Waking up with a generous (and well-trained) lover is one of life's gifts. To be able to turn over and wrap arms around a warm, compliant body that leans keenly into your touch, breath syncing in with yours. To feel them stir, aroused, wanting. Ready and willing. But waiting to be told when it is time, to wait upon your desire, not their own.
Those moments of waiting are like savouring a meal cooked especially for you, to be able to smell and absorb each scent before tasting. The pleasure of them waiting for you. The pleasure of being able to take your time. The anticipation can make you salivate, but it also makes you appreciate what is on offer, like delaying an orgasm by slowing down in order to come stronger and harder at the final finish.
I wake and turn over. How long Ten was waiting and watching me I don't know. The fact that he was waiting is enough. I stroke his shaved head, enjoying the fine stubble and the feel of his skull beneath, the fragility and nakedness of it, the aura of servility. Slave. Submissive. Toy. Boy. Words that float through my sleep-warm brain. I apply a touch of force, just a touch, and he moves to lick, then suck my fingers. He closes his eyes and moves his head up and down. I smirk at his "blow job face" and wonder what he would look like performing those services on a boy, for me. I hook a finger against the inside of his cheek, catching him like a fish and moving his face to where I want it.
He kisses attentively over my breasts and then down between my legs. He's been a good boy and shaved his face fresh this morning so the touch of bare skin to perfect bare skin is cool, slippery and delicious. Nothing to rub or bar the way to pleasure. This was one of the first things I taught him, months ago, in some other hotel room: how to give head to me. I know what I like. And I know what he likes, and that's giving me pleasure. It's about gentle, slow movements of the mouth and tongue, like languorous kisses, only becoming firmer and a little faster - but never hard, never fast - closer to the end, when I hold my breath, my legs and bottom clenches and my spine arches up and towards his mouth.
It takes me a long time to come from oral sex, but it's always worth it. The orgasms are stronger, longer, wetter and spasm through my body for minutes afterwards as wave upon wave upon wave shudders over me. I loose coherence and any sort of language as the world becomes a warm, blank wash of explosive pleasure. Like an expansion outwards from the space into which I fall. No, not fall, dive. The act of orgasm is almost - not quite, there's still an element of chance that makes it all the sweeter - a conscious decision. At some point I become ready and then it happens if I give myself a push.
And then starts again.
But slower than before, as I gently come back to myself, then to my body, then to the bed and with him in it.
I turn to him and smile.
"Go and turn the shower on, I need you to wash me. Then we can head down to breakfast."
All mornings should begin like this.