I dreamt of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss last night. The patchwork of color swirled before my eyes. I don’t remember any other characters in the dream, just me in the museum of my mind standing in the stark stillness with cold footsteps echoing around me. I stared at the painting, the gold leaf blinding me, until something began to wake me slowly, and I stepped from the perfectly curated museum lighting inside my head into the darkness of our bedroom.
His thumb traced circles across the skin of my hip, and I was no longer with the two lovers in Klimt’s creation, but wrapped in his warm embrace. The smell of our sleeping bodies, the tangle of sheets, the tickle of his chest hair against my back brought me back to a comfortable reality. I knew what he wanted. He didn’t reach for me, didn’t cup his hand between my legs and try to rouse me, he just turned on his back and removed his pajama pants. I knew what he wanted, what I wanted.
I was still wet from the night before, or perhaps from dreams, and I needed no coaxing, no lubrication. I rolled onto my side and waited for him. He entered me quickly and easily, his sleeping slut has a welcoming cunt. I exhaled into the darkness and allowed him to take me, to bend me to him. He took my arm and twisted it behind me, his other hand reached around my throat and held me still as he fucked me. There was wetness between us where our bodies joined, cock and cunt, damp palms on sleep warm skin, my sweat slick back against his strong chest.
He turned me onto my stomach and pressed my head into the sheets with his heavy hand. His grunts and my soft sighs filled the quiet darkness. I felt everything, my waking body alert to each unique thrust, the weight of each fingertip as he gripped my shoulders, the shiver of his breath on my neck as he leaned in to scratch me with his teeth.
I felt him still, the pause of release, the grunt of satisfaction and then he flooded me with come and fell heavily on top of me. His breath in my ear was a lullaby that sent me back to dreaming. Before I drifted off, I thought of The Kiss, the entangled lovers, their bodies pressed against each other, his hands around her face and her flushed cheeks. They were us, we were them. Sir made a painting out of us in the blackness, and I felt as beautiful as the lovers that inspired a true work of art.