Guilty Pleasure

I breathe out a lungful of sativa-scented smoke and pass you the joint. We're stood in your kitchen. I'm baked, way higher than I like to get. You fix my gaze and draw deeply, the orange cherry glowing bright between us before you exhale and blow a cloud of smoke over me. I glance down through the haze at your cleavage, exposed in your nightie before returning eye contact. "What you want?" you smirk. My eyes return to yours as you return the joint. For some reason, I can't form the words to speak, and so instead take another drag. Cannabinoids saturate my neurons and the question bounces round my brain for a few seconds longer before I breath out.

"I know what you want." you answer for me, taking my hand and placing it on your belly, guiding it down over the silky material and between your thighs. "You want to open Pandora's box don't you?" My heart skips a beat as my fingers find your soft warm mound. In turn, your hand follows a reciprocal path over the fly of my jeans. "You want me to let the genie out of the bottle?" you whisper in my ear, drawing close. "Rub your magic lamp?" Your soft lips and warm breath like static electricity against my ear. As your hand rubs the stiffening bulge in my jeans, my stomach flips. "Come on, make a wish" you whisper. I find the edge of your gusset, my fingertips detecting the slight hint of stubble as they move under the material. Suddenly I feel a rush in my groin, that unmistakable climactic buzz. I moan your name in surprise. The room begins to spin, and you begin to dissolve into the smoke around us. Suddenly I'm awake.

Or half-awake. I try to drift back into the dream, back to you, but slowly it evaporates in my mind like mist. In the near pitch dark, slowly becoming conscious, the orgasmic feeling subsides and I breathe out heavily. I'm lying on my back in bed. Under the covers, my ball-sack is scrunched tight and my penis throbs, like some red-hot steel rod primed and quivering over my abdomen. Sleepily, instinctively, I reach for it, caressing the head through my boxer briefs.

I open my eyes for moment in the pitch black and still my breathing. Did I say your name out loud, I wonder? My wife, with her back to me, stirs briefly before settling again. I close my eyes again and my fingers find their way through the Y front of my underwear, gently teasing my cock free of its constraints, allowing me to run my fingers up and down its length. In the absence of vision, the sense of touch from my fingertips is magnified, and despite my own familiarity with my cock, I indulge in exploring my rock-solid erection, the shape of my bulging glans and the pronounced veins encircling the shaft.

My thoughts drift back to you. In my mind's eye, chat interfaces, messages and orange notification icons swirl amongst conversations, images and sounds. I think of my flirting and early innuendo, the exhilaration of sharing photos. As I recall scenes we wrote together, I realise I'm stroking my cock with intent, fingers and thumb rolling my foreskin back and forth over my swollen head under the covers. I think of they ways we imagined fucking each other. I pause, processing these thoughts as my wife lays sleeping beside me; the most recent dream, the those secret memories, deleted conversations, but I can't resist, resuming stroking and returning to the fantasies.

I re-summon your stories like scrolling through Netflix, your threesome, images, you in the shower, a dildo. Moving images, yes. That dildo. Oh fuck. That slippery wet dildo stretching you. Oh fuck. I rub harder, remembering getting off with you, message by message, anticipating your next response until we'd both finally let ourselves go. Without warning, my cock oozes a stream of precum and the head is quickly slick. I roll the foreskin back and slowly fuck my wet cock head into my fist, imagining pulling your gusset aside and you sliding down on top of me in the nightie from my dream, your breasts smothering my face as I suck on your hard nipples. Waves of pleasure run through me but my stroking slows again as I vacillate over whether to cum; complete the guilty pleasure of masturbating over you, and the practicalities of doing so. Can I suppress the shuddering of the orgasm? Will the smell of my cum arose suspicion, and what about the unavoidable mess?

I carefully fold the covers back. Cold night air hits my body and the warm wet tip of my dick. I open my eyes briefly, checking my wife is still fast asleep before looking down at the shape of my penis in the darkness, the decision now made. I place a hand beneath my cock as a receptacle and stroke harder, closing my eyes again and imagining letting myself erupt deep in your pussy as you grind down on me. I search for one last memory - the sound of you masturbating in your car, cumming over me. That's it. That always works. The orgasm surges through me almost immediately. My body tightens, abs, quads and buttocks tensed as I climax. I try to channel the convulsions through my hips and into my groin. I shudder through each hot, tingling pulse of semen shooting through my cock. My attempt to catch the cum fails initially as I feel a warm sticky rope land across my chest, quickly guiding the rest into my palm. I hold my breath as I milk spurt after spurt into my hand until I'm spent.

Extricating myself carefully from the bed, I exit stealthily to the bathroom, trying to avoid any drips or spills en-route. I clean up silently, my erection slowly subsiding pressed against the cold sink as I wash. I watch the strands of my seed swirl round the plughole, and the genie is returned to the bottle once more.