by Alison Tyler
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
24/7
FOUR A.M. WAKE-UP CALL
FIVE A.M. WALK OF SHAME
SIX A.M. COFFEE
SEVEN A.M. CHANGE OF SHIFT
EIGHT A.M. MORNING WOOD
NINE A.M. OFFICE BRIEFING
TEN A.M. KICKOFF
ELEVEN A.M. ELEVENSES
NOON: LUNCHTIME RENDEZVOUS
ONE P.M. TEST DRIVE
TWO P.M. BIKER BAR
THREE P.M. CLOSED-DOOR MEETING
FOUR P.M. NO-SHOW
FIVE P.M. SOMEWHERE
SIX P.M. THE AFTER-DINNER HOUR
SEVEN P.M. KINKY CRAFT NIGHT
EIGHT P.M. APPOINTMENT TEE VEE
NINE P.M. VICTORIA COACH STATION
TEN P.M. PORTRAITS
ELEVEN P.M. STRIP POKER
MIDNIGHT: MOVIE DATE
ONE A.M. GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT
TWO A.M. DATE NIGHT
THREE A.M. LAST CALL
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For SAM.
INTRODUCTION: SEX AROUND THE CLOCK
You’ve heard the concept of christening a brand-new house? Making sure you’ve fucked in every possible corner—in the shower, on top of the washing machine, in the cedar closet, outside against the woodshed. (Oh, God, that woodshed.) Well, my man and I took this concept a step further. We wanted to fuck around the clock—christening every hour of the day in a brand-new way. And do you know what we learned? There is something sublime about sex at sunrise, something otherworldly about a two a.m. bang on the beach. And when you figure out how to slip away for a noontime quickie, you will discover that lunch will never be the same again.
The authors in Morning, Noon and Night rose to my challenge of making sex around the clock a unique endeavor. From noon to midnight and back again—any way you tick the minutes—the stories chronicle a twenty-four-hour schedule of sultry, slippery sex. This collection contains tales of shift changes and office briefings, of missed appointments and erotically enhanced commutes.
We begin with a “Four a.m. Wake-Up Call” by Jax Baynard, because I am often up at four. In fact, it’s four a.m. right now. Somewhere. No, wait, it’s “Five p.m. Somewhere,” which is the name of Kristina Lloyd’s exquisite snowed-in story about a couple who run out of gin but manage to make the first nonalcoholic martini of all time. (At least, in any erotic story I’ve ever read.) I’m proving my point here, which is that you can dive into this day-in-the-life (or day-in-the-lives) schedule at any hour and come away with a hot little sojourn into serious, silky sex.
Whether you’re flipping the pages or running the ball of your fingertips over your screen—whether you’re in Central, Mountain, or Daylight Savings Time—get ready to fuck your way around the clock.
Morning, noon and night.
XXX,
Alison Tyler
P.S. And since there aren’t enough hours in the day for fucking—there’s actually a twenty-fifth story in the book. Thanks to Aisling Weaver for her frisky flasher.
24/7
Aisling Weaver
Fifteen years later and they still ignite each other. It happens in the morning. She looks over her shoulder and he has to bend her over the kitchen counter. Later in the living room. He snaps the newspaper just so, and before he can find the funnies they’re scattered on the floor and his pants are around his ankles.
Any time of day or night. Their love fuels their lust. Tonight it’s the storm. To the soundtrack of thunder he spreads her. She strokes his stubbly jaw, wraps her legs around his waist and he strokes his cock into her.
FOUR A.M. WAKE-UP CALL
Jax Baynard
I rolled over and looked at the clock: four a.m. My husband was asleep next to me. Despite having a husband, I hadn’t gotten any lately. He was stressed about work. On him it didn’t show, but I lived with him and he’d been under so much pressure he was going a little out of his mind. So I could hardly add to it by being demanding. And yet. I was starved for cock. There was no delicate way to put it. I was married to the best one I’d ever come across. I thought about it all the time, dreamed of it, yearned for it and fantasized about it, but I wasn’t getting it. I was having orgasms, of course, about three a day, but it was getting to the point where it seemed like work more than fun. Still, if I didn’t have them, I went a little bit out of my mind. I had hit that age where, unexpectedly, I suddenly had something in common with every teenage boy on the planet: I wanted sex, and I wanted it more or less all the time.
