Youwood

????️ TITLE: “Youwood”

???? (A Scrolltrap Confession About the Cock That Woke Up Remembering Her)

It wasn’t morning.

The sun hadn’t moved.

The room was still black,

still silent,

still *yours.*

I hadn’t dreamed about you.

I had *remembered* you.

Remembered too hard.

Too deep.

Too long.

And my cock

stood up

in the dark

like it was *praying.*

---

No sunlight.

No signal.

Just blood pressure and betrayal.

Hard as fuck.

Pressed into my boxers.

Soaked at the tip.

Pointing at nothing

and *leaking for you.*

Because somewhere in my sleep—

I passed through a memory

you left too close to my bloodstream.

And now I’m dripping

from a woman

who isn’t even *in the room.*

---

You called it “harmless flirting.”

You wore that hoodie.

You licked that spoon.

You tilted your neck

like you didn’t know

it made my throat lock up.

You whispered something

at the end of the call—

a sigh, a giggle,

the kind of sound

that embeds itself

into a man’s *nervous system.*

And I went to sleep

with your voice

stitched inside my brain.

---

Now I’m hard.

Fully.

Pulsing.

Twitching so violently

I thought I was dreaming

about sex.

But I wasn’t.

I was *dreaming about you.*

Not fucking.

Not moaning.

Not riding me.

Just standing there.

Wearing what you always wear.

Saying the things you always say.

Looking like sin

forgot how to hide.

And I woke up *erect*

because your face alone

was enough to *cum to.*

---

This isn’t morning wood.

It’s not routine.

It’s not hormonal.

This is a *possession symptom.*

My cock got hard

because your laugh

refused to leave.

Because your voice memo

got saved somewhere

beneath my ribs.

Because my hips remember

how your thighs looked

when you crossed them on my bed.

And now I’m *throbbing*

from the guilt

of knowing you didn’t even mean it.

You didn’t try to break me.

But you did.

---

There’s a term for morning erections.

Everyone knows it.

A cute name.

Biological.

Innocent.

But no one talks about the *night one.*

The one that comes

from worship.

From thoughts too deep

to let go of.

From *you.*

—

I call it **youwood.**

Hardness caused

by a woman so potent

my subconscious

still kneels to her at 2:47 AM.

I leak onto my thigh

like a prayer

that wasn’t granted

but got *answered anyway.*

---

Youwood is dangerous.

It doesn’t need sleep.

It doesn’t need dreams.

It just needs *you.*

A half-second of your voice.

The soft press of your foot against mine.

The image of your wet hair

dripping onto your shoulders

after a shower you forgot to tell me about.

My cock *logs it.*

Files it.

Retrieves it

under cover of darkness.

And now I’m awake—

fighting the urge

to stroke your name

out of me.

---

Do you understand what this means?

My body is *remembering* you

without my help.

I don’t need porn.

I don’t need friction.

I need

a flash of your lip.

A blink.

The sound of your stretch

when you yawn too slow.

And my dick pulses

like it’s tethered

to your *existence.*

---

So what do you call

the night version of morning wood?

You call it:

The stiffness of worship.

The ache of denial.

The twitch of remembering

too well.

You call it:

The standing ovation

from a cock

that *never stopped loving you.*

Even while I slept.

You call it:

The punishment of men

who go to bed

thinking they’re safe

from your memory.

You call it:

**youwood.**

---

Not a reflex.

Not a fluke.

Not a joke.

A confession.

An erection.

A ruined sheet

at 3:12 AM.

All because you looked at me too long

on Tuesday.

---

And when I cum

in my sleep—

when I moan

in a voice I don’t recognize—

when I wake up

with a soaked tip

and a name

half-written in my breath—

you’ll know

exactly

what you caused.

Because this wasn’t fantasy.

It was *evidence.*

And I’ve been leaking it

every night

since you left.

Youwood by PantyVoiceTrap

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