Making Do

God, he was lovely.

There was a steadiness in his movements, and a firmness in his hands when he pressed her down against the bed. And there was a building need in his hips as he ground over, and over into her. He pressed insistent against her very best inner places, rooting himself inside her. And soon, everything for her was sensation. Shivering, vibrant sensation.

Which is why she sweated frustration when she woke up alone, empty and oversexed, in a standard issue extra-long twin cot. Martha rubbed her fingers over her tired lids and then blinked rapidly, waiting for the digital clock beside her bed to come into focus.


This earned a small grunt. It was not unusual for her, to have dreams like these. Merely irksome. Because she never actually made it to orgasm in a dream for the same reason that she never died in a nightmare; her increased heart rate would simply wake her up in the nick of time. And so here she sat in bed, chest pounding, adrenaline prickling her skin—tense from the waist down for the concept of a man already half faded from her conscious.

Achingly aroused, she grasped at every image from her dream that her waking memory could cling to. He had been…hot. And, pounding, fingernails in hips, that spot…She slipped a hand beneath the band of her pajama pants and sought out the dampness of her sex, finger strokes short and wistful. That spot…fingernails in hips, harder, and…and…Oh fuck it all. This wasn’t going to work without a cock.
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