Perhaps the more entertaining story is how it all started, but frankly that tale would take too long to tell and it would detract from the perfection of what we have become.
Let me explain.
Every morning I wake up at seven on the dot. It doesn’t matter what I do the night before, out drinking until dawn or in bed with a book by eight. My alarm goes off at seven, just one alarm, an old school round chrome analog clock with an actual bell on it, and with it, I am up.
That initial adherence to a schedule keeps my whole day a little more organized. Plus what waits for me after I wake up always gets me out of bed promptly.
I shower, shave, have coffee and toast. Then I unlock the front door of my apartment and take my place on the couch in my living room and wait.
My neighbor comes in at eight on the nose. She is beautiful. Perhaps too beautiful to play such a game with me, or so I sometimes think. Perhaps it is that I am safe. I have proven myself to be both harmless and able to follow directions exactly. Plus, I get it. I react to the kink the same way she does, only in the opposite position.
She comes in, locks my door, enters my living room, and begins her show.
It’s different every morning. Sometimes she is full of energy and she dances, wild and free formed. Sometimes she will slink in and sit down on my armchair and slowly seduce me with her sleepy eyes.
Every time though, she will let me see her body. Usually in little ways, pulling up her blouse or dress, pull down her jeans, or even tugging the crotch of her shorts to the side.
She will show me her hidden treasures and touch herself, only half acknowledging me, and rub and tease and play with herself, until she is satisfied. That means different things on different mornings, but when she leaves, she will be satisfied and I will decidedly be unsatisfied.
And that’s how we like it. That’s how we get off every morning. That’s the game and that’s the morning routine.
That is except for very rare exceptions. She explained that the exceptions were to keep my hope alive. To make every morning not just an exercise in teasing, but a torturous adventure in uncertainty.
Sometimes, half way through her show, she comes to me. She pushes me down and straddles my face and uses my tongue for her pleasure. She rides my face while she unzips my pants and pulls out my cock and strokes my eager hardness.
The hand full of times she has done this, the times she broke her normal routine, she has gotten off on my tongue as she stroked my cock until I was begging to come, but then she would only laugh. In the end, it was still the same as always, satisfaction for her and frustration for me.
But once, just once, she moved swiftly off my face, and with her cunt soaking from my mouth and her own wetness, she sat down on my cock and I was plunged into the impossible heat if her, and she rode me, her breasts in my face and her hands in my hair, she rode me and rode me until I came right inside of her, just to let me know, every other morning, what I was missing.
And it worked. Every morning as I watch and whimper, I remember that feeling. I remember every second of it and every glimpse of her skin reminds me of what I am missing. The torture is exponential.
And that’s why I wake up every morning at seven and why I have only been late to work once.If you liked this story you can send me a tip via paypal.me/writingdirty