I lay quietly and listened to the even rasp of his breathing. I thought about waking him up and begging for it, but no matter how creative I was I knew he wouldn’t appreciate the suggestion. His alarm was set for five a.m. His flight to Tallahassee was at eight and his presentation at three.
My pussy was not at the top of his priority list.
Deciding to make myself useful, I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot down the stairs. I flipped on the lights in the kitchen. Airline food, never good at its best, had only gotten worse—unless it was nonexistent altogether, in which case the preoccupied business travelers could just go hungry. I fished some nori out of the cabinet, found some day-old rice in the fridge, added sugar and vinegar to it and chopped up some vegetables. The carrots were definitely phallic and the cucumber almost didn’t make it into his lunch at all. Only eight years of fairly domestic bliss kept it in his lunch and out of my cunt. I sliced the sushi rolls into even pieces, put them into a container, added an apple and a PowerBar, shoved the lot into a brown paper bag and put it by the front door where he couldn’t miss it (I hoped) on his way out.
Then, not wanting to go back to bed, I wandered into the library. I sat in the leather armchair and splayed my legs. I let my hand drift through the already wet, dark curls. I wasn’t up to much effort, but I knew if I just lay back and thought of his cock and the things he used to do to me with it, and let my fingers travel back and forth over my clit, it wouldn’t feel like so much of an effort in a few minutes.
He cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said. In the dim light of morning, I could just make him out standing naked in the doorway.
“Hey back,” I said, dropping my hand, embarrassed for no reason I could think of.
“Oh, don’t stop,” he said. “I got up early to give you a going-away present.”
A quivering sensation began in my stomach and spread downward. “I thought people got coming-home presents,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even.
He smiled, moving toward me, his cock fiercely erect, upright against his belly. “If things go well, you can have one of those as well.” He knelt between my legs, placing his palms on my inner thighs as if to hold me in place, which was funny. A whole lot more than wild horses couldn’t have moved me from the spot.
“Missed you,” he said, tonguing me, starting just above my asshole and licking all the way up to my clit. “Sorry,” he said. “My f ault.”
It felt so good just to have him touching me, much less running his tongue all over the most sensitive spots on my body. I was squirming, greedy, wanting everything in the first instant. I was babbling, sex words, love words, pleas. He made a firm point with his tongue and stabbed it into me. I jerked and twisted in his grasp. “I need your cock,” I said.
“Really?” he inquired politely, but he was sweating, a fine sheen across his chest. “I thought I might do this for a while. Remember the first time I did this to you? You liked it a lot then…”
“I want your cock,” I said. “Please give me your cock.”
“Oh, well,” he said, all teasing, false modes
ty, “If you put it that way.” With a quick, hard jerk he pulled me off the chair and into his arms, my thighs over his, my back braced against his arms. The sweet, aggressive slide of his flesh into mine made a keening sound start in my throat. I tightened my arms around his neck, sucking on him, his neck, his jaw, wanting it to feel as good to him as it did to me. He thrust into me, controlling it, refusing to move faster. And then he stopped, hard and throbbing inside me. I wailed in protest, but if he wasn’t helping, it wasn’t that easy to get purchase. I tried to knock him over so I would be on top, but he withstood me easily. “Hold still,” he said in my ear, low-voiced. “I want to suck on your nipples.”
He proceeded to, until I was a mindless bundle of nerves, grinding my hips down on him, trying desperately to rub my clit into his pubic hair so I could come. He held me off just enough so I couldn’t. “Easy, baby,” he said, but he was panting. “Let’s make it last awhile.”
“Fuck you,” I said. “Plane to catch, remember?”
