Cassie and Ivan went shopping for a new windup alarm clock to replace the one they’d accidentally destroyed during their ferocious celebration the other night. The new clock looked grand on the little night table beside Cassie and Ivan’s bed, but the ticking was too loud. It woke them in the middle of the night.

“Well, we’re up, we might as well fuck,” Cassie said.

Ivan agreed, but six minutes and thirteen seconds into the sex, he stopped. “Not only is the clock too loud, it’s too slow,” Ivan complained. “I feel like the metronome in Mrs. Hutchinson’s fifth grade music glass.”

“And I feel like the kitchen sink under my grandpa’s leaky faucet,” Cassie said with a giggle. She reached out with her foot and knocked the new clock from the table.

“There,” she said, after the sounds of the crash died away. “Now we can make some proper music.”

“Or improper music,” Ivan said, his arms enfolding Cassie, his cock sheathing itself in the incomparable sensations of her hot, slippery sex.

Some unknowable time later she cried out in orgasm, and he flooded her.

The next clock was quieter and quicker. Too quiet. Too quick.

“I feel like your grandma’s sewing machine,” Ivan said.

“I feel like my grandma’s underwear, all double-stitched to hell and back,” Cassie said. She kicked the second clock into oblivion. “Now sew me good and proper,” she said, drawing his prick to the center of her seam and pushing up, impaling herself. “That’s it,” she gasped, “sew me till I’m sloppy with your seed.”

To the timeless soughing of the bed sheets beneath them, Ivan sewed and sowed her, until she was sloppy with his seed.

The third clock was just right—neither too loud nor too soft, too quick nor too slow. Ivan and Cassie made love all night long. They were still fucking when the alarm went off—an hour too soon.