Let Sleeping Dogs Cum
written by:
Naughty Miranda

LET SLEEPING DOGS COME

"What's the most common lie that a guy tells his girlfriend?" Sharon's eyes were glittering with delight.

Mary shook her head. "I don't know."

"'I promise I won't come in your mouth.' And what's the most common lie a girl tells him?"

"I don't know."

"'Good.'"

Mary smiled briefly, and then frowned. "I don't get it."

"Oh come on. ‘I won't come in your mouth' - ‘good.' The two biggest lies."

I sank down in my seat. Someone once told Sharon she was South Philly's answer to the singer Amy Winehouse, and I'm not sure that they meant it nicely. It's the accent, I think, an unholy cross between fingernails on a chalkboard, and a fax machine that smokes too much. But I love her to bits, and I love to see her in full flight as well. She's hours of fun, she laughs like a drain, and if you don't understand her sense of humor, she might as well be speaking Swahili. Which, judging from the look on Mary's face, is what she's doing right now.

"Okay, let me spell it out for you." Slowly, patiently, and a lot more facetiously than could ever have been necessary, Sharon explained her not-so-funny joke, then turned to me in triumph. "Chrissie gets it, don't you Chrissie?"

I nodded.

"Every time," Sharon concluded, then threw her head back in a violent laugh.

Mary looked at me curiously. "Really? And you like it?"

I paused. "What was that line from Sex And The City? ‘Well, it's not a trip to Baskin & Robbins, but....'"

"I had a guy who worked at Baskin & Robbins once. He was hot." Sharon hooted again at her (admittedly labored) oxymoron, but Mary at last was on solid ground. "And I had a pizza delivery guy, only he arrived too quickly. I mean ‘came.' He came too quickly." I laughed and was about to add my own pun to the party when a shadow fell across us. "And if you ladies have finished with your undoubtedly scintillating conversation, the seminar is about to resume."

We gathered our purses, rose and followed Mr Albertson out of the cafeteria. Great - the three of us had tugged so many corporate strings in order to wrangle our places at the book fair... the biggest in the country, mid-summer in New York... and our boss caught us laughing on the very first day. Good job he didn't see Sharon last night.

She had, from what she told us this morning, made quite the night of it. The book fair's not just publishers, after all. There's authors here as well, and some of them... well, like the guy from Baskin & Robbins, they're hot. Or, at least, famous. So, when Sharon walked into the hotel bar, and spotted - oh, I'd better not say his name; suffice to say that he's exotic, balding and recently separated - she just had to leaf through his pages. And they both told each other lies. Apparently.

Me, I went to bed with a good book, and expected to be doing the same thing tonight. Star-fucking's fine when you're in your early 20s, but it loses its luster after a while, especially when (as is so often the case) the star turns out to be a dick. A dick with a dick, granted. But a dick all the same.

We made our way into the auditorium, and found our seats. The guest speaker... yes, it was Sharon's friend from last night, as her pointy elbows kept excitedly reminding me... was already at the podium, but while he registered our late arrival, he gave no sign of recognizing its loudest component. In fact, I wondered whether he might even be regretting having succumbed to her admittedly buxom charms? Sharon might be a dynamite editor, but she's scarcely the smoothest dildo in the drawer. In fact, she can be rather prickly.

I fixed my eyes on the speaker, did my best to ignore Sharon's whispers and giggles, and when the guy seated in front of me turned around to try and stare her into silence, I offered him my sweetest sympathetic smile. Quite frankly, I don't think it's possible to shut Sharon up... even with her mouth full, she's probably drumming out Morse code with her fingernails. I'd hate to be in earshot when she orgasms.

Damn, but this guy's boring. I swear, if he namedrops one more of his bloody awful books, "and as I wrote in blah blah blah..." - I couldn't help myself. "Please tell me," I hissed to Sharon, "that he wasn't this dull last night?"

