Disguise, part 3b/?
anonymous
April 3 2011, 23:06:52 UTC
~*~
That night in bed, John falls heavily into sleep. He dreams hard: Afghanistan, explosions, bombs strapped to his chest. Body parts, screams, shouts in anger. When he wakes, John's mind is foggy, heavy. He's tangled in blankets; his mouth is dry and tastes of cotton. The pillow is damp under his cheek; his snug tee shirt is twisted and uncomfortable.
But he feels safe.
He reaches up, stretches his arms up under the pillow and lengthens his body as much as he can, feeling his muscles stretch and his joints pop. After a moment, he rolls over onto his back and bends his knees, lifting his hips up and stretching his back slowly.
From there he rolls his back slowly down onto the bed, one vertebra at a time, breathing slowly and deeply.
He doesn't have to be at work today and John is tempted to stay in bed most of the day, falling into sleep when he can and existing in a haze of unawareness and denial.
The window's open and there's very little light coming in. It's still well before dawn, but a light breeze gusts over him, sending shivers over his damp flesh. He draws a sharp breath and shuts his eyes. The air feels new... arousing, and god, it's been a long time since he came.
John pulls off his tee shirt, sliding his hands above his head, languidly, just letting the air sweep over his body, arching upward again as though someone were pulling his stomach towards their lips for a kiss. He doesn't think of anyone in particular, not really, just imagines skin against his own, bodies sticky and aflame, and someone just as eager for his mouth as he is for theirs.
He arches again, digging his fingers into the sheets and curling his toes. The images in his imagination spread outward and take shape; John can feel hands on his skin now, touching low on his stomach, rubbing his nipples. He breathes out, grabbing the bedposts above his head and planting his feet. He's fully hard now. Rocking his hips upward, over and over, John feels himself tumbling headfirst into his daydream and he's powerless. He hasn't even touched himself.
A low, imagined voice whispers into his ear, telling him to let go, to fall into this desperate fantasy and damn the consequences. And he does.
John slides his hand down his stomach, grabs his cock, and strokes himself along with the rhythm building in his mind. He doesn't know how long he's been here, here inside his mind, but he's clearly got to make a habit of this. John feels like he's floating above his bed, in the midst of darkness and breeze and he's... god. Sparks begin to ignite impossible places inside him. With a gasp and a low shout, John tenses, releases, and comes hard. He comes all over his belly, his fingers, the top sheet, then collapses down to the bed, wrecked. Breathing heavily, John smiles, then opens his eyes. He balls up the top sheet, mops himself up, then tosses it toward the laundry basket.
John pulls the light blanket over his body and sighs. He feels boneless and warm -- almost satisfied. A few months ago John would have been aching to get out of bed right now: away from the pain, the memories, the dreams. But it's not the dreams that woke him that he can't stop thinking about... it's everything else.
John's regularly one to be haunted by dreams; it feels incongruous to be haunted by reality.
~*~
That night in bed, John falls heavily into sleep. He dreams hard: Afghanistan, explosions, bombs strapped to his chest. Body parts, screams, shouts in anger. When he wakes, John's mind is foggy, heavy. He's tangled in blankets; his mouth is dry and tastes of cotton. The pillow is damp under his cheek; his snug tee shirt is twisted and uncomfortable.
But he feels safe.
He reaches up, stretches his arms up under the pillow and lengthens his body as much as he can, feeling his muscles stretch and his joints pop. After a moment, he rolls over onto his back and bends his knees, lifting his hips up and stretching his back slowly.
From there he rolls his back slowly down onto the bed, one vertebra at a time, breathing slowly and deeply.
He doesn't have to be at work today and John is tempted to stay in bed most of the day, falling into sleep when he can and existing in a haze of unawareness and denial.
The window's open and there's very little light coming in. It's still well before dawn, but a light breeze gusts over him, sending shivers over his damp flesh. He draws a sharp breath and shuts his eyes. The air feels new... arousing, and god, it's been a long time since he came.
John pulls off his tee shirt, sliding his hands above his head, languidly, just letting the air sweep over his body, arching upward again as though someone were pulling his stomach towards their lips for a kiss. He doesn't think of anyone in particular, not really, just imagines skin against his own, bodies sticky and aflame, and someone just as eager for his mouth as he is for theirs.
He arches again, digging his fingers into the sheets and curling his toes. The images in his imagination spread outward and take shape; John can feel hands on his skin now, touching low on his stomach, rubbing his nipples. He breathes out, grabbing the bedposts above his head and planting his feet. He's fully hard now. Rocking his hips upward, over and over, John feels himself tumbling headfirst into his daydream and he's powerless. He hasn't even touched himself.
A low, imagined voice whispers into his ear, telling him to let go, to fall into this desperate fantasy and damn the consequences. And he does.
John slides his hand down his stomach, grabs his cock, and strokes himself along with the rhythm building in his mind. He doesn't know how long he's been here, here inside his mind, but he's clearly got to make a habit of this. John feels like he's floating above his bed, in the midst of darkness and breeze and he's... god. Sparks begin to ignite impossible places inside him. With a gasp and a low shout, John tenses, releases, and comes hard. He comes all over his belly, his fingers, the top sheet, then collapses down to the bed, wrecked. Breathing heavily, John smiles, then opens his eyes. He balls up the top sheet, mops himself up, then tosses it toward the laundry basket.
John pulls the light blanket over his body and sighs. He feels boneless and warm -- almost satisfied. A few months ago John would have been aching to get out of bed right now: away from the pain, the memories, the dreams. But it's not the dreams that woke him that he can't stop thinking about... it's everything else.
John's regularly one to be haunted by dreams; it feels incongruous to be haunted by reality.
~*~
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