"Sleepy Dragon" (1/1) S/J, Jean POV, ADULT
- SLEEPY DRAGON
(web file with images)
SUMMARY: A celebration of sex between long-time
lovers. S/J. Jean POV
WARNING/NOTES: This story bears some resemblance to
"Body Memory" in that both deal with sex, but this is
more specific, and more light-hearted �- humorous
floof-erotica, if there is such a thing. I thought
I'd see if I could do a PWP, and for a couple who's
been together long enough that seeing one another
naked isn't an automatic turn-on. Obviously, this
story is ADULT. Please don't read it if you're
underage, or have a problem with graphic sexual
description. Remember, this is movieverse Jean, a
medical doctor who comfortably uses terminology that
would send most of us running for a dictionary.
Events here occur at no clear time except several
years after events in the X-Men film.
The bedside light flicks on. "Jean?"
"Are you asleep?"
"I'm not now." I flop over onto my back and glare up
at him. I know exactly what he wants. It's what he
always wants when he gets me up this way after coming
to bed past midnight. He's having trouble sleeping,
and if he has a choice between using beer or sex for
sleep inducement, he'll take sex every time. There
are nights I really wish he'd take the beer.
He's rubbing my side and smiling at my obvious
irritation, and he *knows* what that smile will get
him. Flash the dimples and Jean just melts into a
little puddle of goo. Reaching up to get hold of the
back of his neck, I pull him down to meet his mouth,
slip my tongue between his teeth and play touch-tag
with his own tongue while my free hand caresses the
front of his sleep shorts. I think I've surprised
him, but I'm just too tired to mess with the usual coy
games. If he wants sex, well, let's get on with it.
I need my beauty rest.
And past an initial surprised grunt, he's not
complaining, seems to think my enthusiastic response
has its merits if the bulge under my hand is any
indication. He rubs warm palms over the skin of my
thighs while I get hold of the hem of his t-shirt and
tug it over his head. It interrupts the kiss, which
is fine, since I'd rather concentrate on other parts
of his anatomy. He has wonderful shoulders. I nip
the clavicle out to the shallow dip along the top,
then follow the curve down his biceps until I reach
the sensitive skin inside his elbow. After three
years, I know very well which of Scott's erogenous
zones are more erogenous than others. The backs of
his knees are simply ticklish, and so is his throat at
the wrong time, and he doesn't like to have me stick
my tongue in his ear -� says its loud, not arousing.
But the nape of his neck is very sensitive, and I
think I could give him an orgasm just from licking and
sucking the insides of his elbows. Direct current to
his cock. He won't say that aloud -� Scott's too
prudish -� but I've heard him think it often enough.
Right now, I've got him writhing on the bed, hands
trying to get hold of my hips. "Slow down, Jean!" he
says. "Holy Christ!" But he's laughing, and finally
gets enough of a grip to flip me over and land himself
on top. I could flip him back if I wanted with just a
thought, but where's the fun in that? Wrestling is so
much more interesting. The strap of my nightgown has
slid down my arm, half-baring my left breast. He goes
right for it with his mouth while he holds both my
wrists above my head with one of his hands, and uses
the other to push down the strap even further, expose
the nipple so he can latch on.
Now it's my turn to gasp. He's so very good at this.
Not that he was bad initially -� he'd certainly racked
up more practice in bed than me -� but telepathy has
real advantages when conveying the finer points of
feminine sexual response to over-eager twenty-two year
olds. And Scott was an enthusiastic student. We
don't need the link as much anymore; we know each
other's bodies very well. And we've long gotten past
the awkward days and the shy questions of "How much
noise can I make without him thinking I'm a slut?" or
"What would he say if I asked him to . . . ?"
Truth is, I have yet to hear him say 'no' to anything.
Scott has a kinky streak, though it took me almost a
year to coax it out of him. He's not kinky in the
direction of leather, whips and handcuffs, but of the
'use the whole chicken instead of a feather' variety.
