Saturday Mornings

As has become the new routine, I am woken by my regular weekend visitor, a fat lazy wasp that never disturbs me on a workday - doubtless it is busy itself. But on Saturdays and Sundays it likes to pay a friendly visit and hovers above the curtains as the dawn chorus breaks, and with a sigh, I reach for the empty pint glass and paperback and hope none of my neighbours are out for an early constitutional as I prance naked in front of the bedroom window, trying not to trap any of its legs against the glass.

Today however, he obviously only had time for the briefest of hellos, before sinking back behind the curtain and according to the diminishing buzz, found his way out again. That left me sleepy but not tired, awake and alone on a Saturday morning. I tensed and stretched, yawning and wriggled sideways to find a cooler bit of sheet. Having a superking-sized bed to oneself, there's always a cooler bit somewhere.

Arching my back, I feel the duvet brush my nipples. Naked, warm, luxuriant, relaxed, one's thoughts turn to what nature intended Saturday mornings to be for, apart from saving wasps from human peril. The memory of teeth teasing that pink flesh is subconsciously echoed as my hands creep towards them, pulling, pinching, squeezing, twisting. The thoughts come thicker, fast, the warmth spreads. Writhing now, I imagine hands, tongues, fingers. Kiss my shoulders, I inwardly demand and twist over to offer an bared blade to my imaginary lover. I stroke my own neck, flicking my hair back to give the phantom easier access. I wonder how wet I am below, but resist from exploring there...yet.

Now the memory of his smell, the rasp of 5'o clock shadow as I rub my cheek against thin air. Leading my my jaw, I'm moving, twisting, rubbing as if I were a pet cat impressing itself against ankles. Flipping over onto my stomach, the ghostly feel of lips on my back, a tongue following the contours of my spine, down then up again. Hands pushing my hair away from my nape as I lift my neck in offering to his touch. Eyes closed, I trace the outline of my own jaw with a thumb, lost in imaginings, memory chasing sensation following fantasy. I am vaguely aware that I gasp audibly as my finger sinks past the initial resistance into a hidden lake of physical response. I waste no time in spreading it over my cunt lips, the tops of my thighs, bringing the finger up to my mouth to taste and savour, wiping fresh juice across my upper lip, tracing out the hardened nipples. Again rising in space so the highest points of my body are those two peaks, and my crotch. Up, higher, more, faster, and on and on. A blur of reality, a kaleidoscope of images and my moment is upon me. It builds and builds, the threat of the orgasm ending mitigated by squeezing my thighs tighter and tighter against my hand, bucking, throbbing, pulsating, a universe of sensation collapsed into a pin-prick black hole of time. Allowing myself to relax, to come down, to smile lazily into space, I replay special moments we've had together, I claim all the mattress, starfished with the duvet cast back. And as my mate the wasp considers another assault on its enemy's base camp, I make a mental note to add bleach and olive oil to the shopping list.