She snorted. "Well, he is a bit full of himself," she half-whispered. "Even fuller than I was, in fact." Again her laughter drowned out the speaker, and again the guy in front of us turned with an irritated look on his face. "Must be his agent," Sharon hissed, just loud enough for the man to hear. "Nobody else could be care that much. Fucking old windbag."

I felt myself redden, out of sympathy as much as shock, watched as the man turned away from us, and fought to straighten my face. The worst thing was, he was rather cute... the guy in front us, that is, not the author, who was now droning on about some existentialist dilemma that he dramatically resolved on page 474 of blah blah blah blah....

"You can wake up now, he's finished." I opened my eyes. Oh my God, Mr Anderson... no. It was the agent. Beside me, I could hear Sharon chattering away to whomever would listen, poor Mary probably, while around us, the rest of the audience was leaving.

I thought of trying to bluff my way out, but I knew it wouldn't work. "Did I miss much?"

"No. Nothing at all." He cast a nervous glance at Sharon, and looked relieved when he realized she was oblivious to his presence. "I was wondering... it's my first time alone in New York. Would you be free for dinner this evening?"

"I'm not a writer, you know." After all, why else would a literary agent be asking me out?

"And I'm not his representative," he said pointedly, with another glance at Sharon. He fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. "Robin Mitchell - publisher." "Hey, you do..." I rattled off half a dozen book titles, a series that I'd been collecting for a few years, on the history of American pin-up art.

He nodded. "And you are?"

I gave him my card. "Senior editor, eh? See, we have something in common already. I'll meet you in your hotel lobby at seven, yes?"

"Okay." I told him where I was staying, then sighed with relief as he stood and walked away, just as Sharon turned her attention back to me. "What was that all about?"

"He's a psychiatrist," I lied smilingly. "We were comparing notes on how to quieten unruly patients."

"Fucking nerve," she shrugged. "I'll tell you who needs a psychiatrist. That smug shit who just spent the last 90 minutes boring us to death about his books. I tell you, if he could fuck like he can talk, I'd still have him chained to the bed right now."

"Instead?" I ventured.

"Instead, I gave him a handjob in the lift, then went back to the bar and picked up the bellhop." She smiled apologetically. "Yeah, well it sounded a lot more glamorous the other way round, didn't it?"

*****

Robin... it's funny, I've never known a male Robin before, apart from Robin Hood, but apparently it's common where he grew up... was there at seven on the dot. "I would have brought you flowers," he said as I appeared in the lobby. "But I didn't think you'd want to carry them around with you all evening."

I smiled. Actually, I'd rather he'd brought me a selection from his back list - his company's books aren't cheap. "No worries. So where are we going?"

"To be honest, I wasn't sure, so I made reservations at my hotel restaurant. Which just happens to be your hotel restaurant as well. Small world, isn't it?"

"Very." Damn, I was rather hoping we'd be off somewhere else. The last person I wanted to see tonight was Sharon, but there wasn't much chance of avoiding her now. Sh'd already told me she was eating in this evening, in the hope of getting eaten out later.

Clearly, however, I'd under-estimated my escort. Yes, we were in the hotel restaurant. But who knew that they had semi-private rooms, just two or three tables, well screened from other diners, and insulated, too, from the noise of the lobby and the muzak in the elevators? "You can even hire violinists to serenade you while you eat," said Robin. "But I thought that might be pushing it a bit."

"Just a bit." Shit, what was wrong with me tonight? I can normally talk up a charming storm, especially with someone as cute as this. Instead I was reduced to monosyllables, and not especially entertaining ones at that. "So tell me about yourself?" I decided to let him do the talking for a while. It would probably be a lot safer that way - and so it proved, because by the time we'd finished dessert, neither of us was in any doubt of where we were heading next. And the only question was, whose room was the bed in?

Mine. But not, I'm afraid, through choice. He paid the check, we finished our coffee, I stood, then stooped to pick up my purse - and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, alone in pitch darkness. I turned my head and the Indiglo numerals on the clock by my bed read 4:05. I sat up, reached for where I knew the bedside lamp was and switched it on. Yes, my room, my bed. Someone had thoughtfully decided to remove a few of my clothes, but my bra and panties were still in place, and a blanket had obviously been pulled across me at some point.

