This Is How I Wake Him Every Morning Before Work

What I’m about to tell you has no important names, no order, and no great story behind it. It’s just one of those ordinary mornings, a Tuesday or a Wednesday, one of those weekdays that blur into one another. I’m writing it because some people start their day with coffee, while we found a much better way to chase away sleep a long time ago: we chase it away with cock and cunt, no beating around the bush.

The alarm goes off. I hear it before I even open my eyes, that dry beeping sound spreading through the whole room. I stretch out an arm blindly to turn it off while rubbing my eyelids with the other hand. The sun still hasn’t risen. A bluish, chilly light slips in through the gap in the curtains, the kind that warns you the day is coming whether you want it to or not.

I get up slowly, careful not to let cold air under the sheets. I walk around the bed to your side. You’re lying facedown, your face buried in the pillow and one arm hanging off the mattress. I bend down and kiss your forehead, softly, barely brushing it.

The only answer I get is a slap on the ass.

I laugh quietly, still half-asleep myself, and head toward the bathroom, shaking my head. You stay still, pretending you’re still asleep, although we both know that hand didn’t move on its own. I turn on the shower so the water can heat up. The mirror starts fogging around the edges as steam fills the room.

I come back for you. You’re already sitting on the edge of the bed, your hair tousled and wearing the face of a child woken too early. I find it tender to see you like this, still without your armor, without a watch, without a hurry. I run my hand slowly through your hair, combing it back. I hold out my other hand.

—Come on— I say softly—, the water’s going to get cold.

You take it without saying anything. You stand up, and we walk to the bathroom together, still warm from the bed. Another caress through your hair, because I can’t help myself. You smell of sleep, of sheets, of you. There’s something about that hour, when the rest of the world is still asleep, that makes everything feel secret, as though nothing that happens between those four walls matters to anyone but us.

When I try to turn around and leave you alone to get ready, your hand doesn’t let go of mine. It gives a slight tug, just enough. I move close again until I’m standing in front of you. I look at you. You look at me. There’s no need to say anything.

I start unbuttoning the top of your pajamas. I do it slowly, one button at a time, even though there’s no reason to take it slow; I suppose I like the ritual. The fabric slips from your shoulders by itself and falls silently to the floor. I run one hand over your chest, feeling the warmth of skin still heated by sleep, and lower it over your belly until I brush you through your pants. There it is already: hard, outlined beneath the thin fabric, pointing upward as if it had been waiting for me all night.

I lower my hands to the waistband of your pants. I hook my thumbs into it and pull down. The fabric bunches around your feet, and you step out of it. And there I am, rewarded, finding you already ready in front of me without having done almost anything. Your cock springs free at the level of my face, hard and swollen, the tip glistening with a drop that was already peeking out. I smile. I look up so you can see that I’ve noticed, then run a finger over your glans very slowly, spreading that drop around it. A short moan escapes through your nose.

There’s something I’ve never told anyone, and that’s that I like this part as much as what comes afterward. The exact moment when I discover what I bring out in you without any effort, just by being near you, just by undoing a button in the half-light. It makes me feel powerful in a way nothing else during the rest of the day does, when I’m just another person on public transportation, at the office, in line at the bank. Here, in this steam-filled bathroom, I’m not just another person. I’m the only one, the woman who has your cock standing hard before the first coffee.

I run one hand over your hip and feel your breathing catch for a second. It’s a small sound, almost nothing, but I know it. I’ve learned it through mornings like this. I know that tiny break in your breath is the sign that you’re no longer thinking about the clock, the meeting, or the email you have to send. You’re thinking only about me, my hands, my mouth, and where I’m going to put it in you next.

Before I can try to get away again—not that I was very eager to—your hands begin moving over me through my clothes. They travel up my back, down my sides, lingering for a moment at my waist. You don’t touch my skin, but you don’t need to. The brush of fabric against my body raises gooseflesh everywhere, on my nape, my arms, even places where I didn’t think I could get goosebumps. You slip your hands beneath the old T-shirt I sleep in, push it up to my shoulders, and pull it over my head in one quick motion. My breasts fall free, my nipples already hard from the cold and from wanting you. You pinch one between two fingers, and I arch my whole body into your palm.

—You’re going to be late— you murmur, your voice rough with sleep.

—So are you— I reply.

The shower steam has filled everything. Drops slide down the mirror and the tiles, and the room has become warm and enclosed, a little world apart. I know we don’t have much time. We never do at this hour. But that’s exactly why I enjoy it more: because it’s stolen, because it’s ours, because in a little while each of us will have to pretend in front of the world that nothing happened this morning.

I kneel in front of you.

I start slowly, with my hands first, running over you, learning you again as though it were the first time. I grip your cock with my right hand, closing my fingers around the shaft, and stroke it slowly twice from top to bottom, squeezing when I reach the base. With my left, I hold your balls, weighing them, caressing them with my fingertips. Your jaw is already clenched. Then I lean in and run my flat tongue from root to tip, one long, filthy lick, leaving a glistening trail that nearly smokes in the steam. When I reach the glans, I take it all into my mouth, sealing my lips just beneath the crown, and suck inward hard, as if I wanted to draw something out of you. I hear you let out a sudden breath, a long exhalation escaping before you can control it. You brace one hand on the edge of the sink so you won’t lose your balance. The other goes straight into my hair.

