Opening night

The gallery finally emptied. I locked the street door myself. Andre stayed because I had asked him this afternoon, and he had said yes with his whole face. I am forty-one. He is forty-four. He collects work. He does not collect me. He is the man I date. I stepped out of the heels and set them beside the stone sculpture. The white floor was cool under my feet. I wanted him to notice that before he noticed the art.

Look at me, I said. He did. Oatmeal linen, silk trousers, bare feet. I told him to kneel. He checked my eyes, then knelt. That check is why I trust him. Worship them, I said. Slow. I want your mouth devoted, not performed. He lifted one foot in both hands and kissed the arch like a vow. I felt the silk shift against my thighs. My breath went thin.

He spent a long time at the sole. No grabbing. No rush. I kept a hand in his hair and praised the pace. Yes. There. The other foot now. He switched, careful, and I widened my stance on the cool floor. My cunt was wet under the silk. I told him so. I said, your mouth on my feet is going to make me ask you to fuck me. He said he wanted to be asked.

I opened the trousers and let them fall. The silk pooled. I sat on the low bench and drew him between my knees, one foot still in his hand. Lick my cunt, and do not drop that foot. He groaned and obeyed. His tongue on my clit, his thumb stroking my arch, the two rhythms not quite matched. I held his head and took what I wanted. When I needed his cock I said so. He stood, naked enough, and fucked me on the bench, cock deep in my cunt, while I pressed my bare sole to his shoulder.

I came quiet, my cunt shaking around his cock. Cum on my feet, I said. I want to see you mean it. He took his cock out and came across the tops of them, gasping my name. Then he cleaned me with his handkerchief and kissed each toe. We left the heels by the sculpture and walked upstairs.