Years ago, in our early days of dating, we occasionally found ourselves on Sunday mornings at a popular deli, and our target of acquisition was cinnamon French toast. Not French toast made with cinnamon in the batter, but French toast made from house-made cinnamon swirl bread cut at least an inch thick.
I always got the small portion, but he always got the French slam version: 2 thick cut pieces of French toast, 2 eggs over easy, and bacon. We’d sometimes wait in line for 30 minutes just so we could get our cinnamon fix. The bread was sweet and doughy, the cinnamon filling thick and gooey, and the thin crumb topping perfectly crunchy. We’d spend an hour or more sitting in a booth, listening to the old regulars on the other side of the plastic partition. I’d drink cup after cup of coffee, willing the weaker-than-ideal brew to work on my neural pathways.
Those Sundays always started off so perfectly, but I always felt the hours and minutes ticking away, until he had to go back to his apartment way across town and I had to buckle down and do boring school stuff. As awesome as Sunday mornings were, Sunday night were the pits.
This Sunday morning he rolled over close to me and softly ran his hand over my thighs, belly, hips, and eventually over my tightly closed pussy. I drifted in and out of sleep as he touched me, his fingers occasionally running through my downy bush. In lucid moments I wondered if he wanted to fuck me, but the thought floated away as I drifted back to semi-consciousness.
Then slowly, insistently he fucked me with his tongue, buried deep under the covers. His fingers joined his tongue, pushing me over the edge more than once. Eventually it became a job for his cock and his fingers. I think he just wanted to keep me in a state of continuous orgasm, and nearly succeeded. Two, three times I came around his cock. Then it was just me and his fingers. Four, five? Seven? Ten? I gushed over his hand on the last one. Each orgasm was small, building a little on the last one, until that last one let it all go.
“Good morning,” he said, taking out my earplugs. “Are you still gonna make French toast?”