Later, Robin told me that I'd blacked out in the restaurant; that the hotel doctor checked me out and declared it was probably a 24 hour bug; then he and Robin carried me up to my room. "Best if she just sleeps it off," said the doc and Robin, the sweetheart, said he'd stay there with me, in case I woke up in the night and felt worse. I knew that bit already, though, because he was the next thing I saw, stretched out on the couch at the far end of the room, a book on his chest and fast asleep.

I sat watching him for a moment. The evening had been alive with promise... when he touched my hand, I swear I saw sparks, and when he took it and pressed it to his lips, and murmured something that I only just heard (but I know the words "taste you" were in there somewhere), I almost wet myself there and then. In fact, now I think about it, the fact that I didn't wet myself should have warned me right away that I wasn't feeling quite right. Add that to my earlier inability to speak coherently, and maybe to the ease with which I fell asleep at the lecture, and the doctor was probably right. Maybe I did have a bug.

But I felt fine now. Finer than fine. I climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Robin didn't stir, and I smiled at the bare feet protruding from beneath his blanket; smiled, too, as I spotted his trousers neatly folded on the chair, and his shirt carefully hung on the back.

I cleaned my teeth, peed, then stepped back into the room. He hadn't moved since I last passed, and I wondered. He'd left my underwear in place - what about his? I tiptoed to his side, crouched and lifted one corner of the blanket. Long legs, hairy and muscular, and a pair of cotton briefs, good old-fashioned Y-fronts. Well, that answered that.

The thing is, there's a lot you can do with a pair of Y-fronts, especially if, like these, they're a little loose. For instance, using the tip of one finger, you can lift up one of the flaps and who knows what you'll find in there, all curled up and sleeping, just like its owner? And, if you're really careful, and you make sure to use your finger to gently roll it, rather than using your nail to hook it out, you can maneuver that something till it's just peeking out, still warm and unsuspecting. Then you can lean forward a little and stretch out your tongue... careful, don't jog him with your chin, just let him sleep on... and you just circle around that little slit with the tiniest tip of your tongue.

A story came to mind, one I read online a few nights ago, about a girl who awakened her husband by sucking gently on his cock. What a wonderful way to greet a new day that must be. And it must be pretty good for the guy as well. I leaned forward a little closer and licked again. The taste on my tongue was tart but tantalizing, as I danced lightly around that one closed eye and this time, I was rewarded with the merest hint of movement.

I glanced up at Robin's sleeping face. He lay impassive, completely unaware. But his dick knew something was going on and, as I ran my tongue once more across him, I could see it unfurling beneath the fabric of his briefs, thickening and strengthening, and pushing through the flap.

Boldly, I dragged my tongue across his helmet, then down onto the shaft. He wasn't fully erect yet - at best, he was semi-soft. But, even in the dim light cast by my bedside lamp, he was an impressive looking fellow. I concentrated for a moment on that super-sensitive spot, right where the helmet meets the shaft, and this time I got a twitch. And another one. That's it, my beauty, just keep on hardening, and I'll do the rest.

Flat on his back, Robin slept on. Was he dreaming, I wondered? And, if he was, was the state of his cock playing any part in it? I worked up a little spit and dribbled it onto his helmet. I blew gently. Another twitch and, at last, his cock made its first attempt to rise, to reach out to whatever was teasing it so. A little more spit, a little more air, and this time... gotcha. His helmet was in my mouth, and I shuffled forward a little, to inch my lips down his now rigid shaft.

I placed a finger between my legs, pressed against my panties, lightly stroking myself. For the first time, I thought about shaking him, but no. If Robin was going to awaken, then so be it. I wasn't going to give him any more help than I already was.