Never underestimate the creativity of an intelligent
man. The kitchen Corelleware has been put to uses for
which the designers never intended it, and there is a
lot to be done with a hot-water bottle, a Blue-Ice
pack, a silk sheet, and a purple velour throw (which
took two good washings before the sex smell came out
because I couldn't use hot water). He even let me eat
cookie-dough ice-cream off of him once (which isn't
particularly creative, but I've always wanted to do
that). It melted a bit too fast and gave new meaning
to sleeping in the wet spot. And he taught me what a
body shot is -� got very drunk demonstrating, in fact.
He also has an odd tick for sex in unusual places as
long as there's no danger of interruption. We've done
it in the lab on an exam table, in the elevator
against the wall, in a second story janitor's closet,
on the Blackbird in his pilot's seat, and even once in
the kitchen with me perched on a counter top -� and
that's just the places inside the mansion. It's the
novelty of the position, not the danger of discovery
that turns him on. Overt public display is a big,
thick line in the sand for Scott, though in a house
like this, it's inevitable that we'd be caught *in
flagrante delecto* at least once -� by Jubilee no less
�- and reminding him of that night is still the
quickest way to score a blush. But our resident
mansion gossip never told a soul. She knows
discretion, or maybe she was just as embarrassed as he
was. We're surrogate parents, and kids don't want to
think about their parents having sex -� certainly not
panting sex in a bentwood rocker in the den at three
in the morning. At least we'd had a blanket wrapped
around us because it had been winter, but there hadn't
been much doubt as to what we'd been doing with me
perched on his lap facing in and moving in the
apposite rhythm of the rocker. If not for Jubilee,
the rocker would've been a very successful experiment,
but I haven't gotten him back into it since.
Tonight, though, isn't about experimental sex. It's
plain, simple comfort sex. It's the do-what-I-like-
sex that you only get when you've slept beside a body
long enough to forget you have moles and a fuzzy butt.
He didn't believe that I had a fuzzy butt until he
saw it. His, of course, is nicely smooth. There's
something fundamentally unfair about that, but he says
I have beautiful breasts, to make up for it.
And oh, he does know what to do with them, tongue edge
sawing all around the areola, circling rhythmically,
then pausing to suckle while pressing a tongue tip to
my nipple. He's taken off his night goggles and I
adore the feel of his bare face against my skin
although I know it's deadly dangerous. Sleeping with
Scott is always dangerous even if he works so hard to
be careful. Accidents can happen, and if it were the
wrong accident, I'd be dead before I knew what had hit
me -� which makes it peculiar that I feel so safe in
his arms, even with his glasses off. Right now, he's
placed his nose square in the hollow of my sternum,
mouth over my heart. He kisses the skin there, gives
a little sigh. People might think it's the danger
that thrills me, but that's not true. It's the trust.
Not mine. His. It took him a long time to trust me
to trust him like this, but when he did, the last wall
came crashing down. The first night he placed his
bare face to my chest this way is one that I will
never, ever forget. Even if everything fell apart
tomorrow, I'd treasure that memory. I held a dragon
in my arms, and he was careful with me.
A sleepy dragon right now, who seems to have lost
interest in doing anything more than mouthing my skin
and snuggling down for a nap. "Hey," I whisper,
tapping his jaw. "If you wake me up at" �- I lift my
head to glance at the green light of the clock -� "one
forty-two for sex, you'd better deliver, mister."
I can feel him smile against my skin. "You didn't
seem so interested, ten minutes ago."
"That was before the mouth went south, babe. Finish
what you started."
