The first awareness that someone had crawled in bed with me came when she whispered in my ear, “Are you awake?” and squeezed my di*k.
Fighting the fog of being woken from a dead sleep, I slowly responded, “I am now…barely.”
As she snuggled in closer and the heat from her bare skin transferred to mine, I realized she was as naked as me. A naked stranger in my bed?
Whispering, “You don’t want to know,” she seemed to anticipate my question. Stroking me, she added, “I need to get you harder.”
Lying there, as if in a trance, still half-asleep, totally enjoying whoever she was, doing what she was doing, a little voice gnawed at me. Who is she? How did she get in? What does she want? Thinking I probably knew what she wanted, I wondered, Why me? Is she pretty? Does it matter?
“How did you get in here?” I blurted.
George is my roommate.
“Why aren’t you with him?”
“He passed out.”
Even though all she’d done was whisper, her voice lent a feeling of familiarity. “Do I know you?”
In a barely audible whisper, she said, “You can touch me, too,” as she took my hand and placed it on her breast. It was nice sized, firm but soft. As if my hand had a mind of its own, it kneaded it and flicked her hardened nip.
“You like?” came her soft inquiry.
“Very much.” I wanted to see it. I wanted to see her. “Can I turn the light on?”
“No.” she snapped.
Again, whoever she was, her voice was vaguely familiar. What if I turn it on anyway?”
That killed that idea. “You never answered me, do I know you?”
She put a finger to my lips. “You talk too much,”