The silk

I changed in the back room and came out in the silk slip. The linen blazer folded on the bench beside me. Feet crossed at the ankle. Andre had sent the last crate out with the handler and come back, as I asked. I am forty-one. He is forty-four. My lover, not my employer. The gallery lights were down to the soft ones. I wanted the silk and my feet to be the whole show.

Sit on the floor, I said. He sat. I uncrossed my ankles and offered him a foot. He held it as if the arch were silk too. Kiss the sole. Tell me what you love. He said he loved the high arch, the calm of my toes, the way I go quiet when he gets it right. I liked the inventory. I opened my knees. The slip slid. He saw my cunt. He did not lunge. Good man.

He worshipped both feet until my thighs trembled. Tongue in the arch, lips around the big toe, a kiss at the ankle that made me swear. I put a hand on my cunt and let him watch. This is because of your mouth, I said. Stay down there. He stayed. I rubbed my clit in slow circles and kept one foot against his cheek, light, an invitation, not a blow. He turned and kissed the sole again. I almost came from that alone.

I said come up and fuck me. Keep the slip on. He rose, freed his cock, and fucked me on the bench, silk bunched at my waist, cock filling my cunt. I wrapped my legs around him and then thought better of it and planted one foot on the bench so he could hold it. He did, kissing the ankle while he fucked me. I told him the pace. Slower. Deeper. There. He listened. The bench creaked. I did not care.

I came with my foot in his hand and his cock deep in my cunt, saying Andre, yes, do not stop. He fucked me through it. Where, he asked. In my cunt, I said. I want to keep your cum. He came with his forehead on mine, shaking. After, he knelt and kissed the tops of my feet. I walked barefoot upstairs, slip still on.