Something touching his face startles him from sleep. He fights toward consciousness from a dream he's already forgotten. He finds himself in a dark room. In a bed. After a moment he realizes it's his bed. The nightstand digital clock says 1:42.
The "something touching his face," which interrupted a dream he's already forgotten, turns out to be a pair of woman's lips. They're showering him with kisses. On his neck, shoulders, finally covering his mouth. Her perfume inexplicably stiffens his cock.
But he feels irritated, not aroused. He thinks: "I've got to ask her to stop waking me in the middle of the night. I hate going around all day feeling sleep deprived."
At the moment he can't recall her name.
Is it Sunday morning now? If so, he's been with her two nights. Picked her up at the singles function in the church social hall, a place he goes only when in between relationships.
What is her name?
She presses against his crotch. Before he can protest, a groan escapes. He wants to tell her to stop, to please let him sleep.
But he doesn't say anything. He hopes it's Sunday morning and not Monday. If the latter, he's done for. He has an important meeting at 10 and then all afternoon with the accountant. It's got to be Sunday morning.
She runs her tongue around his lips, her hair covers his face and shoulders. Her mouth's initial unpleasant taste gives way to familiar hints of salty, funky, vestiges of earlier lovemaking.
He met her Friday evening. They fucked all Friday night and Saturday morning. That was yesterday, right? So that makes it Sunday morning now. Not too late to get back to sleep. So he doesn't feel like crap two days in a row.
His erection grows. He stretches his legs—a reflex that began as a teenager. She presses her thigh against him.
Her tongue in and out of his mouth. He tries to anticipate her thrusts. She swings on top of him, continues her tonguing. He doesn't care about the saliva running down his chin.
She puckers her lips inches from his face. He remembers it's a cue to open wide. She releases a string of their liquids into his mouth. He exaggerates swallowing. Forgives her for disrupting his sleep.
She brushes his face—first with her hair, and after scrunching up a bit, her breasts.
When he groans, she pivots, faces his crotch, her pussy pressed against his chin. He gasps at the heat that embraces his shaft and the pressure of her chin against his pubic bone. Her tongue circles his mushroom, sending shivers up his spine.
Her mouth moves swiftly. Soon he's ready to erupt.
She arches her back to offer him easier access to her pussy. He parts her lips with his index finger and hearing a moan and feeling her slipperiness, inserts two fingers. Her hips thrust against his fingers.
She cries out when he adds a third. Then a fourth. Finally his whole hand. He holds it there, unmoving inside her entrance, lets her acclimate to the pressure. She'll do the rest of the work now by herself. Soon she resumes the thrusting and then her vaginal wall relaxes and she presses hard against his hand. She cries out. Droplets sprinkle his face and forearm.
Then it's his turn to cry out as his semen, like mercury in a thermometer, slowly rises up his cock. A few more thrusts into her mouth and he'll be in heaven.
But she has other plans. He cries in frustration when she releases him entirely. He was so damn close. After a few seconds, she eases him into her pussy, holding him in her without moving.
His breathing begins to return to normal. She rotates her hips side-to-side, then back and forth. Slowly. This time she doesn't stop.
The clock says 2:02 when he awakens from a post-coital slumber, his legs entwined with hers. She kisses him and they position themselves face to face.
