It’s not that I don’t sleep, it’s how I sleep, how I dream. What I dream.

You consume me, and I don’t know why you feel so close in that liminal space between dream and the suspension of—no, not consciousness, but the threshold of it. Hypnopompia, they call it, that state where dream-logic lingers after waking, where sensations from the dream sometimes bleed into reality. Or fucking better, where it’s reality that tries to blend into the dream. Where emotions remain intact without context, the body feels heavy and unreal, where time feels soft, as if it has not fully resumed its normal rules.

The state where I find myself already stroking my cock.

I don’t stroke now. I can’t. I can’t do anything but feel the stubborn throb, the full-on hardness that almost resembles pain. A cock throbbing so hard it’s asking only one thing: the orgasm lingering in its very veins, the pulse at its root pumping with anticipation. Explaining the nature of a cock to someone who only knows its exterior is as difficult as being a man spending years trying to understand the female orgasm. What it is. How you get there. Why you tremble and moan my name. Why it feels inward while mine is so obviously an outward release.

No, I can’t stroke, because the weight of you presses down on me. Maybe you’ve already coaxed me to this aching firmness, lips and drool, and that throat of yours taking full advantage of my hypnopompia, and still sensing that sleep is veiling my mind. Maybe that’s why I find you poised above me, so I wake to the full intent of your body. And now?

You’re not grinding, merely teasing, as if testing my sensory reflexes.

They will always be to let you fill me. Even half asleep, my tongue is seeking the shape of you, the taste of you, my craving to have you coat it with your need. The state where dream and reality align, and it feels just like the dream.

The way you intensify as I come to terms with slipping out of dream and entering the real—the shape of you, the taste of you, how your hips start to roll. Gently and slowly at first, to settle against me. Your shape finding mine.

You look down, almost tentative, almost asking me if this is okay. If I’m okay. And the only answer I can give you is my hands finding your hips; the way I pull you down, as if—

No. Fuck that. I love eating pussy. It just pushes all my buttons all at once. It always has. But you’re the only one who’s understood me enough to wake me, just like this.

I want to fucking stroke my cock. I want you to stroke my cock. I want so intensely to cum.

I love how wet you get. You call it obscene. Well, call me a fucking obscenophile, a libertine, or a lecher. Just don’t call me a pornophile, for as much as I love cunt, it’s you. It’s not pink folds or sweet nectar or how softly you open for me. It’s a specific hunger for the shape of you. the way your cunt responds to my mouth. And call it obscenely wet, all I know is you’re making me cum without touch.

You hold my stare in yours until you can’t anymore. Until your eyes roll back, your hips thrust forward, until your breath catches on my name or a moan, or sensation alone. You arch back, pushing yourself onto me, your hair brushing my cock, and it fucking screams.

Touch me. Jerk me. Make me cum.

But you curl forward, press your thighs together, grab my scull with both hands as you fuck my mouth.

You’re not even asking. If it’s okay for you to cum like that. I fucking want you to. Need you to. You can’t possibly know how hard you make me. How fucking intensely I feel you.

I want your moans. I want your fucks. I want my name spilled broken from your lips. I welcome how your thighs tighten, how they shiver, shake, and tremble. I want to eat your pulse from your clit. I want you to ride it out on my face.

I want you to fucking scream.

You always come back to me in breaths, still straddling my face, still taking God’s name in vain. Or better, blessing mine.

I love how the tension leaves your body, how you’re not entirely sure whether to be proud or slightly ashamed of the mess you’ve made of me.

I smile when you roll off me and try to catch your breath.

I’m already sorry for my greed, even before I roll on top of you. There’s no universe where I wouldn’t fuck you after that.

I try to be patient. To remember to rub all of me against all of you, because you once asked me to. Just tease one second longer. Let the throb of my cock pulse against the slick of your clit. And I make damned sure you meet my eyes as I tease.

I need them to say yes. Please.

I need you to want me. Not even me, just my rock-hard, throbbing cock inside you.

Maybe you have to whisper it. Perhaps you have to beg it.

Please.

But it won’t be a slow, inch-by-inch, feel-all-of-me-split-you-open experience. I am human. It’s one smooth push, frictionless against your obscenity—all the way as deep as I go. I want you to fucking gasp. I want you to beg.

Please. Fuck me.

And I’ll fuck you. Senseless. Whose senses?

Both.

Both.

It doesn’t last long. It’s not pretty. I cum hard, not even knowing exactly what it does to you. It’s loud. I feel how I’m flooding you.

I collapse on top of you.

And I want to do it again when my brain returns.