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Morning sex is better described as:  your man stretches, grunts, scratches his balls and rolls over toward you.  He thinks he’s being cute and flirty as he grabs you while you  unplug  your phone from its charger—because you have already been up, jogged, showered, done laundry, dishes, cleaned and generally been productive for  hours—and drags you back into bed. Your man pulls you into a bear hug, squeezing you tighter and tighter into his body which is over-heated from sleep. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck inhaling your hair whilst his morning wood is stabbing you in the back. Sweet nothings like: “you are so fucking hot baby—do you know how fucking hot you are. God I am horny. Thor’s Sword wants some of that sweet tight lala”  are heaved into your ear. The lovely eau de toilette of morning breath fills your old factory sense. Your lover starts running his hands up your shirt, kissing your neck while you make several attempts to get lose from  his embrace; because, unlike him, you have a ton of shit to do before you have to be at work. But, alas, he is persistent; and, in the end, you just give in and allow the morning penetration because it’s just quicker this way. “If there’s a more perfect way to start the day, I haven’t discovered it yet. “ I have, don’t wake the bear unless you have the day off and nothing to do. 

 

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