Aftercare

He sat me on the same stool and would not let me help. Black shirt stuck to my back, jeans up but open, skin hot under the denim. Drew set a glass of water on the copper and a folded towel beside it, the clean one I keep under the bar for this and not for spills. The bulb overhead was the warm one. He had turned the others off.

Drink, he said. I drank. He unfolded the towel and pressed it to the back of my neck first, then, when I nodded, eased my jeans lower and laid the cloth over the heat in my skin. Not ice. Not a production. Just cool cotton and his hand on top of it so I knew where he was. The sting settled into a glow. My cunt was still swollen from the fuck, and I did not ask him to touch it. I cried, which I always warn him about and still feel stupid about. He said there you are, like I had walked back into the room, and he meant it kindly. He did not ask me to perform being fine.

I told him what I had liked, because he asks and because saying it out loud keeps it ours. I liked that I had to request the spanking. I liked his hand and nothing else, and I liked that he had fucked my cunt only after I said I wanted his cock. He listened with his forehead against my shoulder. When I shivered he put his jacket over my lap and made me take another sip.

He asked if I wanted anything else or only this. I wanted his arms. He stood between my knees and held me, my face in his chest, the towel still tucked behind me, his heartbeat ordinary and good. There was no second round. There did not need to be. My cunt ached in a finished way, the fuck already done. He walked me to the sink, waited while I washed my face, and locked up behind us when I said I could stand the street again. I had been looked after on purpose.