The Spirituality of Sleep

I lie in bed semi-clad. I am wearing a small, black camisole that barely covers my most intimate parts; the edge of the silky material is wafting around my inner thigh, exciting me, enticing me to think very sexual thoughts.
I lay my hand on the material that covers my pubic hair. I don’t stroke it; I just place my hand there. There’s warmth within in doing this.
I straddle my legs slightly, giving room for a breath of air to seep between my legs. It is getting a little moist down there as the tension rises beneath my hand and I can feel anticipation growing. Mere anticipation, though there is nothing ‘mere’ about either the anticipation or the expectation of what I am about to receive.

A total state of relaxation overwhelms me. I am lying on my back. My hand is motionless. My mind is calm. Come to think of it, I don’t actually need to anticipate. It’s going to happen but I like to anticipate nonetheless.

He walks to the side of the bed, glancing towards me and smiling. There’s no smirk. There’s no urgent hunger in his dark eyes. Just a smile. There’s nothing knowing about it. There’s nothing suggestive. It’s just contentment.

He stands by the bed and slips out of his pants.
My clitoris responds. How strange that after all of this time, I still have an erection of my own at the sight of his cock, whether it is aroused or not. Just as he stands there for a split second, I instinctively need to move my legs a little further apart as I feast my eyes on that cock that pleasures me so intensely.
I’m not in great need. I wouldn’t even say I am hungrily wanting his cock inside me at that point. I am simply enjoying him standing there, allowing me to just look.

He moves the duvet back and clambers into bed. He imitates my position and lies on his back, not yet touching me, not even feeling my arm next to his. There is space between us.

The television is off and the music has been dismissed. I still lie still, though my hand has moved to my side. I lie with my head on the pillow, conscious that his hand has moved over his pubes and he can now feel the mound of his cock and balls in his grasp.
He’s not wanking. He’s just placing his hand there and feeling the warmth within. Unbeknowingly, he imitates my precise actions from a few minutes beforehand.
There’s comfort in that too.

Nothing needs to be said. There’s a time for words and they will come. Later.

With our heads on the pillows and our arms by our side, we turn to one another and smile.
There’s no need to move. It’s a precious and stable moment. It just needs to be. We need to be.

Hands eventually reach out for one another. Neither of us are the first to move. It is done in tandem.
Once hands are clasped together, bodies follow and an embrace of warmth emerges.
I wrap my leg over his. There’s nothing overtly sexual in this, though he must be able to feel the moistness of my pussy on his knee.
I know he can feel it when we kiss, and he gently pushes his patella into my groin so that I can ride the hardness. He moves his knee around so that its undulating sides rub my crack, and he must surely now feel the specific warmth of my juices.

I maneuvre my hips around so that I can enjoy the full extent of his knee being swallowed in my pubic hairs.
Still there is smiling. Still there is a gentleness washing over us.

He slides his hand under my camisole and feels the fullness of my breasts. He squeezes them tight. First one, and then the other, and then together as he kisses me; a tender, calm kiss that opens up so that we can explore one another’s mouths with our tongues. It is all so gentle. And yet, it is more needy now. I am rocking strongly on his knee and it is only a matter of time before I need something else.

His cock is rising. It’s knocking against me, reminding me of its growth and readiness. I lie on my side, still kissing him and reach out for his balls. I trace my finger down his erection, past his balls and towards his anus. I rub hard at the wealth of erection that I can find there. He is arched and ready.
As I walk my fingers back to his helmet, I pull gradually at his foreskin to reveal a sticky delight of excitement at the tip of his cock. It needs to be licked but I don’t want to move from this position.
I am enjoying his eyes and his mouth too much, no matter how much I want to taste that stickiness in my mouth.

But he is so stiff and I am now so needy.
Foreplay is going to be whole play. It is going to be intermingled. I lay him flat and I guide and glide his cock towards a very large opening between my legs. I crouch above him feeling the power of his cock rubbing inside me. I ride him hard. I lean back and arch myself so that I can feel that stiffness within me. I feel his movement and I imagine the places, the skin, the erectness that he is touching inside me with his.

