The podium

The hall had emptied. I stood at the podium in the black concert dress, silver hair pinned, the baton resting on the stand where work had left it. Thomas came up the aisle quietly. He is the man I date. He is not part of the orchestra. He stopped at the edge of the stage until I lifted two fingers. You said you wanted to serve, I said. He nodded. Tell me what to do. I want you to lead. I do not want to invent it. I told him to take off his jacket and to kneel on the floor beside the podium.

Hands on his knees. Eyes on me. He did it. I came down the steps and stood close enough that the dress brushed his chest. You may kiss the hem. You may not rush. He kissed the fabric, then the tops of my shoes when I said he could, slow and grateful. I talked him through the rest in the voice I use when I actually want a thing. Open the dress at the side. Slower. Now your mouth on my cunt. He followed each sentence. I held the back of his head and took his tongue on my clit until my composure thinned. I said there, and yes, and do not stop.

I came standing, one hand on the rail, the dress bunched in my fist, his mouth still on my cunt. He held my hips and kept going until I eased him back. Service, I said, is staying useful after. I sat him on the stage floor and straddled his thighs. I want your cock in my cunt. Hands on the wood. He put them down. I sank onto his cock and fucked a measured pulse, my mouth close to his ear. Stay. Stay with me. When he tried to thrust I stopped and waited, not angry, simply in charge. I needed the stillness. He gave it.

I let him cum only after I had come again, and I told him the moment in a full sentence so there would be no guesswork. Now. I want you to fuck up into my cunt. With me. He did, face against my shoulder, a sound he tried to keep quiet in the empty hall. After, I fixed the pin in my hair and he fastened the dress because I asked. I left the baton where it was. In the wings I kissed him the way I kiss the man I date.