The gloves off

The gloves are in my lap and the boots are long gone and I am on the garden bench in the linen shirt with my stockings on and my ankles bare, telling the phone while Henry stands there looking wrecked already. Forty-nine. I asked him out after I washed my hands. I said I want praise and I want the stockings to stay on while you fuck me. He said he could do both, and he asked if he could kneel. I said yes. The late light is ridiculous. So is how wet my cunt is from nothing but his voice.

He knelt in the gravel path, not caring, and ran his palms from my bare ankles up to the stocking bands. He said the contrast was going to kill him, bare skin and then silk, and that my legs looked strong and gorgeous. I opened my knees. He kissed the inside of my thigh above the band and said he wanted his mouth on my cunt, could he move the underwear. I said yes. He licked my cunt with the gloves still sitting absurdly in my lap until I dropped them in the grass. I held his hair and told him that was perfect, stay on my clit, two fingers in my cunt, yes. He did exactly that. I came with my head against the bench back, stocking foot sliding on the wood, telling him he was good, he was so good.

I said sit beside me. He did. I swung over his lap, stockings whispering, and sank my cunt onto his cock under the open linen. Face to face. I said talk while we fuck. He said he loved the weight of me, loved that I kept the stockings, loved watching my mouth when my cunt took his cock deep. I rode him there in the open garden with the hedge at our back. When I was close I said cum with me, in my cunt, I want to feel your cum run into the silk after. He gripped my hips, asked once more, and I said yes. We came together, graceless, happy. He picked the gloves up after and set them in my lap again like a gentleman. My ankles are bare. My face is hot. I am writing none of this down except here, in my own voice, before the light goes.