Sleep has always been my most fickle mistress. Plaguing me with inconsistent bouts of sleepless nights and days lost to slumber. I’m told that it is but a condition of my mental laps, that my anxiety is to blame for the odd sleeping patterns. A constant balancing act between in and hyper somnia. Though it feels as though there is more to it than just that. I can go for weeks, months without fault. Sleeping at the drop of a hat and waking at the first notes of my alarm.
Then something happens, a mysterious disrupt to my equilibrium and I’ll be scrambling to re-align my sleep. Not always a bad thing, despite how I make it seem. My Dom made a comment the other day, in that apparently offhanded way that is anything but. About imagining going to sleep with me within his arms. I’ve struggled to get to sleep since.
My queen sized bed suddenly much too big for one. I stretch across miles of plush sheets only to brush fingers over the cool wall. I’ve felt so lonely in a bed that has always been my sanctuary. But of late no number of pillow nests has been able to stave off the feeling that I’m missing something. The warmth of another human body, the muscles of an arm wrapped around a waist, and the solid comfort of a broad chest.
I lose my sleep chasing a dream that I am yet to satisfy. A desire burning in my belly, fanned by the knowledge that the means are right there before me. Lying just out of reach. The only comfort coming from the trigger of my misery. The giggle that always bubbles to my lips every time I imagine my Dom clutching a pillow to his chest just as I press one to my back and clutch myself.
The juxtaposition of such a distinguished individual reduced to complying with his most basic needs a comfort to my primal side. Though I doubt that that’s exactly how he deals with the need; I can still gleam comfort from the idea.
I wish you well,