“Oh, that,” he said, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, after six long weeks, except having his thick, hot cock inside me for as long as possible. “Forget the shower.” He licked sweat from my collarbones. “I’ll go like this and the other husbands will be jealous. I’ll have the smell of your pussy all over me and it will drive them crazy.” His hands tightened on my hips and he resumed thrusting, faster now, less in control.
I was done with words, beyond them. They were gone, like someone I used to know. There was just this, the powerful surging of his body into mine, over and over and over again. I raked my nails down his back, something for him to think about on the plane. In answer, he dumped me on the floor, pulling out and shoving back in, lost himself, as if his body had finally remembered that sex was the best stress reliever on earth. Waves roll across the ocean for a long while before they crest and crash onto a long shore. I came, but for the first time in my life I barely noticed: it wasn’t the point. I had what I wanted: his cock inside me, his climax breaking him apart so he lay shuddering against me in the aftermath. He forced himself up, though, arms trembling. “I have to shower. Do you want to be back in bed?”
“Liar,” I said. “In a minute.”
He’d heard that before. He got me into his arms and, staggering slightly like a drunk, carried me up the stairs and put me back to bed. “Have a good trip,” I said, reaching up to kiss him, my hand on the back of his neck the last thing to leave his body as he turned away. I felt sleepy, sated with happiness, made of nothing but air and light.
FIVE A.M. WALK OF SHAME
Dante Davidson
When Gennifer walked down the street toward Max, he couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing the exact same outfit she’d had on the night before. Generally speaking, he was not the type of guy to pay such specific attention to what a woman was wearing, but this was a noticeable creation. Through the plate-glass windows of the café, he spied her dark wine-colored satin corset fastened over a white peasant blouse and a short, flirty black-and-red velvet skirt. Her black fishnets were noticeably ripped and her boots had high, spiky heels. This was not your average coffee bar attire, nor was it your average five a.m. attire.
Not unless you were doing the Walk of Shame.
He started to laugh under his breath as she entered the shop. Gennifer didn’t even look his way. With her head held high, she strode behind the counter—heels click-clacking on the tiled floor—and tied one of the little black-and-white aprons around her slender waist. Five a.m. is early to most people, but to a coffee shop crew, Gennifer was actually a half hour late. Max had covered for her, starting the various jobs that she did by his side on a daily basis.
Without a word, she began the normal prep routine, turning on machines, checking supplies. He noted when she bent down to look in one of the low mini refrigerators that her skirt was torn in the back. Three sterling safety pins held the fabric together, gleaming under the lights.
He blinked, knowing exactly what it would take to rip the fabric like that. He could imagine tearing the skirt, shredding the back along the seam. He could almost hear the sound of the fabric giving way, a small shriek of submission from both the skirt and the girl wearing the skirt.
His cock twitched.
Gennifer turned around suddenly, catching him staring, obviously lost in his filthy thoughts. Her ivy-green eyes narrowed, and he felt himself blush. Without a word, she stood and moved past him, and when she did, she made sure her hip brushed his growing erection. Holy fuck. He had to suck in his breath to avoid moaning.
“Some night, huh?” Max managed to choke out as she moved past.
“Straight out of an X-rated movie,” she said, flicking on the various devices that would soon fill the shop with the aroma of rich, dark coffee.
He looked at her face. She still had remnants of the previous night’s makeup. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her lids smudged with a plum-colored shadow rich with glittery pigment. Her lips were stained dark berry red. When she bent forward over the cash register, he saw a spot where she’d been kissed hard enough to leave a bruise deep in her cleavage. That sent him once more into fantasyland, spiraling into visions of climbing on top of her, tearing her shirt open, biting and kissing her small, ripe breasts.
His cock was a throbbing, demanding being at this point. The shop wasn’t even open for business and he couldn’t wait to get off—in two ways. Gennifer moved by him once more, and this time she actually let her fingertips graze the outline of his hard-on through his jeans, but she did so in a casual, almost accidental manner. He could almost hear her taunting voice in his head.
