holdmelikeiwanttorunaway:
Everyone wants to have someones arms wrapped around them when they fall asleep at night.
You hear the cries first. It pierces your rest like a sharp piece of glass. With great difficulty, you pull yourself away from the warm embrace of sleep. The baby is still crying. Your lover stirs under you, but you speak up first. “No, I’ll go.”
“But itsh my turn,” he slurs, mostly sleep still.
“Go back to sleep,” I say firmly. He worked a long shift today.
He doesn’t need another second to reconsider this and immediately dozes back off. You sigh and extract yourself from your comfort spot – latched onto his back like a koala. You sigh again as you get out of bed and your skin prickles in the cool air. You find your way into a bathrobe and stumble down the hallway like a zombie.
The baby is red faced and flailing. You smile when he stops crying to look at you with big blue eyes. He’s really cute, even when he’s waking you up in the middle of the night. Those cheeks! Those dimples! The tiny fingers! You transport the infant to the changing table and with practiced motions, whisk away the soiled diaper, clean the infant, and fix a new diaper in place. During the day you use cloth, but at night, you use disposable ones. Thank god, you think, yet again congratulating yourself on that idea.
The baby is still fussy, so you amble to the kitchen with the kid latched on your shoulder. With your eyes mostly closed, you wash your hands. Then, you prepare a bottle, test it on your wrist, and let the child nurse pressed up against your bare chest. You nod off but snap to attention when you remember what you’re doing. A long yawn follows. The baby burps in a timely fashion and is put back to bed; despite your fatigue you tuck him in carefully and make sure he is comfortable. You linger over his crib until he falls asleep.
It’s only then are you free to return to the paradise that is your own warm bed, complete with the thermal body of your beloved Sam. You slip out of the bathrobe and dive in, hurrying to be attached to him again.
Sam stirs. “Hey, e’rythin ok?”
“Yeah, the Goober’s fine.”
He smiles and chuffs through his nose. “I love that you’re such a good father to our baby. Its sexy,” he says. Or you think he says, as it all comes out as one long, slurred word.
You pause a moment, wondering if you heard that correctly. He said “our”. He hasn’t said that before now. It was always “his” baby, or when Sam was speaking, “my” baby. Technically, it wasn’t even his.
For a while, you two and Sam had an open relationship after years of waffling between on and off monogamy. Sam made the mistake of having one drunken night with a ex, only to wake up sober and discover she’d gotten six times more crazier since he’d left.
Not long after, Sam found out she was pregnant. They were gonna make it work. She had gotten her fix of attention during the nine months of pregnancy, but was over the whole motherhood thing an hour after a rather uncomfortable delivery. When she found out Sam was bisexual, and his lover had been a man, she said the baby boy was “tainted” and planned to leave town. Since Sam had used a condom, he had gotten a paternity test. The baby wasn’t his. Sam went over to her house to confront her the night she was leaving and they had gotten in a huge fight. She was going to be leaving town with some deadbeat that had blond hair suspiciously like the baby boy. Sam took a hair he found on the sofa, the baby, and left. The DNA in the hair matched the infant’s profile.
Sam knew he was not legally obligated to care for the infant, but to do so was a great miscarriage of justice. Turning that sweet, perfect baby over to a drug-dipping deadbeat with Aryan facial tattoos and no GED was a textbook recipe for trauma. Sam kept the baby as his own, and it brought his relationship with you to a new place. A closer, more intimate place where you were now a family instead of just a couple.
Then Sam had proposed. You said yes. The wedding was in a few weeks, and you could barely wait.
You snuggle up to your beau, infatuated with him and lovesick. The magnitude of passion you feel toward him and that small helpless baby in the other room overwhelms you sometimes. You’re tired, and part of you just wants to cry with bliss. Sam presses back against you.
He keeps pressing. You’re surprised he’s still awake. Your groin begins to stir as his round little butt keeps brushing against your silk boxers, right over where your cock has nested for the night. You grunt.
“Sam…” you say.
“Mnnng…” he replies, still rubbing. You reach over and down and feel for his cock. It’s hard and jutting straight forward. Not hard to miss. Sam makes a content noise when you play with it.
You’re not quite sure if you are dreaming all of this, but you have to be, because there’s no way you can stay awake. Yet, you find yourself reaching backwards for the nightstand drawer. In the dark, you fumble, and find a condom and lube. You tear it open with your teeth and roll it on; you open the lube one handed and drip it everywhere. You slick up your own cock, then toss the closed lube bottle on the floor.
“Hold still,” you whisper. Sam stills. You put a leg over his hips and position the blunt tip of our cock against him. In one motion, you’re in him, and Sam moans. He hasn’t gotten laid properly in two weeks. You’re in him, and he’s magnificent. Sam undulates against you and you make love to him gently. You kiss his shoulder and reach again for his impressive cock. The pace accelerates from zero to sixty in three seconds. You work your hips quickly; you both tense, and then it’s over. Sam cums into your hand; you fill the condom. It takes a tremendous effort to move again. You wipe your hand on a tissue and rip off the condom. You just leave it open in the trashcan, there’s no energy left in you to tie it.
Sam is asleep again, smiling now. You can tell, his breathing has changed. A feeling of comfort settles over you, of paternal belonging and satisfaction in your roll as a man of the house. You’ve taken care of your offspring. You’ve pleased your man. All is good in your house and domain.
The night is now yours. You cling to Sam, and fall back asleep.
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Text is fictional.
