The cot

Merrill is thirty-seven. Different night, same closed lookout, still not a shift. I do not bring men up here when the radio is live and I did not bring a crew this time either. I sat on the narrow cot in flannel and jeans, braid undone, boots off, the wood room small around us. That was the clothed minute, me on the wool blanket, him in the doorway until I nodded. Smoke was the stop, said again, said back. He is a bar man. He is not my boyfriend. He does not get a season.

I told him I wanted his mouth, then his cock, then a filthy extra I like when I trust the hands. Spit on my cunt, rubbed in, and then another fuck. He repeated it without smirking, which is why he was in the cabin. I opened the flannel and got the jeans off. He knelt on the floor and licked my cunt, slow at first, then sloppy when I held his head and rolled my hips. I came once on his tongue, quiet, a long squeeze, my heel against the cot frame.

He stood and fucked me on the cot, cock deep, the frame complaining. I like the narrowness. There is nowhere to be polite. I told him harder and he gave me harder, still watching my face for smoke. I did not say it. My cunt was loud and wet and I kept my eyes open. When I wanted the extra I said now, spit. He pulled out, spit on my cunt, and rubbed it in with two fingers, obscene and careful, spreading me, looking at me the whole time. It was spit I had asked for. Nothing else. Then he fucked his cock back into my cunt and the slide was filthy and perfect. I rubbed my clit and came again, sharper, grabbing his forearm.

I did not want him to cum in me. I told him his hand. He pulled out and stroked his cock and came in his fist, cum spilling over his knuckles onto the floor, not on the blanket I have to sleep in when I am actually up here for weather. I pulled the flannel closed and sat on the cot the way I had at the start, jeans in my hand, braid a mess, calm again. I told him the fuck had been rough enough and not too rough, smoke unused, spit only where I had asked, on my cunt and rubbed in, nothing else. He nodded like a man at the end of a clear job. I almost laughed. Then I stood, and the night became a walk. I walked him down to his truck in the dark, flannel half buttoned, and I locked the lookout behind both of us. He drove one way. I drove the other. Smoke never had to do any work. I like a word that can sit unused because the fuck was already what I ordered.