It’s seven thirty a.m. and I’ve just come out of the shower, still dewy even after having patted myself down with my towel. I’m halfway through slipping my clothes on and he’s already dressed, ready for a new day at work. We kiss goodbye and I can’t help but elongate the action, craving just a fraction more time with him. I press myself against him and we melt into one another—we’re not candles but we might as well be sometimes.
Now, I can feel him getting harder, straining beneath those tight trousers. Damn, this kiss has gone on too long to be left there. I want to fuck him right here, right now on this sofa, but…
There’s not much time. Isn’t there? Surely, there’s always more than enough time for “that”. We haven’t eaten breakfast yet, but I’m hungry for sexxxxxx. After all, time is a merely construct that can be stretched out and released like a piece of elastic—in the words of the Tenth Doctor, “It’s just a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff”—like something a cat might play with as they float around in the space-time continuum.
[Ahem, I digress. But David Tennant is still my favourite Doctor.]
I forget about time itself and strip in a hurry, hitching myself up onto the sofa, hands flat against the wall. He mirrors my actions, moves behind me and we attempt a doggy style manoeuvre. But even with my legs bent at a ninety-degree angle, it’s awkward. After a few pumps we decide to take it to the bedroom. It’s for the best, really. The sofa has seen enough of us making fools of ourselves for one day, and it’s barely even begun.
So, we pull the covers back with a majestic swoop and hop onto the mattress—which, I am making a mental note—needs flipping because it’s hard as fuck. I assume the doggy position again. This is a common choice for us, but one that I personally love. I mean, it gets him nice and deep inside me that way and I can bury my face into the bed while my modestly-sized-yet-firm tits jiggle around like two blancmanges. I know he likes watching that.
We screw, hard and fast. Lost in the heat of the moment, we forget all about the time, but part of our brains are inevitably still acutely aware of it. I grip at the pillow and make my voice a little louder than usual, so that maybe…just maybe someone might hear us outside. Knowing that the neighbours might not even be awake yet is kind of a turn-on—and I’m not even sure why. Is neighbour kink a thing? I suppose it must be to someone, somewhere. The walls are so paper thin in this apartment block, we could easily become personal alarm clocks for anybody who wants pussy sounds with their cock(rel).
Rise and shine, motherfuckers!
[Again, I digress. But I really do wonder about these kinds of things.]
We continued fucking like dogs, he came (beautifully), I resented the fact that we’d both already showered and got dirty again, and then not cared one bit about the mess. Then, we went to work.
So, you ask. What is the moral of the story?
There is no moral here. This isn’t a parable and we’re not the Bible. All I’m saying is that spontaneous sex is just as fun as a slow build-up to it. Hell, sex is just fun!