His study

His study smells like paper and tea. I curled into the reading chair in the oatmeal sweater, glasses in my hand, books a blur behind him on purpose. I am twenty-three. Alan is fifty-two, a bookseller, not anyone who teaches me. The door was locked. This is not a seminar and it is not a classroom. I said that, and then I said I wanted his mouth on my cunt and his voice and his cock, in an order I would set, and that I wanted him to fuck me in this chair.

He knelt on the rug. I lifted the sweater and the skirt and told him to lick my cunt slowly and to talk between licks if he could manage it. He managed. You taste like you meant this. Your cunt is so wet. I want to stay here. I held his hair and came with my heel on the chair rung, a bright helpless pulse, his name broken in half, clit throbbing under his tongue. He kissed the inside of my knee and asked if I wanted his cock. I said yes, here, and I want to see your face while you fuck me.

He worked his cock into my cunt while I held the arms of the chair. I told him the pace. Slower. There. Do not rush the part where you look at me. He looked. I came again on his cock, sweater rucked, glasses somewhere on a book I will apologize to later, cunt gripping him. He asked where to finish. I said cum in my cunt, I want the mess to be a choice. He came shaking, voice gone rough, still watching me. After, he put my glasses back in my hand and made tea. I stayed in the chair with my bare feet tucked up and told him the next book I want is whichever one he will read aloud before we fuck again.