Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

"Sleepy Dragon" (1/1) S/J, Jean POV, ADULT

Expand Messages
  • Minisinoo Girl
    SLEEPY DRAGON Minisinoo http://www.geocites.com/minisinoo/sleepydragon.html (web file with images) SUMMARY: A celebration of sex between long-time lovers.
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 21, 2001
    • 0 Attachment
      (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
      his back.

      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
      little embarrassed.

      "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
    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.