Alarm Cock

Enterlude:

I wrote this as a gift of sorts for a friend in need, who happens to be an excellent writer himself. If you read Spring Break Visitor: Part I and Part II, you might have noticed that fact, as he composed them lol. I intended this story for him alone, knowing he would enjoy it, but he seems to think it’s worthy of a place on here. Now would be a good time to thank him (and tell him happy birthday), my lovelies.  All I’ve removed from it is my boyfriend’s name. You get the rest as the Mystery Writer did. Without further ado…

~*~

It’s noontime, and, as usual on my days off, I am still in bed sleeping away peacefully the only way I know how, naked and on my tummy, while my boyfriend works diligently in another room of the house. An unexpected phone call comes in, as they always do, but it doesn’t wake me. The voice on the other end of the line explains that he has to meet a client immediately, and there’s no getting out of it. This is bad timing. We’re expecting another one of his clients and the client’s wife over for dinner in about 5 hours to bullshit and do business, and now he’s unsure if he’ll make it back in time to not keep them waiting and if I’ll actually wake up for it. Knowing me, I may well leave them standing at the front door in favor of sleeping away, wrapped up in bedsheets and dreams. Just before he’s ready to go, he stops by the bedroom to tuck me in and let me know he’s leaving for a while. He sits on my side of the bed, gently pulls the covers off of my back, and strokes it until I show signs of life. He’ll be back as soon as he can, he says, but he’ll still make sure I wake up on time for dinner later, since he’d planned to be home to wake me up himself before the phone rang. In my sleepy state, I take this to mean he’ll call home until I answer, and I give him an appreciative smile knowing he’ll probably do it with enough time left for me to masturbate before they arrive. It gives us something to smile deviantly about and makes me friendlier during these more than stuffy and less than fun dinners, and it’s become a ritual as a result. He leaves a kiss on the nape of my neck as he covers me back up, and I tug on his shirt to get a real goodbye kiss before he heads off to battle the world and leaves me to sleep for a few more hours.

Just a few more…

While I’m continuing my tryst with dreamland, the clock strikes 3 pm. I should be waking up now, and even my subconscious is waiting for the house phone to ring any minute. But it doesn’t.

Yours, however, does.

You recently moved into a house down the road from us, close enough that we all had our own space, but that we could still come together within just a few minutes of wanting it. Almost instant gratification. Our housewarming gift to you was a key to our own house. You hadn’t gotten to use it yet because one of us had always been at home and awake when you were invited in, but my boyfriend wants you to use it now. He’s a little annoyed, yet grateful, that our future dinner guests just called him to say they might be an hour or two late, but couldn’t give him a specific time as to when they’ll show up, if they even do. While it gives him time to get back home and gives me time to get ready, it’s fairly rude that they don’t seem to mind possibly missing what is meant to be an important dinner. He tells you about it and explains that I need someone to wake me up, should the dinner actually happen.

He wants you to do it.

And he has a further request, which may or may not come to the amusement of the dinner guests in a couple of hours, but which will surely come to ours.

I don’t hear the front door open when you come in a few minutes later, but the eyes I feel watching me from the doorway to the bedroom alert me to your presence. Only you ever did that. I pretend I haven’t noticed and soak in the clink of your belt buckle and rustle of your clothes as you take them off. I listen to you lift the covers and slide into bed with me, and my breathing changes. You know I’m awake, and I’m almost certain that you can hear my bloodflow change direction and pool in my center. You roll me onto my side so that my back is pressing against you, draw a hand over my side and around to the closest nipple, and give it a squeeze. I laugh, throwing away all pretenses of sleeping, and ask you if you’re my alarm cock.

As a matter of fact, you say, you are, and you’re under strict orders.

You lean over me a little so that my head is under yours, slowly pinching your way down my tummy, and you tell me that my boyfriend requests that I be fucked awake. Not a tall order, I think, as your hand stops short of my pussy and comes back up to my nipple, only to make the same slow trip back down. But that’s not all he wants.

Oh? I ask.

No.

You tell me about the dinner guests and his frustration with the client not taking the dinner seriously, how they might be late. I can’t see a downside to this considering how much time we’re wasting with you pinch-pinch-pinching down my tummy, conveniently skipping the area of interest, according to my bloodflow. You continue on and explain that, since the dinner guests have spoiled my boyfriend’s comfort zone with this meeting, he wants to spoil theirs, too.

Pinch, pinch, pinch.

When you get down to the very top of my slit and leave a pinch there before coming right back up to my nipple again, I ask you how he might do that.

Well, you say, my boyfriend wonders how much they’d be bothered if he agreed to pick them up and take them to our house so they all got there at the same time only to find me looking suspiciously disheveled.

I don’t think they’d be that bothered, I say.

He doesn’t think so either, and neither do you.

