My Clocking In System

I woke at 10 past 7 because a 6 o’clock start since I was 17 does not care what day it is, and for about 4 seconds I had no idea where I was.

Then the car park light through the gap in the curtains, and a lorry going past on the Walworth Road, and Jodie Carter asleep on my chest with her hair in my mouth.

I did not move.

Somebody’s alarm went off two rooms down and got turned off. A door went. The lift did something inside the wall.

She had one leg over both of mine and her arm across my stomach and the sheet down off her back, and the car park light was doing something across her shoulder that I lay and looked at for 20 minutes without shifting a muscle.

Eleven years and a bus stop and Cheryl Boateng.

And she’s asleep on you in a Travelodge with crisp packets on the floor.

Don’t be clever about it. Just lie still.

She woke the way she wakes, all at once, with a big breath in through her nose.

"What time is it."

"Ten past 7."

"On a Sunday." She did not lift her head. "Why do you know that. Why have you looked."

"You can go back off."

"I can’t now. You’ve said the number."

I put my hand flat on her back and ran it all the way down over the dip at the bottom of her spine and onto her arse, and took a handful of it.

She made a low noise against my sternum.

"Mm. You’ve had your hands on my bum since about 6, I want that noted. I woke up once and you had a full grip."

"I was asleep."

"You were asleep with a full grip."

I did it again with both hands and pulled her up the bed onto me, and the sheet came off the pair of us.

She settled astride my hips with her hands flat on my chest, and I got a proper look at her in the grey coming through the curtains.

Sleep creases down one side of her face, hair flat on one side and a disaster on the other, freckles going over her shoulders.

And her thighs.

I’ve never said it to her. She’s on her feet 9 hours a day and up a stockroom ladder 40 times a shift, and she has got the legs of a woman who does that for a living. Solid through the top. Proper shape to them. When she sits on me like that they come up either side of my hips with the muscle showing, and I have never managed to look at that and stay soft.

I was hard before she had her balance.

"Every morning." She rolled her hips down onto it without letting me in. "Every single morning, Danny Flynn. What is wrong with you."

"Have you seen your legs?"

"I’ve just woken up. I’ve got a crease down my face."

"Have you seen your legs."

"Stop it." Going pink already. "Say a proper one."

"You’ve got the arse and the thighs of a woman who does 40 flights of stockroom stairs a day," I said, "and I’ve had a problem with it since that first Sunday."

She put both hands over her face.

"Danny."

"You asked."

"I did ask." She took them down. Her ears had gone. "Right. Say more of them."

I sat up under her so we were chest to chest and filled both hands with her tits.

She says boobs. I don’t.

They’re heavy in the morning and they go to the sides when she’s flat, and sat up on me like that they sit exactly in my hands and I stop being any use to anybody.

I put my mouth on one and sucked the nipple in slow.

And she made a small sound and then killed it. Straight off. Jaw shut, breath through the nose, the whole apparatus, same as it has been for 11 years.

Her hand had already started up towards her own mouth before she caught it.

We both stopped.

"Oh, you’re joking," Jodie said.

"It’s 20 past 7."

"I know what time it is." She was looking at her own hand like it had done something to her. "There’s a man out there with an alarm clock, Danny. There’s people having a shower. It’s daytime."

"You were fine at midnight."

"I’d had 3 glasses of red and whatever that was in the little glass and I’d lost my mind." She dropped her forehead onto my shoulder. "Oh, this is going to take years, isn’t it."

"Probably."

"I’ve had one night off in 28 years and now I’m back on."

"Then we’ll start again," I said. "From the top."

"Oh, will we."

"Yeah."

"Right, well." She lifted her head. Chin up. Ears scarlet. "Go on then. Make me."

So I stayed on her tits a long time, which is what I would have done anyway, and by the end of it both nipples were stiff and dark and she had gone from silent to a sort of low sound in her chest that she was letting out on purpose, in stages, like a woman getting into cold water.

"Danny."

"Mm."

"Lower."

I got a hand between us.

She’d been grinding on my stomach for 5 minutes and she was slick against my palm the second I got there, and I went nowhere near her clit for a long time.

Two fingers, flat, up the length of her pussy and back down. Again. Spreading her open a bit more each pass and doing nothing about it.

She went completely still on top of me.

"You’re doing the slow thing."

"I am."

"You know what the slow thing does."

"I do, yeah."

"That’s cheating, that is." She had come up onto her knees without meaning to, chasing my hand. "That’s, oh. Oh."

I got two fingers into her cunt and curled them forward and pressed, and she dropped her forehead onto my shoulder and made a noise at proper volume and did not put a hand anywhere near her face.

"There she is."

"Shut up."

I worked her like that with my other arm right round her back so she had nowhere to go, and she got louder in increments, and every time she heard herself she laughed for half a second and lost it again.

"Danny. Danny, I want your cock."

"Say it again."

"I want your cock." At volume, in a Travelodge, at 25 to 8 on a Sunday. "Now."

She reached down and took hold of me and stopped, which she always does, fist round the base, looking at it.

"Don’t start."

"I’m not saying anything." She moved her fist up over the wet at the top and watched my face. "There. That’s what I’m after, that face."

Then she lifted and put me against her and came down on my cock in one long slow drop, and both of us made a noise, and neither of us did anything about it.

She rode me sat up. Hands on my chest, head back, those thighs working, her tits moving and my hands full of them. The bed went crrrk crrrk crrrk into the wall and about a minute in she started laughing at it and never broke rhythm.

"He’ll think we live here."

"Let him."

"Ah. God. Danny, I’m going to go quite fast, I’m sorry, you’ve had your fingers in me for 10 minutes."

"Go on then."

I got my thumb back on her clit and my other hand round her arse and pulled her down harder, and she went about 30 seconds later with her head right back, loud, no hand, nothing.

Then she came down onto my chest and stayed.

"I’ve not finished with you," she said into my neck.

"No?"

"No. Yours is in the shower."

The bathroom was the size of a phone box with a shower over the bath and a curtain that came in and stuck to you.

She got the water on and stood with her hand under it, waiting.

Then she turned round with her mouth open.

"Danny."

"What?"

"It’s hot."

"It’s a hotel."

"No, but it’s still hot. It’s been hot for a minute." She put her whole arm under it. "Mine goes in 4 minutes. Four minutes and then it’s ice and you get out and swear."

"Get in."

"I’m having a moment about the boiler."

"Get in, Jodie."

There was not room for the two of us and that was most of it.

We were pressed together from the chest down whether we wanted to be or not. Her tits flat against me and wet.

My back against tile that never got warm the entire time. The curtain coming in and sticking down the length of her spine every 30 seconds, and her batting it off and swearing at it and it coming straight back.

She got the little bottle off the shelf and washed my hair.

She did that the first Sunday too, in a stall the size of a wardrobe with the water going cold on us, and she was the one who carried the pair of us through it that morning while my hands were shaking, and I have wanted her to do it again since.

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