His place

His apartment is spare and the sofa is long enough to lie on. I am twenty-four. Robert is fifty-six. Nobody at my office knows his name, and nobody at his knows mine. I kicked the heels off and sat with the white shirt untucked, silk warm underneath from the walk. He asked if I wanted a drink. I said I wanted his mouth on my cunt and his praise, in that order, and that I would say if I wanted him to stop.

He knelt on the rug because I pointed. I opened the shirt. The silk was pale and already a little sheer where sweat had marked the sternum from the walk, not from anything else. He said I looked like a woman who had decided. I told him to say it closer. He kissed the silk, then under it, and told me my stomach was beautiful and my voice was better. I pulled his head down to my cunt. He licked my clit until my bare heel pressed his shoulder. I came with his name in my mouth and my hand in his hair, not performing, just glad, my cunt tightening on his tongue.

Then I wanted his cock. I said fuck me. He checked my face. I nodded and pulled him onto the sofa, shirt open, skirt at my waist, and he worked his cock into my cunt while I told him the stretch felt right. He talked the whole time. Good. There. Your cunt feels perfect. I set the pace with my hips and came again fucking back onto him, shaking, laughing once because it surprised me, cunt gripping his cock. He asked where. I said cum in my cunt, I want it. He did, forehead on mine, groaning like thanks. We stayed. The heels stayed on the floor. I put my feet in his lap after and he rubbed the arches without being asked. I am keeping him.