The dock night

The dive was done at noon and the boat was not mine after that. I showered the harbor off at home, dried my short hair, and went back down because I wanted Bram and the dark water, not a job. He is forty-one, a cook, flour still in a crease of his knuckle sometimes. He does not dive my contracts. I do not pretend he is the only cock I take. I told him that again on the planks. He said he knew, and he liked the knowing.

The dock was empty. I stood with the black athletic jacket zipped to my throat, no mark on it, dark leggings, boots, fair skin, the small nick on my ear from an old mask strap. Water slapped the pilings behind me. That is how I wanted to be seen first, dressed, zipped, steady. Then I told him I wanted it rough. The word was surface. If I said it, his cock comes out and he puts his hands where I can see them. He repeated surface. I said good. We walked to his truck at the head of the dock because the planks were too open for the kind of noise I planned to make.

In the cab I kept the jacket zipped. I shoved the hem up and peeled the leggings to my knees, boots off one foot so I could spread. The jacket stayed closed. I wanted my stomach bare and the rest of the day still on me. I stroked his cock, spit in my palm, and said fuck me hard. He hauled me across the seat, lined up, and drove his cock into my cunt. The first stroke knocked a sound out of me. I said more. He fucked me rough, the way I had asked, deep and fast, one hand on the dash and one on my hip. I took it. My cunt was slick and greedy and I told him so.

I came with my boot braced on the door, cunt clamping his cock, the word surface unused because I did not want the stop. I wanted the end. I told him to pull out and cum on my stomach. He stroked that cock over the shoved-up hem and came in hot stripes under the zip, cum on my skin, jacket still fastened above it. I dragged a finger through the mess and sucked it clean because I felt like being filthy after a soft day under the water. He watched like a man who had been allowed a privilege.

I fixed the leggings. I told him I might fuck a stranger next week and that it was not a vote he got. He kissed my wrist and said the kitchen closes late if I ever want a plate. I said maybe, and not as a claim. I walked the dock alone, jacket zipped, salt wind on my face, the fuck still beating in my cunt.