Reggae Rain and the Ceiling Fan

by Corey Whitsett

There is something about the rain that always seems to turn me on. I guess itís because I like being wet and I like the idea of raindrops falling on me. Or maybe itís because I can always find the rhythm within the raindrops that fall on my roof or my umbrella. Did I mention that music turns me on as well? Itís almost unnatural the way that my body always seems to align itself with hidden music in the rain. But I hear music in almost everything. Like the symphony of a traffic jam with a lively horn se ction, or the salsa rhythm of little feet running around in the mall. I hear music in almost anything, but especially in the rain, and tonight it is beating my roof like a reggae drummer. Did I tell you that reggae turns me on?

The reggae rain and this ceiling fan have got me hypnotized. After the thunder woke me up a little after two this morning, I still havenít been back to sleep. Itís hard to go to sleep when your body is charged and wants to dance. The reggae music and the remains of the black sex incense that I lighted before we got into bed have got all my senses responding uncontrollably and ignoring my brainís request for slumber. I have been trying to go back to sleep but I am too hot to get comfortable. I kicked off the sheets an hour ago but the ceiling fan still isnít doing anything for me. I just laid here watched it spinning around but it could do nothing for the heat that was on the inside, the heat that was melting something between my legs.

I looked over at the candle on the dresser flickering, trying to hold on to the fading flame being swung in the breeze from the ceiling fan. I thought about the flame that once burned in this room that I swore would ever fizzle out. Now that flame that once used to set this bed on fire is barely enough to keep us warm on cold and rainy nights. I looked over at my husband whose touch used to sting me like hot candle wax sleeping with his hand in his pajamas. It used to be my hand that he put there whe n he needed a little attention. Now I would be lucky if he accidentally brushed against me in his sleep. Just like that candle, the flame between us is dying.

A dying flame is never good, but especially on nights like this. I want, no, need to make love right now. About ten minutes ago I had already started rubbing myself to relieve the pressure between my thighs. It feels ok, but I got an itch that is much deeper than my fingers can reach. I need attention. I have never been the one that would go to long without stimulation; hell I can do that myself. But there are some places on a womanís body that can only be touched by a man. I could never simulate a t ongue on the small of my back, or the nape of my neck. My tongue canít reach my neglected breasts or my dry belly button. I need him to touch me. I would go without the sex if I could get a little attention.

I reached over and grabbed his hand and placed it down between my legs and squeezed with my thighs. I felt the wetness dripping out of me and I held his hand there with my hand. I moved his hand around and I could feel me flowing through his fingers. He didnít even seem to notice me moaning and carrying on because he never opened his eyes. I guess he had more to drink tonight than I thought he did. I took his hand and put his fingers deep inside of me and he didnít even respond. I stretched my back and grabbed my breasts and squeezed them together and locked my legs around his uncooperative hand. He was freaking me and didnít even know it. His class ring against my clitoris was driving me crazy and I was about to lose it.

I took his hand and placed it on my chest and squeezed my nipples with his fingers. I put my other hand between my legs and put my middle finger inside of me to massage the spot I found by accident one day. The spot on the inside right behind my pubic hair where a hooked finger or a daring tongue could unlock the heaviest orgasms. A place that he used to turn me sideways just to hit so that he could hear me scream. Now, I have to use a hairbrush or my middle finger to reach it. I dug deep inside of me and felt the spot swelling and when it bulged like this, it was like a remote control. If I rubbed it in a circular motion, it causes my body to produce the honey between my legs. If I pushed it in my anus would contract and it would open when I squeezed it tight. Yeah, I had learned my body well, and I was the best student I ever had. I would stay up late trying to earn some extra credit.

I had let him take control before when he touched the spot. I would lay there with his finger inside me for hours and he would watch me and learn. He would touch it softly and watch me grab my breasts. He would move it side to side and see me lick my lips. He would massage it circular and see my hips leave the bed. He would squeeze it and hear me begging him to fuck me. Begging him, asking please. He would stare at me writhing there in gentle pain and extreme pleasure. He wouldnít stop playing with my remote control until I turned sideways and came all over him. He would take that finger out of me and put it in my mouth and he would call it Honey. I am bittersweet honey, and I flow like a river.

I guess thatís why he calls me Honey. And I am smelling that sweet honey drying on his fingertips. His fingers were deep in my hive and stole my honey and I wanted it back. I took his hand and pulled it to my mouth and I licked it slow as I played with my remote control. I was breathing calmly, trying to stop the flood from coming way too soon, but I couldnít hold it. My calm breaths turned into short, shallow attempts at breath. I took his hand and put it between my legs and I raised my hips to me et his hand and I held it tight with my thighs. With his ring on my clit and me pressing the remote control I came so hard that I screamed out loud.

He jerked his hand back and rolled over and cut on the light. He looked at me and asked was I ok. The look on his face told me that he had no idea what was going on. At the moment this bed got seemed to grow and I felt like a stranger to him.

"I was just dreaming." I said hoping that he wouldnít smell what I was dreaming about. Hell, I would be surprised if he smelt anything over the alcohol in his breath. He just rolled back over and turned his back to me and went back to sleep. I lay there and stared at the ceiling fan and I felt cheap. I listened to the reggae rain and sang a silent song to myself. My body had danced and it was ready to rest. Now my mind was awake and I canít go back to sleep. The rain began to slow down and I felt my eyes getting heavy, I guess the hypnotism is wearing off. I watched the ceiling fan getting smaller and I closed my eyes and thatís the last I remember.


Reggae Rain and the Ceiling Fan by Corey Whitsett

© Copyright 2001. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.


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