Short, Short Fiction: Saturday Morning

I know it's Saturday because you casually reach for my morning woody and take a firm hold with your warm hand. The sun is up and the bed is cozy and I kind of want to go back to sleep but there's your hand, managing to be insistent without doing anything but grip me. My hips push forward the tiniest bit, seemingly of their own accord, and I feel the slight slip of skin and the resulting tension. I wake up a little more, make my hips relax.

I open my eyes when I hear you sigh. You're already looking at me, your brown eyes only slightly muddied with the passing haze of sleep. I love the way the skin around your eyes crinkles when you smile at me. I love how that smile is so much about possession, ownership. My cock gives a little jerk and spark of pleasure at that smile, which makes you arch your eyebrows and your smile turn into a grin.

"I love that you're always hard in the morning," you whisper, "It's like you're my faithful little toy, just standing at attention, waiting to be used."

You start to move your hand, pulling and pushing at my skin. I close my eyes again and simply let myself feel. It's dry but not uncomfortable. It makes me want more. It wakes me up fully and drives away both the memory of the dream I was having and the thoughts of coffee and a bagel. Now there is only the now, only the want.

"I'm going to use you," you say, your breath warm in my ear. I whimper and nod enthusiastically. Every Saturday morning is like this, which is why I love Saturdays; which is why I wish every day was Saturday.