I let your fingers tangled in my hair set the pace. You decide when it’s slower, when it’s a little faster, how far. I start moving my head up and down, taking you as deep as I can, letting your cock bump against my palate and sometimes the back of my throat. My eyes fill with tears, and saliva slips from the corner of my mouth, thick strands running down my chin to my tits. I don’t care; we both know it—the dirtier, the better. I like this part, giving you control of it, feeling your hand guide me with a firmness you don’t even have the energy to speak with at this hour. Every so often you pull it out and give me two or three soft slaps with the wet tip against my cheek, my lips, my outstretched tongue, and I laugh with my mouth open before catching it again in a gentle bite and swallowing it once more. Meanwhile, my hands don’t stay still: they caress your legs, your thighs, wherever I can reach, slowly, without hurry; one returns to your balls and kneads them gently, contradicting the clock I know is ticking on the other side of the door.

Today everything is happening fast. I can tell from the way your breathing changes, from the way your legs tense beneath my hands, from the little tremor beginning to run through you. You swell even more inside my mouth, growing hard as a rock, and your balls draw up tight against your body. I know that sign by heart. I know exactly how much time you have left.

—Wait— you say, almost voicelessly.

But you don’t mean for me to stop. You pull back just enough, and your own hand takes over to finish the motion. You jerk yourself off quickly, your fist tight and firm, right in front of my face. I stay where I am, kneeling, mouth open, tongue out and eyes raised, waiting for you the way I like. A few seconds later, I feel the first spurt cut off your moan in your throat and land warm on my cheek, followed by another on my lips, and another, thicker one that falls straight onto my tongue, salty and heavy. I close my eyes for a moment so I won’t miss a single drop, letting your semen run down my chin to my neck. Your breathing finally breaks apart.

I stay like that for a moment without moving, letting you catch your breath. Then I swallow what’s in my mouth slowly, staring straight at you so you can watch it go down my throat. I run my tongue over my lips, gather what’s left on my cheek with a finger, and bring it to my mouth, sucking it clean. Mischievously, I let my tongue collect one last drop that’s still there, connected to its source, and give your glans a wet little kiss before letting you go. I look up. You look down at me with that slack half-smile, still gripping the sink, still not quite understanding how the day can begin like this.

—Good morning— I say, laughing.

You shake your head without a word, run your thumb over my chin to wipe off a remaining trace, then put it between my lips yourself so I can finish sucking it clean. After that you finally step into the shower. Water falls over you, and I stand there for a moment watching your blurred silhouette through the fogged glass, with that warm, foolish feeling in my chest—and between my legs, soaked beneath my pajama pants—that I always have afterward.

***

I take care of the usual things. I pick your pajamas up off the floor and fold them on the bed. I tidy up a little. Then I go to the kitchen to make some breakfast, still barefoot, still with my hair tousled and the taste of you lingering in my mouth. I start the coffee maker, take out the bread, and look through the window as the sky slowly brightens over the rooftops across the way. The house smells like coffee and soap.

You appear a while later, already dressed, already wearing the adult face the world expects of you. Shirt, watch, phone in hand as you check messages no one cares about. Looking at you like that, no one would guess that twenty minutes ago you were coming all over my face in the bathroom. And for some reason, I like that even more. That it’s a secret we wear beneath our clothes.

We eat breakfast quickly, barely speaking, each of us already half inside the day ahead. You check the time twice. I finish my coffee standing up, leaning against the counter, discreetly squeezing my thighs together because my cunt hasn’t calmed down since I left the bathroom. It’s an ordinary morning, identical to so many others, and at the same time it isn’t. None of them really are.

When it’s time to leave, I walk you to the door. I straighten your collar, more as an excuse to touch you than because it needs fixing. You kiss me, this time on the mouth, briefly, the kind of kiss that already tastes like goodbye and routine; when you let me go, you bite my lower lip very lightly, like a signature. You open the door. And just before you step through it, without warning, I get another slap on the ass, this time with your open palm, loud enough to leave my butt warm beneath the fabric.

I remain in the doorway, laughing to myself as I watch you go down the stairs with the serious stride of a person who has important things to do. And as your figure disappears, I realize one thing: it’s going to be a long day. A very long one. An entire day spent waiting for you to come home so we can finish, slowly this time, what we started this morning in a hurry; a day imagining how you’ll really fuck me the moment you close the door, with no clock, no shower waiting, and all the time in the world for you to spread my legs and push it all the way inside me.

I close the door. I lean my back against it for a second. I slide my hand inside my pants, barely rubbing myself through my underwear, and confirm what I already knew: I’m soaking wet, the cotton sticking to my cunt, and my fingers glistening from that single touch. I sigh. I look at the kitchen clock. I’m late too.

But it was worth it. It’s always worth it.