My mind takes over, and I am totally turned on by the completeness of this moment. With his cock still firmly embedded in my cunt, I lie on top of him, rubbing my clitoris against his pubes, moving my hips to feel the stimulation at every conceivable angle. I press hard and feel the orgasm coming. It’s a clitoral stimulation, a clitoral cum and it takes longer to arrive than a vaginal gush. I know it is coming and the anticipation of waiting for it to build is fucking brilliant. I want to hold onto the orgasm for as long as possible, and he adores me doing that. He knows I am in a state of utter bliss, and he selflessly holds himself in a position where I can receive the full glory of an ongoing orgasm.
In doing this, my mind has flowed right back to the bodily connection and I am aware once more how big his cock is inside me, how near it is to my cervix and I now need to ride rapidly.

He seems to have reached new depths within me. He’s not the only one fucking me right now. I’m fucking myself too with my mind and I know that he is doing exactly the same. The immediacy of my gush is astonishing. He giggles as it hurtles down his shaft, over his balls, out of my cunt and covers every conceivable and inconceivable part of the sheet. I feel it running down my left hip and he indicates that it has swept past his left hand.
It’s not over yet.

I climb off him and dive under the covers to lick away my juices from his dick. I maneuvre myself so that my pussy is over his right hip and I go down on him, strong and ferociously. I take his cock deep inside my mouth as far as his balls and I repeat this until I can feel more cum dribbling out of me.
He delights in my enthusiasm for fellatio and is further excited when he feels the incredible power of my mind working in tandem with my body as I gag on the size of his cock that makes both my eyes and my cunt water.

I flop onto the bed as he raises himself from it, and leans before me with his hands dancing towards my already drenched pussy, knowing that there is still more to come. I push his fingers inside me and he enthusiastically finger fucks me until another tirade of fuck juices spill out.

He then lays me down and watches himself pushing into my cunt. He sees his cock emerging and then being enveloped by my labia as he continues to fuck me in the most desirable manner.
He lies on top of me, as I lay on him before.

He reaches beneath my arse and places his hands on each cheek, firmly gripping as he pushes himself inside me further. He nuzzles his face into my neck as he stops and starts the final assault to his own orgasm.
I encourage him to cum. I can feel the proximity of his climax as he grabs my right cheek a little harder.
He groans into my hair as he thrusts his spunk into my awaiting cunt. I reciprocate almost immediately by climaxing onto his cock and shoving him out of me.

We lie down on the bed and I reach inside me to feel the softness of his sperm over my inner labia. I adore feeling his spunk inside me immediately after he has cum. There is something almost miraculous about that.
I love it.

We spoon together to singly and connectedly appreciate our bliss. The force and endurance of such passion is almost impossible to describe. It is intransigent and determined, happy to remain there for a moment longer to remember, to feel, to explode once more with the beauty of the sexual oneness.

We fall asleep. Together. Wrapped as one. Oblivious to anything. Mindful of everything and nothing. We think. We are without thought. We feel. We are devoid of any feeling other than the moment.

We fall asleep.

I move. He responds by clasping me nearer to him but he is sleeping.

I turn to face him.
His arms flop by my side, still clasping my hand.

I feel his body. It’s warm. It is full of life as he gently sleeps.

My cunt is still excited and I have to slip out of bed to get rid of a few more juices. There must be a cavity within me that collects the remnants of the physical and the thoughtful. I go to the toilet once more and I emit a clear, colourless spillage into the loo. It’s come from just lying there and watching him sleep.

I return to bed and slide the covers over me, careful not to disturb his slumber and I drift away, unseen and seemingly into a deep sleep.
Hours pass and through that time, there is occasional touching from him and from me.
A leg moves over here. A hand twitches to touch there. An arm glides over the shoulder and embraces the breast. One reciprocates and gently flutters over the pubes.
It is slight at first. There is a break of several minutes between each touch. Then the bodies come closer. The time between touches diminishes and uninvited yet perfectly desired, a finger slides once more into my cunt.
I am barely awake, yet it feels right. He wants me to cum and I oblige all too quickly.
This excites his cock once more and for hours and hours we make love, and we fall asleep, and we touch one another, and we make love some more.

