ReM/Mixed Erotica: The Ass Pajama Lottery
Authorized reM/Mix by Confidant of "The Ass Pajama Lottery” by Jeremy Edwards.
Find the original M/F story here.
© 2010 Jeremy Edwards. All rights reserved.

He calls them his "ass pajamas,” and they are identical—in every respect but one—to his other pair of pajamas.

Each set consists of a skin-tight cotton jersey with matching bottoms—almost like longjohns, but without ribbing. Each set is the same solid color, a vivid raspberry-sherbet pink.

He has modified one pair—adroitly cut and hemmed it—so that the bottoms have no seat.

From the front, I cannot tell which pajamas he’s wearing.

Every night, he goes upstairs and gets ready for bed, while I finish the dinner dishes. We both know that his sex drive is not as high as mine, and that whether or not he will be in the mood is a matter of chance.

Every night, I enter the room and find him sitting up in bed reading, in raspberry-sherbet pajamas, the covers pulled up to his waist. Every night, he gives me a tender smile, puts his book down, and scoots under the covers until he is lying flat, face up, on the bed. He closes his eyes.

Every night, I greet him in bed and kiss the thick, smiling lips that echo, in more muted tones, the hue of his pajamas. Then I pull the covers down just beyond his bare feet. He looks good enough to eat in his sorbet-smooth second skin, his fresh, loving face framed by a Prince Valiant shell of chestnut hair that sinks listlessly into his pillow.

We do not want him to have to tell me, in so many words, "I want to be fucked tonight,” or "I do not want to be fucked tonight.” And so, every night, I simply reach a hand under his ass. This is what he and I have arranged.

If I feel the seat of his ordinary pajama bottoms, then I kiss him again, I pull the covers up to his chin, I whisper goodnight . . . and I pad off to the bathroom to handle my own libido.

But if I feel the frank immediacy of his bare ass, then I know that he is inviting the squeezing of cheeks and the tickling of the hairy space between them. That he is longing to be rolled over, so that his ass may be attended to with fleshy kisses and little slaps. That he is counting on me to caress and cajole his naked bottom until his raspberry-sherbet crotch darkens with precum and his raspberry-sherbet legs spasm and kick with uncontainable delight.

That he wants to feel the taut rib within my own pajama bottoms, as I press down upon his radiant, jiggling cheeks, and flatten them ever so slightly with my weight.

And we both know that before we sleep we will merge, stripped and torrid. That we will fuck with a frenzy that makes the house seem to vibrate, as it does when the washing machine spins its ass off on a Sunday afternoon. That we will shriek our ecstasies like the enamel tea-kettle—which rests quietly now, downstairs, in the kitchen that I tidied up while he was choosing his pajamas.