This time, Max did groan and press back against the counter. He couldn’t help himself.
“You getting an eyeful?” she asked, and her voice was so raw with sexual need that Max considered fucking her right there, against the coffee canisters. “You want to see everything?” She started unlacing the corset top, but Max had the wherewithal to stop her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to the unisex bathroom. He flipped on the fluorescent light and turned the lock.
There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her, but he couldn’t call her a cocktease, because Gennifer was already hitching her skirt to her waist and bending over the porcelain sink. Max sighed when he saw she didn’t have any panties on. He had the presence of mind to think that she’d actually gone knickerless with her skirt torn like that—and wondered if anyone else had spied her pink. He slid one hand between her legs and found that she was dripping wet. Was she already wet from their encounter or still wet from the night before? He didn’t care. He tore open the front of his jeans and thrust his cock against her naked skin, not in her, not yet, just on her. So he could feel her heat.
Gennifer had the corset off and was working on the blouse.
“I can’t believe you actually went through with it,” Max said as he finally slid his cock inside her.
“A dare is a dare.” She smiled mischievously at him in the bathroom mirror.
He remembered the previous night as if in Polaroid images, still frames frozen in time. Over tequila shots, he and Gennifer had discussed the customers they served on a daily basis—the ones who came to get their regular dull coffee to go with their regular dull lives, and the ones who seemed like they might have a little kink in them. The walk of shamers, Gennifer called them. Those were the patrons she liked best, enjoying spinning stories about what their night-befores might have been like.
“That Flo,” Gennifer said, “she always looks as if her man has been keeping her up all night long.” Flo was a hall of famer walk of shamer. Sometimes Max had a difficult time meeting her eyes when he served her, she was so obviously recently fucked.
He and Gennifer talked their way through the various customers. The couple was mildly tipsy, drinking on the floor in her living room, teasing each other in a light manner until he said, “You’re one to talk, you know. You get fucked six ways to Sunday each night. You simply polish up nice and pretty in the a.m.”
“I don’t always have to,” she’d taunted. “I can be as sloppy as your favorite walk of shamer.” This was a girl named Megan who came in several times a week looking obviously mussed. Gennifer said that Megan would be lost if she didn’t have at least one visible hickey.
“Oh, really? What would it take?”
“What do you have to give?”
She’d actually gotten up and nudged him with her bare foot, playing rougher until he’d stood up with her.
“No,” she’d told him. “Wait here.”
She’d sprinted down the hallway, and he’d heard her rumbling around in her bedroom. He’d drained the last of his glass of tequila, imagining what she might be doing out of sight from him. When she’d returned, she was dressed in a whole new outfit, having discarded her standard T-shirt and cut-offs in favor of what he could only describe as Mardi Gras on acid—a red-and-black slutty creation that made his cock immediately hard.
Something about the clothes had changed her attitude as well. Gennifer had play-punched his shoulder, then gone on her tiptoes to ruffle his shaggy blond hair.
“What do you want?” he’d asked, gripping her wrists to stop her.
“I don’t want just a ‘slept in’ look,” she’d told him. “As if I missed the alarm clock and had to rush. Anyone can have bedhead. I want to look like I’ve been really fucked. Good and proper.”
“Don’t I do that every night?”
He knew he did. She’d never complained before. He’d taken her in the shower, on the sofa, outside on the balcony. He’d spread her pale pussy lips and eaten her out for hours, had sixty-nined with her until she’d creamed against his lips in the sweetest way. But he’d never played the way she pushed him next.
“I want you to fuck me so people will know,” she’d said, pulling away from him and running to her bedroom. So people will know. How was he supposed to do that? The question in his head, he’d chased her, sprinting down the hall, reaching for her at the doorway, his hands on her skirt. She’d pulled, and he’d torn the fabric, not fully, not demolishing the short skirt. But torn. The sound of the fabric rending had startled him, and he’d stopped still, his heart racing.
