Slow hands

Apron off. Linen shirt. North window going blue. I sat on the workshop stool with my hands in my lap and told Callum to match me, slow, no race. He is twenty-five. I am forty-six. He stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders until I tipped my head forward and said lower, under the shirt, and keep the pace of the rubbing, and do not fuck me until my cunt has already come.

His hands learned my breasts, my stomach, the crease of my thigh. I opened my knees. He stroked my clit with two fingers and a patience that made me want to cry and laugh. I did laugh. I said do not go faster just because I sound close. He stayed even. I came like a tide, long, holding his wrist in place, linen stuck to my back, cunt pulsing on his fingers. Then I turned on the stool and took his cock in my mouth for a while, slow on purpose, looking up so he would see I was savoring it. I stopped before he came.

I wanted his cock in my cunt for that. I bent over the clear end of the bench, paper nowhere near us, and he worked his cock into my cunt at the pace I set with my hand reaching back. Deep. Stay. Now move, and fuck me. I came again with my cheek on my own arm, cunt gripping his cock. I said cum in my cunt. He did, a rough soft sound, hands spread on my hips, not gripping hard. After, he brought water and a clean towel and wiped my thighs like the care was part of the sex, which it is. I put my hands back in my lap and told him breakfast was eggs and that the apprentice at the other shop could have him at nine. Until then he was mine. He said yes.