While the sky is still dark, and the air is still cold, I like to wake suddenly from a dream, not quite knowing what the dream was about, but knowing I liked it; knowing it was sexy; knowing that it is the reason my cock is so hard.
I like the way the night is so dark, and silent. I like that I can hear her breathing slowly beside me, her own dreams exciting, evidence sometimes apparent despite her heavy sleep.
I like the feeling of warmth next to me, and the assurance that she won't wake until she's ready. The near-nakedness of her pantied skin next to mine, and the taut cotton covering of her tempting cleft.
There's a certain power in the resistance of that temptation; in the decision to let her sleep. There's a freedom in the knowledge that she would like to be left, and like to encourage me.
There's a familiar pressure of cock against underpants, the entrapment of the willing. A memory prods me, of when I was younger. Before women, before sex, but after the discovery of pleasure. I remember the motion and the feeling; the pure wanton release of youth, and the unbelievable frequency of it. I blush, remembering the stiff stained sheets; proof of the act, or sometimes just the dream.
I lie on my back, calm and sure in the warmth, and slide my hands down my skin. There's a certain inevitability in the movement, despite the fact that I'm convinced I could stop.
Fingertips slide gently over the cloth at first, proud of the bulge, and the subtle leak from its tip. There's a sensitivity that's almost feminine at this point, where every touch produces a mental gasp, despite the almost complete lack of movement. The very tip of one finger, the very tip of one cock.
I tease myself from the outside in. Sometimes a thin sheet helps, an additional covering to numb the pulse. I rub, slowly but surely; sliding fingers down the sides of the solid shaft; tracing the familiar outline of the hardness.
My cock isn't unusual, I don't think. It's soft over hard, stretchy skin covering a rigid shaft. It's almost flat when I'm on my back, and slightly curved towards my body. Its girth is an unknown. Small enough that I can encircle it with forefinger and thumb, heavy enough that the sleeping one beside me cannot. Slim enough to slide carelessly in my hand, portly to the extent that I'm told it spreads her, and that she likes it that way, fortunately.
The head feels distant through the cotton, and I peel the covering away, sliding the underpants down off my cock, past my hips, out from under my ass.
Occasionally I wonder what it might have been like to encircle the head like this with its skin still intact, but I like the immediacy of my touch, the tender sensitivity uncovered. My fingers feel slightly cool on the bulbous skin; the head hot in my hand.
It's not as though I need to wait for instructions, so I start to stroke.
A light slide over the bulge, fingers open slightly to keep things casual. It's like a first date. Sexy, but not too tense. Just getting a feel for what's to come. Down the shaft then, not stretching the skin. Just sliding on by, checking out the options.
.... There is more of this story ...