The grid

I left one amber special up and killed the rest. House empty, crew gone, my black turtleneck still dusted with the day. I stood where the warm light hit my face and I did not touch the board again. I had told Omar I was done choosing. Come get me.

He came in quiet, looked up at the instruments like he respects them, and then looked at me. I told him I wanted my eyes closed and his hands in charge. Not the silk yet. I had it in the booth for later. Tonight I wanted to obey a darkness I could break by opening my eyes, and I wanted him to tell me when I was allowed to. He asked if I could stop whenever I wanted. I said yes. He said then close them.

The amber sat on my eyelids, a color I know by heart and could not edit. He kissed me without letting me reach for his face first. He turned me, chest to my back, and dragged his palms down the turtleneck, over my breasts, slow enough that I shook. I almost peeked. He felt it and said stay in it. I stayed. He pushed the collar of the sweater aside and kissed my neck, mouth soft, no hand at my throat, just lips and the scrape of his stubble. I said my cunt was wet already and he praised me for reporting instead of directing.

He walked me to the apron and bent me with my hands on the edge, eyes still shut. Jeans down because I asked him to take them. His fingers fucked into my cunt and I tried, out of habit, to tell him the angle. He stopped. Asked if I wanted to call the show. I said no. He started again on his terms, fucking my cunt deeper, a thumb on my clit, his other hand in my braids only to move them off my back, not to yank. I came with my eyes closed, cunt clutching his fingers, amber in my lashes, the empty house taking the sound. He turned me and held my face until he said I could look. He was smiling. He kissed my eyelids and said I had done the harder job.