Читать книгу Sage - Wendy Anne - Страница 9

I

The Sensualist

I wake to cool, brisk air filling my large bedroom, descending through the crack between my slightly opened bay windows, parted like lips. The brightness of day leaks through the vertical blinds acting more as décor and less like a shield for protecting the burning sunlight from protruding through.

Is it eight thirty already? The neatly made bed on Bruce’s side and the sun glaring off the mirror, reflecting the morning sunlight straight into my eyes, are good indications that I need to pull myself out of this contented haze of slumber.

Bruce, unlike me, is quite the morning person. By the time I slip out of bed, my family has long since abandoned me to start their day. I’m commonly avoided like the plague during “early” hours. In addition to discipline, I also lack manners in the morning. I’m intolerant of pretty much anything until there’s at least an hour to become fully coherent of my surroundings. This is because I am nocturnal and cannot sleep soundly at night. I awake with wretched morning-time fatigue, hungover from exhaustion. Half of me remains in a world of euphoria, hard to decipher reality from not. Even my equilibrium is slow to rise, leaving bruises on my legs from how clumsy I can be when I first wake.

Warm quilted blankets protect my skin against the cool breeze that cajoles me to stay in my place, at least for now. Willing myself into a productive day, I remove my listless body from the comfort and warmth with as much discipline as I can muster. Standing slightly sluggish before the full-length mirror, chills creep down my body, hardening every hair follicle and tightening my nipples. The empty canvas I awake to every morning fascinates me. I gaze into the mirror at my bare, sleepy face, my unbrushed hair stretching just below my waist, tangled in knots and tied together at the tips by untamed curls. With my untouched ivory complexion slightly flushed by the pressures invited by the hard embroidery decorative fabric throw pillows pressing on my skin most of the night—paralyzed in my tired mind. A perfect portrayal of me, just before the hour I will be spending becoming a polished and groomed woman in business attire.

I awake alone, unkempt, wild, half naked, and free to do as I please for several hours of solitude. I call this my “rumination experience.” I allow my hair to remain free-flowing. A satin and lace negligee barely covers my pale flesh. The curve of my ass peeks out the bottom of the petite soft scalloped edging of my nightie. I never bother with the constriction of panties when I sleep. I am in essence nude. My sheer garment looks more like a useless sultry tank top than nightwear.

The physical space of my entire house always seems to harbor such energy, as if there could be another presence lurking, but I am unaccompanied by any human being to the best of my knowledge. Perhaps astral travelers are wandering in their two-ounce forms, but if they can see me, their abilities are one-sided. I drop once more onto the bed, eager to please myself before I shower. It is a morning ritual to release endorphins. There is a sense of power in masturbation—a free, healthy high I can induce on myself. Compared to self-destructive, risky, and usually expensive, vices that sometimes require the involvement of another being, having sex with myself is an intense and safe way to get my blood flowing. If the hallways of my mansion do creep with another presence, then I become an exhibitionist almost every morning. Bringing my knees firmly to my chest, holding my long legs hard against my breasts with my left arm, I use my right arm to reach and fondle myself. My fingers are long and slightly ribbed artist hands that could be mistaken for a man’s touch.

I lick my fingers before rubbing their soft tips over the most sensitive spots. Starting at my nipples, I then drag my fingers down to my womanhood, circling my gem with my wet fingers like a ridged tongue turning chills of cold discomfort into flaming ecstasy. I squirm onto my rear, relaxing my legs into a straddle position arching my back and flexing my ass, as I build up the tension to later release. My ass tightens and retracts, causing my body to lift inches off the bed. I do this until I build enough heat and blood surge in my groin to let loose a climax. The satin sheets become damp with sweat below me as I start to cum. I moan loudly into my large vacant home, as the thick walls of my bedroom drown out the sound from reaching far beyond my immediate space. All the veins in my now-raw areas flush with the heat of excitement.

This high creates a bit more momentum to propel me into my day, as long as I do not allow it to relax me. I force myself to my feet to pursue the next morning ritual, which is getting ready for work. Perhaps I take a bit long during my daily transformation, but it isn’t vanity that encourages these lengthy changeovers. I’m truly interested in the upkeep and appearance of virtually everything around me. If I’m left in any space long enough to claim it, I will make an effort to enhance that space, that is my way, and my physical appearance is no exception. As an art enthusiast, I’m usually unsatisfied with all of my artistic endeavors, and I can be merciless picking at what I perceive to be flaws, especially when it comes to my look. I believe that things that seem trivial to most sometimes have a deeper effect on an artist’s mentality because some artists are innately intoned to fine details. This seems especially true for profound writers; they can become inundated with minutiae detail to the point of torture. For today’s look, I paint my face with an array of shimmering neutral colors, adding the charcoal powder to my eyebrows to deepen the definition of my arch, and comb my lashes with thick and lengthening black onyx mascara. While scrutinizing, there could be more symmetry regarding my winged eyeliner, and my foundation isn’t as flush as I’d like, but it’ll suffice.

Lost in this morning transition, I feel a sudden surge of thought about last night’s episode. Something was puzzling about the events of my dream. I cannot remember it, but I recall the digital clock numbers burning the times of night into my eyes every time I stirred from sleep.

I even woke Bruce several times last night in a sweaty fright. Panic attacks often wake me, and I am lucky that Bruce is an understanding husband. The demands of my job and the shrewd memories of my childhood manifest in all forms of anxiety. I have learned to deal with it to a certain degree, and so has he. I occasionally take sleep aids to help rid my anxiety long enough to drift from the chaos of my analytical frame of mind, but I am a bit wary of most prescription drugs, and so they’re typically over the counter or herbal sleep aids.

The longer I stray from the realm of my sleep, the less I tend to remember. This is not a bad thing. I couldn’t see the benefit in allowing it to corrupt my day as well. I’m adept at distracting myself until their hold on my emotions stops influencing my mood. Sensual dreams are a bit different because I inadvertently feel overcome by nymphomania for hours of sexual frustration, whether I fully recall the dream or not.

Bruce is capable of falling back into slumber when I wake him, and he doesn’t seem particularly affected by his dreams. Fortunately, he’s been a morning person all the years I have known him, many of which we bedded together. God blessed me with an amazing husband during this existence. It is a wonder how he deals with so many of my idiosyncrasies as graceful as he does. My unconventional undertones can be a bit difficult for some people, even him at times, but he knows and appreciates that I every so often need to relish in eccentricities to break the monotony of life, and he handles my sleep disorders with great resilience and compassion.