I sucked, gently and tentatively. He was still thickening, I could feel my jaw being pushed further apart to accommodate his growing girth. I clamped my finger and thumb around the base of his shaft, holding him steady as I leaned in further, feeling him sinking into my mouth, tapping the roof, nudging my throat. Then back and forth, fucking him slowly, while my tongue lay flat on the bottom of my mouth, sending soft waves of motion against his flesh.

I had a rhythm, in my mouth and in my pussy - my finger was inside me now, stroking up towards my clitoris, circling round and then flitting away. I didn't want to come, not yet, and not like that. But I wanted to be ready for that moment when he did and, though I was sure that he was still asleep, I also knew that I would not be waiting long.

His hips were moving with me now, not violently or forcefully, but enough to let me know that more of his body was joining the party. My pinkie brushed his tight balls. They were huge, too, and I pictured myself trying to suck on them. It would have to be one at a time, but that was no hardship. It just gave me twice as much fun.

Pre-come on my tongue. I could taste it leaking now, sharp and maybe just a little too bitter. Well, it's not a trip to Baskin & Robbins. Robin, Robbins. I smiled at the synchronicity, but closed my mind to the rest of that thought. There's no law that says I have to swallow... hell, there's not even one that says he has to come in my mouth.

But isn't that half the fun of it? The salty shock, the liquid heat, the look in his eyes as I gulp down his muck... eyes which I was suddenly conscious of, gazing down in shock and awe as my head bobbed down along his straining, stretching monster. And then he was pulling back, trying to draw away, and the faint moan that was escaping his lips was now stammering in panic - "shit, Chrissie, I'm coming... oh God, here it comes."

I was holding on fast, though, and I wasn't about to be cheated. Feeling his release and tasting it too - not so bad, after all, and a double scoop at least. I swallowed hard, thick and slick in my throat, and my own tensions were bursting in a wave that rushed up from the pit of my stomach to mix with the magic that was racing down from my throat. And I was still sucking, draining down the last drops, until I had to let go and fall flat on his lap, my breath hot and salty, my tastebuds still dancing.

His hand was on my head. "Chrissie. That... you... was marvelous. Nobody's ever done that before. Not like that."

I couldn't resist a light tease. "Really? What did I do that was different?"

"You didn't stop." Hmmm, did I detect a faint stutter?

"Well, of course not. Should I have?"

"Other girls..." This was hard for him, and I silently chastised myself for making him spit it out. Or not. "Other girls say they don't like it."

"But how do they know if they've never done it with you?"

He was silent for a moment. "They tried it before, I guess."

"Well, they obviously did it wrong." I don't know, I've never understood those girls who'll go through life avoiding something, just because they didn't like it the first time. And then make a virtue out of it to a later lover, as though he really needs to know that he can't have what he wants, because some other guy got it first. Make up a lie, invent an excuse, tell him you want to save it for a special treat. But don't tell him that he cannot come in your mouth... or up your ass, or across your tits, or wherever else he might ask if he can do it... just because someone else did it first. That's not just rude, it's spiteful too, like him telling you he won't eat your cooking because his ex-wife's potatoes were hotter.

"Hey, what are you thinking about?" Robin burst into my mind.

"Oh sorry." I shook my head. "Something a friend of mine was saying, about how more lovers lie about what we just did, than just about any other position there is."

Robin chuckled and ruffled my hair. "'I promise I won't come in your mouth'."

I kissed his softness, felt it stir, and raised it with a gentle fist. "Good," I said. "I'm glad to hear that." I lowered my head to suck on his helmet, then stopped and looked back up at him. "Oh, and yes, I'm feeling a lot better now. Thank you for asking."

"I kind of figured that out for myself," he said slowly. "And now, in the spirit of the absolute honesty with which we have apparently sworn to abide, please carry on with what you were just doing, or this time, I promise, I really won't come in your mouth."

I raised one hand and saluted smartly. "In that case, maybe I'll come in yours'." And he was already reaching for my hips before I'd even finished my sentence.