But what if, you ask, they also find me in a short skirt and happen to see some cum escape down my legs due to a lack of panties?

They might be a little uncomfortable, I think.

And what if, you continue, instead of finding me clearly post fuck, they all walk in and find you still fucking me in said short skirt on the dining room table?

Then they might be very uncomfortable. And they might not want dinner anymore. And we might have more fun without them.

Pinch, pinch, pinch.

You continue down my slit this time, down one side and back up the other, and you agree. I ask if my boyfriend has a preference over which of the two bothersome scenarios actually plays out. He doesn’t, you say, so long as his last request gets filled. Assuming we finish fucking in time for me to look almost presentable for this important dinner, he still wants the chances of them seeing cum somewhere on me as high as possible. If they make it just an hour late for dinner, that means we have three hours to fuck our brains out. I shouldn’t take long to get ready if I already have the skirt on, since I won’t be wearing much else, and it gives you plenty of time to deposit 3 loads of cum somewhere in me or on me. He doesn’t care where they all go, as long as one of them goes deep inside my pussy.

Pinch, pinch, pinch.

And what happens, I ask, if some cum should escape down my legs in the middle of this dinner?

He’ll take care of it, you assure me, and I know better than to ask you to elaborate on what that means.

By this point, you’ve pinched yourself out of pinchable territory and you decide, instead, to run a finger repeatedly from my clit to my opening and ask me what skirt he’s talking about.

The black one in the closet, I manage to breathe out.

You ask me if I want to wear it yet as you slide a finger in me. I’m almost too wet for it. I wait a minute to answer you and only do so with the promise of a second finger joining the first.

That depends on if you’re going to fuck me yet, I explain, because I see no sense in only getting my own cum on it. If it’s going to be defiled, it should be properly defiled from the beginning, and that involves more cum than my own.

You laugh and tell me it’ll stay put away for a little while, if that’s the case. I am simultaneously pleased and not pleased to hear it. And I am definitely not pleased when you pull your fingers out of me, roll me onto my back, and start to get up out of bed. I’m about to protest when I hear the clink of the belt you dropped on the floor, and you’re forgiven when you return to bed, bind my hands above my head with it, and replace your pinches from before with bites down my sides and down my pussy. You stay at pussy level long enough to give me a lingering lick, and then you come back up. It’s a good thing my hands are tied, I think, or I might incapacitate you for that bit of cruelty. You’re forgiven again when your fingers return to their fucking position and you turn to lick the previously abused nipple, and you’re forgiven a thousand times when I cum that way.

A few minutes into afterglow, your fingers now toying with my other nipple, when you’re sure I can speak English again, you ask me once more if I want to put the skirt on yet.

Desperately.

I can’t get it myself with my hands above me, so you remove the belt and I leave you long enough to search it out. I ask if my boyfriend wanted me to have just the skirt on and nothing else, and you answer that, even if he didn’t want just the skirt, it’s all you’d let me put on anyway. After all, he wanted cum on my skin, not on my clothes, and more than that little skirt will get in the way of perfectly good canvas. I think that’s fairly logical, pull it on with my back to you, and straighten up only to feel you standing behind me.

Sneaky.

I half-look over my shoulder and tell you that your erection has no sense of stealth as you pull me into you by my hips, and you don’t answer, but I can feel you smile. You drag me backwards a little ways and then turn us around when we reach the side of the bed. You suddenly wish you hadn’t left the belt on the other side of the bed, out of both of our reach, when you tell me to crawl up onto it on hands and knees. I could probably reach it myself now, but the skirt is short, as you can now see, and there was no talk of leaving any questionable marks other than cum behind.

Next time, you think.

You climb onto the bed behind me, also on your knees, and trace your fingers around the hem of the skirt, wondering how much more than cum these dinner guests might see if I really do wear it for the occasion until I look back at you with a, Please fuck me already, look. But you’re not in a hurry. We have time enough to torture me still, and you let me know it by once more returning your fingers to the up and down stroke between my labia. When you switch your fingers with your cock, doing the same outer stroke, I think that you should be glad you’re not the comforter, because I must be tearing holes into it with my nails and am pretty sure I might do the same to you, if you don’t stop teasing me.

But there’s no need for that, and patience is a virtue, I find, as you finally see fit to ease your cock inside me and push my shoulders down so that my head is on the bed. If nothing else, it lends a muffling effect to my moans as the minutes wear on and your strokes grow faster and deeper and harder, and it’s not long before I hear you tell me to cum for you again. I’m close already, and there’s no turning back once the sentence registers in my brain, and especially not now that I feel your cum join mine. No amount of burying my head in the covers could muffle the orgasm that follows, and for a few minutes, I forget what the Earth is as we collapse onto the covers.

But when I remember, I turn to my right, look at the clock on the dresser, and I know it’s going to be a gloriously long afternoon.

It’s only 4:30, and we have work to do…