I find myself looking at his back. I’m not worried about disturbing him. That is not a selfish statement. He’ll sleep through my touches if he wants to but I need to just place my hand down his back.
I feel his being and I am satisfied. He smiles. I can’t see it but I know it is there.

I turn away and sleep.

He brushes my neck with his hand. I turn over and accept the awaiting hug.

We fall asleep once more.

The morning arrives with more of the same.
He takes my hand and I guide him to my pussy. We both enter into it. We both get a drenching.
He moves on top of me, and he fucks me again.
I take his cock in my hand and wank away, hoping he will squirt more of his stuff all over me. He obliges and I rub it into my stomach and over my boobs. I kiss his cock immediately afterwards. I love doing that.

We don’t sleep now. We just lie there and think.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

I miss him on the nights when we are not together. I miss this; the spirituality of sleep. I’d miss it and long for it even if the sex wasn’t there.
There is something incredibly perfect about lying in bed with someone that you care for, someone that you want and need to be with.

A hug is only real when it is felt by more than the actual physical presence. A kiss is merely a kiss when it has no meaning of relationship behind it, nice as the hug and the kiss from anyone has the potential to be.
But there is an abundance of spirituality in the sharing that a night bed has to offer.
There is no need for an imaginary umbilical cord or a band of gold to show such togetherness. The spirituality of sleep is in a place of its own. As I said, the words are not needed yet I feel a need to scream out and shout from the heights to reiterate how important it is – for me, for everyone.

Can you be spiritual and unconscious? Is sleep really as unconscious as we think?
I don’t know the answer to those questions. All I do know is that, for me, there is always going to be the spirituality in sharing that quietness of sleep. There is a state of being, a satori that we can all have with wonderful sex and perfect intimacy. When this is accompanied by hours and hours of quiet togetherness, often unconscious in sleep, it seems to sensitise it even more. It harmonises. It places you in another realm.
Yes, there is very definitely a sensuality and spirituality in sleep. Think about it next time you are in bed with your loved one(s). Morning, noon or night.

And then meditate. Meditating on such thoughts is blissful too.

My Man is Wearing my Panties ....

My Man is Wearing my Panties…..

…………and I cannot begin to describe how much it turns me on.

What on earth is it about seeing my lover in my knickers that makes my pudenda blush up to a crimson crown and makes my prostrate flourish ready to emit fountains of fuck juices?

I know that some people would consider this as a step too far into the realms of man being in touch with his feminine side but it simply has nothing to do with that whatsoever.
He doesn’t want to wear my panties as part of some sort of new cross-dressing fetish, and quite frankly, even if he did, then that would be absolutely fine and dandy. No, he wants to wear my panties because he feels liberated, sensualised and excited by having my panties partly covering his cock and balls. He likes to try and replicate and appreciate the feeling that I have when I am wearing them. Furthermore, he likes to have a part of me, the remnants of my own sexuality firmly in tact with his own body. He likes to wear panties that are scented with me; ones that he can dribble his juices into too, if the situation arises, culminating in a pair of lacy ones that have an amalgamation of our sexy lubrications.

Well, how does the reader feel about this? Is it seen as a fetish or is it seen as someone who is so in touch with his own sexuality that he can imaginatively consider ways of expressing it in new and exciting ways?

For me, it is highly complementary as well as beautifully horny. To think that he has both a need and desire to have this closeness with me is extremely endearing as well as enormously stimulating, and I simply love thinking of him walking around in my undies.
You see, this man doesn’t just pop my knickers on for a short walk around the house. He actually wears them for the entire day. He goes out of the house wearing them, to take the dog for a walk. He nips into town still clad in my lacy thongs or the likes. And from time to time, he is massively aware of the lace around him, knowing that prior to him wearing them they have been wrapped around and often entered into my juicy cunt.
How utterly wonderful is that? I am actually quite overwhelmed by this.

