Shorter than I usually do, but hold on to your shirt, "it's gittin' hot in here" this is a PWP (well a bit) dream sequence. Enjoy.
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John stretches out, his body feels heavy and moist, the darkness of the room envelops him and he knows it is useless to open his eyes, so he just leaves them shut. While he knows the cast should still be there, he doesn't feel it, nor does it stop him from moving restlessly on the bed.
'Mmmm the bed...' he thinks to himself as he curls into a small ball before reversing direction and stretching back out. The bed is smooth and cool, the almost-not-there softness of the sheets and pillows suffused with strong undertones of bergamot, rosemary and lavender, seeming to swim around him in 3-D space without gravity. John inhales slowly, rubbing his jawline along the edge of the pillow he clutches to himself, his nose detecting a warm woody smell as well, like a warm afternoon out on the deck, wrapping the scent together tightly.
The deep earthy smell surges around John, like a lovers caress, and direction has no meaning, up is down and down is up, as John is effortlessly supported, everywhere and no where, all at once. He shudders as a chemical tang comes to the forefront of the scent, closely followed by the combined scent of sun-baked concrete and damp, dripping alleys. The smell, almost to the edge of rot, but more loamy than that, is subsumed by a burning bright smell of tobacco, it all bends, and rushes together, swamping John's senses, closing in like a second skin.
If he was to open his eyes now, what would he see? The familiar, but not, dark room? Or an explosion of colours? Black on the edges, for the wet of their city? Warm cherry-wood colours edged in velvety greens, voicing the earthen scent? But what of the herby overtones? Would they not be bright splashes of rich jewel-tones here and there intermixed with the unnatural coloured splashes of chemicals woven throughout? Would it surround him, or pass through him? Colours as mad and bright on the outside as on the inside?
Rolling restlessly John feels a familiar sense of incompleteness, of a bald-faced want. Inhaling the complex scent enveloping the bed John's hands skitter down his ribs to his painfully erect penis and yes, grabbing hold of it makes his bones seise up and his muscles spasm in alternating directions without his intent, or will. The sensation is so encompassing and sharp, John wonders if he's throwing off sparks, and in his mental picture of the scent-colours he sees just that.
But still the emptiness is there. It pulls at him, the libidinous gnawing on his psyche to be whole, but there is no way to do it, no path to true completion that John knows.
In that moment of realisation the scent is gone, as quickly as though it was a covering someone ripped off the bed and only the stark, now oppressive, darkness is left. A soft sound of distress escapes him and the pounding of his heart echos the loss, each beat physically paining him, at his frustration over the void. His plangency a memory, John curls again into himself, as if to weep the loss.
In the first sob his grief is tamed, interrupted even, by the sensation of disembodied hands running up the backs of his thighs, to gently, at first, grasp the bottoms of his buttocks and clench with increasing urgency. His head thrown back recklessly John's body is consumed in that moment of grasping hands, in a fervid joy.
The all-encompassing scent returns full-on, making his head spin with the speed of his re-awakened lust. Moaning as the scent and presence it brings with it this time, roll him under, John feels the hands slip upwards and he splays his knees wide to give as much access as he can. For the first time not letting the worry over his vagina rule his reactions, he just lets instinct drive him.
Again enveloped in this odd 3-D space of no gravity, he presses against something with his knees, which are splayed left and right from his core as far as they can be. His back is arched, almost, but not quite, to an unnatural angle, with a sensation of pressure against his upper shoulders, but not his head. The phantom hands are sliding over the skin of his inner thighs, gently mapping out the patches of skin on, either side of his groin, that have little to no hair growth. Digging in his heels and toes John grabs at the outer sides of his knees and thrusts forward? or is it up? in an effort to open himself wider. But still that empty void lurks, looking to tug all this frenetic joy away.
Just as he feels the withdrawal beginning to happen again, those hands glide up to his knees and press them a fraction toward his own chest and he feels it, like the calving of a glacier, the labia opens up and John is suffused with a shock of transcendent white awe as the scent coalesces and surges into him, covering him, filling him up, breaking and swelling within him.
A final, musky, male note enters the scent along with a low rumbling growl of completion as John's strange dream world shivers and with a roar John comes instantly, yet forever, over and over again as everything burns out into the deluge of white light and oneness that reaches deep into his soul and soothes and satiates him.
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Anyone else want a smoke now? Just me then, right.