Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references



As I roll over onto my back, the first thing I’m aware of is how hot it is. Humid, too. The air is like breathing soup. Through my closed eyelids, I can tell it’s bright in the room… which must mean that it’s bright outside too. At first, I wonder if I’m still dreaming – before I come to a steady realisation that I’m not. And I remember where I am.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” she trills, which is enough to make my eyes slowly open. She’s already up. (In fact, she may have been for a while. I’ve no idea what time it is. Time has no meaning any more.) But she’s still wearing her night-dress, which is both a surprise and pleasant to see. Her hair is a mess, and her face is a bit pink; she looks for all the world as if she has herself just rolled out of bed and decided to wake me up to annoy me.

Steam rising from a white cup of hot coffee with a spoon on a saucer over a wooden table in a café.
By far the sexiest image on this blog.

“Yes, yes, good morning,” I mutter. “Just let me…”
“C’mon, wake UP,” she wheedles. “Let’s have breakfast. I’ve got so much to show you. Breakfast first. I’ve got lemonade or orange juice. Or orange juice mixed with lemonade.”
“Can I have some coffee?” I say, reluctantly crawling out from under the duvet. Her bed is like a dream – soft, smooth and easy to sink into. As a matter of fact, that describes her pretty well, too.
“Coffee?” she says dreamily, as if she’s never heard of the concept before.
“Coffee. I know you have it; it’s grown in this country. You’re aware of what it is, right?”
“Riiiiiiiight…” she says, taking my shoulder and gently guiding me back onto the bed. “Yes, coffee. I’ll get you some coffee, it’s just that…”

And then I notice that her eyes have strayed from my face. My morning wood isn’t morning wood.

“…change of plan. Can we have sex first, then coffee?”
“We had sex three times last night. You’re ready for some more? Is that what you’re saying?”

At which I realise we are both too far gone. She isn’t wearing anything under her night-dress, and I’m far too hard and far too willing to do anything but sigh as I feel her soft folds splitting, her sex contracting around my shaft as she kindly – but firmly – sinks down onto me.

“Sex first,” she repeats as she begins to ride me. “Then coffee.”
“Sex first,” I echo. “Then… uh…”
“Sex. Now shhhhh…” she whispered, placing a finger on my mouth and flashing me a toothy, full-beam smile as bright as the sun outside. “I want to enjoy this.”


I’m still on my back, but this time I’m covered in sweat. Her hair is messier than it was. She’s still wearing her night-dress, but you couldn’t really tell. The main difference, as she’ll tell me a few minutes later, is that she’s full of cum, and had been buzzing for it ever since she woke up. Her head is on my chest, her breathing steady and body warm.

She speaks first.

“Yes. That’s what I meant. Now let’s go. I’ve got so much to show you. Breakfast first. I’ve got lemonade or orange juice, or…”

She stops to laugh at the arrested look on my face.

“…fine. Coffee. And then we’ll get on with our day, okay, sleepyhead?”
“All right,” I acquiesce, hunting around for something to put on. “What are we doing after breakfast, assuming I get my coffee?”

There is a pause.

“Sex?” she offers.


  1. Mrs Fever

    Sometimes, reading you, I am reminded of what it felt like to be young.

    • Innocent Loverboy

      That’s a really nice comment to get – thank you.

      This happened more than a decade and a half ago. I miss being young myself.

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