But it doesn’t stop there. Not only does he wear my panties, he also carries a pair around with him, so that from time to time he can place his hand in his pocket and feel that tactile texture that he knows I love to wear. He can also reach into his pocket and extract my panties, placing them close to his nose and inhale the strength of my aroma, my sexiness, my essence of life. He can remind himself of what I looked like, how I tasted, what I did when I was last wearing them. He can look and see the remnants of the pleasure that I enjoyed when I was last with him as I dribbled lubricants out onto the gusset.
And he is satisfied, delighted, invigorated, calmed, blissed out all over again.

And even more, he takes photographs of himself wearing my panties, and sends them to me because he knows that this completely arouses me. I adore to see his rather wonderful pert arse clad in my thongs. I don’t even mind the fact that they look better on him than they do on me!
And then he turns himself around so that I can see just how his glorious cock is escaping from the lacy ones, with his buxom balls hanging low and full. How I love to receive these photographs, especially when they are accompanied by arousing words that send me into sexual oblivion. He really does understand me and knows just what I want to see and hear and read, as well as, of course, knowing what I want to feel and taste when I see him.
Last week, I popped over to see him. We were just talking and spending some quality time catching up on some much needed kisses, when he suddenly unzipped his trousers to reveal his black boxers with a bulging erection clearly visible. As I watched in awe at his stunning sexiness, he grasped the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down his legs. Eagerly, I anticipated the sight of his erect cock, which indeed was very apparent, but even more exciting was the fact that his big dick was protruding out from the bottom of my black and white speckled knickers.
Placing my hands in my own underwear to get to my lover’s cock, to place it in my mouth and hungrily smother my mouth with him was totally exhilarating.
Looking at him standing in front of me with my black panties covering his arse and almost covering his balls was simply wonderful.

So why am I mentioning all of this?Well, it is essentially because I feel that there are many people who would benefit enormously from this simple statement of sexuality.
My lover says that he feels more spiritually connected to me by wearing my underwear. He says he feels a greater sense of wellbeing, and surely this is something that could be simply achieved by other people.

If you are unable to be with your lover or your partner, and you want to be reminded of them, then wearing or holding onto a pair of their panties seems to be a very appropriate way of doing so, particularly if they are smothered in juices from the very essential parts of their body.
Even if you are not yet quite comfortable with one another’s sexuality, and feel that scented knickers are just a bit too personal, then I would strongly suggest that you merely get a pair of their clean knickers so that you can just have a sense of them being a part of you, knowing that there are frequent times in the day when this simple artefact can remind you of the immensely pleasurable times that you share with one another.

The other day, my lover returned some of my knickers to me. He had washed them so that they were bereft of both mine and his sexual juices, yet because he had aired them in his house, used his particular brand of washing powder, they still somehow smell of him and his house – how lovely!
Even though they are not fragrant with his cum, I can still smell him on them and even though I want to be able to smell his earthy, divine lube juice, this aroma suffices for the time being.

And here is another issue. Sexuality is often described in terms of physical feelings, of touch and taste, of sight and hearing, but this essential sense of smell is often overlooked. Even worse, the ‘smell’ of sex is often deemed to be negative, revolting, coarse and crude.
I was just looking up the word ‘pudenda’. It has a Latin derivative and its meaning is ‘shame’.
Well, I think it is time to get rid of the ‘shame’ of sex, and where better to start than with this issue of smell.

I love looking at my man in my panties but what I love even more is his appreciation of these articles of clothing are not simply for their aesthetic value. What he really loves about having and wearing my panties is that they smell of me. He can sniff my sexuality, he can add to this smell with his own sexuality. He knows that a mere glimpse of my residue on my knickers can warrant him to raise them to his nose to get a full fix of me.

Now that is extremely invigorating!