Laughing, he lifts himself on all fours to straddle my
body and my hand worms inside his boxers to find his
erection even as his mouth finds my other breast. I
trace fingers over the contours from the root behind
his scrotal sac past the roll of testicles, up the
blood-warm shaft to the glans rim. He's completely
average. Average width, average length, normal cant
�- but just perfect as far as I'm concerned. I love
the spongy-hard feel of erectile tissue under a loose
slide of skin. I run gentle fingers over the glans
head and he grunts with his mouth full. Circling the
urethral slit with the pad of my thumb gets a louder
grunt and his penis twitches, and when I rub the
little notch of the frenulum on the underside of the
rim, he lets go of my breast with a gasp. "Mmm?" I
ask, and he replies, "Mmm." This is typical
sex-conversation for us. Forget the naughty talk. We
do well to get past inarticulate monosyllabic mumbles.
He stops concentrating on me, lets me concentrate more
fully on him. I get his boxers off and pump his shaft
with one hand, fast on the down and slow on the up,
while I squeeze the palm of my other hand gentle over
the glans head. It's all tight and smooth, like the
skin on a plum, a little slick with pre-ejaculate.
His mouth is open and I kiss it, nip at that pouty
lower lip. Such a well-formed mouth. But after a
moment, he pulls away to turn his head to the side �-
his automatic precaution � and his hips have started
to move with my hand, his scrotum contracting against
his body and his eyes squeezing tight. Reading the
signs, I let him go before he makes a mess in my palm.
After three deep breaths, he returns to work on me
without protest, moves from my breasts down over my
belly and I know what's coming when he drags off my
panties. Every muscle in my groin constricts in
anticipation and I spread my knees as wide as I can as
I feel his breath stir my pubic hair. His fingers
find my nipples, rub and roll and pinch them lightly,
lightly, and then his tongue flicks over my clitoris.
My hands go back blindly to grip the slatted cherry
headboard and I keen. He draws his tongue up and
down, a cat lapping cream, and it's all I can do not
to push against his face until I smother him. I'm
making completely incoherent noises, though I retain
enough sensibility to send a mental command, *Do it
harder.* He complies, takes a hand away from one
breast to spread the lips wide, trace all along the
creases. It's a wash of excruciatingly fine sensation
that shivers my muscles and goosepimples skin.
Scott is the only man who's ever done this for me.
Not that I've had so many lovers, but the rest claimed
exception based on the tuna-fish smell or musky taste.
Even Scott doesn't do it often but he's been in my
head enough to know how it feels, and he loves to
please me. His is a generous soul. Right now, I can
feel the spread of body wings as his mind reaches out
to mine along our link to discover where I am, and
what I need. Moving his lips up, he sucks at the
engorged clitoris while his fingers slip inside me to
locate a small fold in the wall just below the cervix,
tickle it gentle-hard.
"OH GOD!" I scream, loud enough that I'm sure Ororo
heard it three doors down, and buck involuntarily as
my inner sky rips apart in a red-gold-green light show
behind my eyes. I push my hips against his mouth
because I simply can't help myself, and drum heels on
When I can think and hear and see again, he's sitting
back on his calves, laughing and trying to wipe off
his mouth with the topsheet. "Sorry," I mutter, a
"Don't be. I love to make you scream." And he flops
down beside me, feeling for his goggles on the
nightstand and fitting them on. Then he reaches out
to trace a finger over my cheek, the smile still
lighting his mouth. "Making you scream does great
things for my ego, and the kids are a floor away."
I hit at his shoulder, but only half-heartedly. "Like
your ego *needs* to be bigger?"
