Coffee and cunnilingus

I get up and make coffee and take it back to bed, keeping an eye on the clock to make sure I have enough time for bathing and dressing and getting out the door on time.

“Drink your coffee,” I say, because he never does, and then when I collect the cold cup later I think crossly that if he wasn’t going to drink it then I could have (my early-morning thoughts being pretty much focused on coffee, as a rule (although not to the exclusion of everything else)). He mutters something that could be “Yes, I WILL drink my coffee, every last drop,” or “I really should have got up and made YOU coffee, shouldn’t I?” or “Why don’t you just shut up and drink your coffee?” or even “Why the hell do you have to wake up so early?” and rolls over towards me.

He pulls my legs apart and tugs me down a bit on the bed where I’m propped up on the pillows. I sip my coffee and look down at the top of his head between my thighs, and think: “This is nice”, until the coffee cup starts to lose its allure and I fling it vaguely in the direction of the bedside table and slide down a bit more. The caffeine high kicks in at about the same time as his tongue does.

Some time later I drift downstairs to wait for my ride, and then float into the car. “You look cheerful this morning,” my driver says, and I say yes, I had a particularly good breakfast, and smile all the way to work.