Between the insomnia and the stress, there hadn’t been much time for fun in our lives these last few months. Those summer days of walking about nude and laughing and playing seemed a long, long time ago.
And in fact it was, one summer removed. Last summer was full of shift and change and not much time for fun then, either.
In the end, the answer was simple: it was time for brunch.
This post contains mature adult content.
The light from Sunday morning crept slowly across the floor in broad strokes that swept away the darkness. With a languid stretch she touched his bare shoulder but lightly, lightly.
He didn’t move. He often stayed up much later than she could on Saturday nights, and consequently their sleep-wake schedules were misaligned.
That was OK. It was something she was used to.
For half an hour she read on the couch, but the words didn’t really sink in. There were too many things waiting at home–dishes piled up, dirt on the floor, an empty refrigerator. Slowly she pulled on her clothes, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she did so.
He snored, shifted onto his side, and subsided once again. His face was creased with heavy lines of fatigue. It was likely he would be out for hours yet.
Swiping his spare set of keys, she left the loft apartment, careful to close the heavy door quietly. At 8 a.m. Midtown Sacramento was quiet, the streets empty and sprinkled with rain.
Suddenly, she knew. With a grin, she turned her yellow Beetle down the street towards the Natural Food Co-op, making lists inside her head and planning all the next steps.
Hours later, he rolled over and reached for the opposite side of the bed. It was empty and cool to the touch.
Maybe she’s out for coffee.
For an hour he drifted in and out of sleep, anticipating her return.
Then the phone rang.
“What are you doing?” she chirped over the line.
“I was just coming to,” he answered. “Where are you? When are you coming back?”
“Plans have changed,” she replied. “Come over, as soon as you can. I am making brunch.”
“Ahh. OK.” They talked for a few minutes more as he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed, shaking his head and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Hurry-hurry-hurry!” she said, laughing, just before she hung up.
There were less than three miles between them, yet in that short distance he was witness to an accident and nearly hit another car headed the wrong direction down a one-way street.
He arrived at her door late and upset. She opened up with a smile that faded at the sight of his troubled face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, swinging the door open wide. She was wearing some kind of Betty Crocker outfit, frilly and white, as he took a deep breath to explain the day’s events.
Then she turned around, as she headed back towards the kitchen.
And he realized she was wearing absolutely nothing but a thong underneath that frothy apron.
His breath caught at the sight of her round ass sashaying into the kitchen. He forgot about the traffic and the accident, mesmerized by the white lace stockings and the long legs. In the kitchen there was an array of small plates: fresh mango and pineapple, tiny muffins, and an omelette arranged next to a half circles of avocado on a wide white plate.
“Look what I did!” she crowed, and he sat down with a smile, his head spinning. She chattered happily as he ate; she nibbled here and there but never stayed in one place too long, her long ponytail swishing down her bare back.
He ate enough to keep her happy, then swept her up in his arms.
“Time for the dessert course,” he whispered as he kissed her neck, as her arms reached around him and her head tilted back. He slipped his fingers under the triangle of lace, finding her already wet to the touch. She moaned as his thumb pressed, hard, and he curled two fingers inside her in a come-hither motion that had her begging to climax in a few moments more.
Instead he withdrew his hand altogether and applied his tongue instead. She was salty and swelling with need, her muscles twitching as she gasped and clenched the sheets.
“Please, please,” she mewled, remembering the rules to ask for permission.
“Not yet,” he said and dipped his head again, twirling his tongue against the tiny bud as his hands cradled her bottom, spreading her wider.
At last he stopped, listening to her pant, her whole body loose and supine. Pulling her legs over the edge of the bed until her toes brushed the carpet, he turned her over onto her stomach and stroked her bare back, playing with her ponytail.
Back and forth, back and forth, he moved inside her until he was slick with her want and need, until he couldn’t hold back, filling her up until it spilled out on the sheets and he lay gasping across her warm skin, his breath tickling her ear.
According to the graffiti artist Banksy, there are four human needs: food, sex, sleep, and revenge.
Thankfully, we need only three of these to be perfectly content, on a lazy Sunday afternoon.