He just laughs once more and pulls me in, tucks my
head into the hollow made for it on his shoulder and
threads fingers through my hair, even while I'm aware
that he's wondering how long is long enough before we
can get back down to business. And maybe that's the
true measure of love. He holds me afterwards because
I revel in the contact, and I give him sex at two in
the morning because it makes him less tetchy the next
After a minute or two, I lift myself up on an elbow to
sweep the bangs off his forehead, kiss the end of his
nose. That's my signal that I'm ready for round two
and he settles me on top because this position is so
much easier when we're both tired already. I slide my
wet folds all along his erection, just enough to coat
him well, then rise up to angle him into me. We don't
stop to put on a condom. Six months ago, we quit
using them. If we weren't actively trying to get
pregnant, we weren't actively avoiding it any more,
either �- a compromise position between the ticking of
my biological clock past thirty-five and his
uncertainty as to whether or not he's ready to be a
But right now, the possibility of making a new
generation of X-Men isn't on his mind. His brows have
drawn together above the goggles, his lips are parted,
and I can tell his eyes are shut because there are no
glinting points of red. Leaning down a little, I let
my hair fall over his face, drag it soft across throat
and chin. Strands catch on scratchy stubble and he's
laughing. "That tickles, hon." I sit up and shake it
back over my shoulders, smile down at him. "Love
you," he mouths as his hands rise to cup my breasts,
weigh and knead them with a kind of dim reverence. I
start to move, leaning to brace hands on his shoulders
as his own fall to my hips with just the lightest
pressure to tell me how fast to go for him. This,
too, is a measure of love. I surrendered my body to
him earlier. Now he surrenders his to me, lets
himself be a bit vulnerable, and I'm careful not to
strip him wholly bare. Scott needs his dignity even
in sex, even in our sillier moments of eating ice
cream off a chest or drinking Sambuca out of a
belly-button. He's a proud man -� the kind who'll fit
himself better at thirty-eight than twenty-eight.
And at fifty? I want to see him at fifty with grey in
his hair and lines on his face from an authority
earned and a wisdom accrued. His edges are a little
rough now because he's too young for the mantle that
sits on his shoulders. But oh, in another ten years .
. . .
He's finally started to move under me, and his hands
have crept up my back as I crouch above. The wet
friction slide of him in and out is pleasant, but I'm
not going to climax again tonight. His breathing
hitches once, twice, a third time. "Come on," I
whisper, "Come on," and kiss him, play fencing games
with his tongue and then lick all over his lips and
chin. We've pierced through into the realm of
no-thought sex, where how it feels matters more than
how we think it looks. His hips are slamming into me
a little rough and he's panting heavy, like he's
reaching for something he can't quite touch. He's
held back all evening and I hope he hasn't pushed
himself past pleasure into numbness. It's happened
before, then he gets frustrated and embarrassed. I
tighten kegel muscles rhythmically to increase his
sensation. "Come on, babe," I whisper against his
mouth. "Come on."
And abruptly, he's there. His hips jerk in convulsive
thrusts and he bites at my lips, then presses his head
back into the pillow and grits his teeth as he gasps
out, "Oh-Jean-oh-Jean-oh-Jean-oh � !" as if I were his
personal deity. I stare at the white expanse of his
throat and press my mouth to his adam's apple as he
collapses back, shudders once, and is still. His arms
come up around me and I play fingers over those
splendid shoulders, rub them. We don't speak for a
long time, just snuggle until he asks, "Do you think
we made a baby tonight?"
It's the first time he's ever inquired. "I doubt it,"
I reply. "Why?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and I listen to him
breathe, feel the rise and fall of his chest under my
cheek. Finally, he says, "I was counting. I thought
maybe -� It's been fourteen days since your period
started. But then, what do I know about these
things?" I can hear the embarrassed smile in his
For a full minute, I can't speak. He was counting.
He'd come to me tonight because he was *counting*. I
know my eyes have started to tear and I hope he can't
feel it on his skin, or hear it in my voice when I
say, "You're a little early. You count fourteen days
from the next period, not the previous one."
"Oh. So we get to do this again soon, huh?"
"In about four days."
I raise up to look at him. "*Groovy?*"
"Hey -� it's coming back."
"You spend too much time with the kids." I settle
back down, then add, "Scott?"
"I love you."
He feel his arm tighten around me briefly. "I love
you, too, hon." And he releases me, rolls over, turns
out the light, and goes to sleep.
I smile into the dark for a long time after. He was
Finis. Feedback welcome (of course).
Do You Yahoo!?
Make international calls for as low as $.04/minute with Yahoo! Messenger