how we'll ever be able to repay your kindness. Thank you so much."

I am wide awake and in a place mentally where an insomniac would panic, creating a self-fulfilling prophesy that he will toss and turn all night and not be rested for work in the morning. But that is not me; rather, I enjoy being awake. It is our private time together, even when she is asleep; perhaps, especially, when she is asleep. Our bedroom is our sanctuary. It is here where we talk and share with each other the highlights of our busy day. It is here where we make our weekend plans. It is here where we touch, kiss and caress. And it is here where we fuck. But, even after sleep comes over her, I continue the process of integrating souls. If, when sensing my caresses, she moans with delight or snuggles closer, my reward is infinitely greater than any tangible gift. It is here where I am truly, genuinely and totally at peace.

Once again, we begin to trade sleeping positions, only this time, she doesn't make it to her other side. Instead, she executes a ninety degree roll and lands flat on her back. She seldom sleeps very long on her back, but when she does, I take advantage of the situation by caressing her breasts. With greater freedom of movement than what's possible in the spooning position, I can now fully explore the soft mounds of flesh that are the object of my affection and lust. I experiment by applying various strokes and touches and receive much physiological feedback. I love the feel of them and am fascinated by their transformation from soft to firm, even in her sleep. Often, my breast play annoys her and she instinctively rolls over on her side away from me. Occasionally, however, she is either more receptive or in a deeper state of sleep. This is a special time for me, when I can play for as long as I want, and when, knowingly or unknowingly, she surrenders to my touches of love and adoration.

Bo replies to her, "Well, ma'am. There is only one way to repay us properly. Do you want the first go around, Luke? Or should I go first? I can't wait to get my hands on this spirited filly."

"Like hell, you will touch her!" I shout. I run toward Bo, but stop dead in my tracks when he points his shotgun point blank at my chest.

"Stop!" she cries out. "Don't be stupid. The last thing I need right now is for you to be dead. I will do what they ask."

With that, she pulls two condoms from her purse. They balk at the use of them, but she shrewdly convinces the brothers that she is in the midst of a severe herpes outbreak and that they must cover up for their own protection. (No one said they were the sharpest tools in the shed.)

Teasingly, she slowly drops the sheet she is using to cover herself and invites Bo to her bed. When they finish, Luke takes his turn. All the while, I am watching helplessly while the brother not violating her is aiming a shotgun at me.

She submits, but there is no passion in her body, no kissing, and little movement. She silently and willingly facilitates their desires, but offers nothing else.

She turns on her side away from me, just as I anticipated. However, her next boudoir maneuver takes me completely by surprise. She suddenly, almost violently, throws off her bed covers, causing them to land half-way down her body. She very seldom gets warm at night, but apparently the August heat has affected her. Or, as my ego would prefer, perhaps she is still hot from the aftermath of intimacy. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and I see the back of her naked upper torso clearly. For long moments, I stare at her hair, neck, the curvature of her spine and her buttocks peeking out just slightly from under the sheet. The pose accentuates her feminine form and she reminds me of a statue of a Greek goddess, naked from the waist up, and very beautiful. Only she is not upright, but lying next to me, alive and breathing, more beautiful than any statue.

True to their word, Bo and Luke drive us safely to town after having their way with her. But did they? They were denied her spirited ways, her heart and soul, her passion, the true essence of her womanhood. A goddess is wise and, at times, pragmatic. She used her sexuality to secure our safety and gave nothing of value in return. They were too stupid to know that it was she who had her way with them.

I shift my focus to the bare windows and stare out for a final time before sleep comes. Like before, it is still very dark outside with only the outline of distant trees visible in the faint moonlight. I hear the crickets, an occasional bark of a dog and the soft hum of the overhead fan. I hear her breathe, slowly and deeply. I feel her moist skin pressed next to mine and smell the faint remains of her perfume. I kiss her neck and taste the salty perspiration of love and sex. I see the goddess of my dreams and of my reality.