© 2016 City of Broken Dreams
“Hey,” I hear a voice call from the foot of the bed.
When I don’t respond, I feel a firm nudge, which finally forces me to attend to the source of my premature waking. When I open my eyes, I see her sitting there, on top of the covers, naked except for a hot pink thong, her nipples hard from the chill of the room.
“What time is it?” I ask, sleep anesthetizing my voice.
“Early,” she replies. “Just before six.”
“And why have you awoken me at such an ungodly hour? And on a fucking Sunday, I might add.”
“Let’s leave the city,” she says. The room is dark—that half-dark that exists in the purgatory moment between twilight and dawn—but I can still make out her big green eyes shimmering in the murk, like the eyes of a feral cat.
“And where shall we go?” I ask her.
“Anywhere,” she replies. “Everywhere.”
“Okay,” I say—because I’ll never be able to say no to her; because I’m not capable of saying no to her. “But let’s get another couple hours of sleep, first.”
She gets on all fours, and lithely slinks up the length of the bed to slip underneath the covers beside me. She seemingly pulls off the maneuver in one single, simple, fluidic motion. It only takes her a half second to come back to my side, but watching her do it is still enough to make me hard.
“Okay,” she whispers into my ear. “Just a couple more hours. But then we leave the city.”
It doesn’t take us long to fall back asleep.