The piste

The piste was empty and the door was locked. I sat on the bench in the jacket unzipped over a black shirt, mask beside me, hair stuck to my neck. Alain stood where I pointed, thirty-nine and patient, another coach with his own keys. He is not a student. He has never been my student. He asked me what I wanted.

I wanted his mouth on my cunt and then I wanted to ride his cock and I wanted to be the one who said when. He knelt on the piste floor, pushed the jacket open, got my breeches down to my boots, and licked my cunt until I had to brace a hand on the bench. I told him the pace. Slower. Now flatter on my clit. Now do not move. He held still with his tongue on my cunt while I ground up and took what I wanted, which is a kind of control I cannot get from shouting distances down a strip. I came with my boot heel squeaking on the floor and my eyes open. The mask watched nothing. It stayed a mask.

I had him sit on the bench. I climbed into his lap, jacket hanging off my shoulders, black shirt rucked up, and I fucked my cunt down onto his cock when I was ready and not before. He kept his hands on the wood until I picked them up and put them on my waist. Hold, I said, do not steer. He held. I fucked him in short mean strokes and then long ones, watching his face, telling him not to cum yet, feeling powerful and also so fond of him I had to kiss his mouth in the middle of it. I came a second time with my forehead on his and my hand on the mask so it would not fall, cunt holding his cock, and I told him now. He came in my cunt because I had asked for that earlier, arms tight around my back, voice broken. We stayed on the bench. I zipped nothing. He passed me the water bottle from his bag and drank second. The jacket was warm, plain, wordless. I told him I would see him tomorrow as a colleague and he said yes. Then he kissed me like a man I had chosen.