The bench

Thread and boards on the table, linen apron, auburn hair with the grey pinned up. The north light was still good. Callum had come by after his own shift, twenty-five, ink on one thumb, not on my payroll. I am forty-six. I told him the repair could wait and I wanted his hands on my cunt, slow, and that we would wash before we touched the paper again.

He washed at the sink. I took the apron off. Under it, a linen shirt and nothing I minded him finding. I sat on the stool and put his clean hands on my thighs. I said start at the knees and take your time. He did. Palms up the outside, then the inside, then he asked before his fingers slipped under the shirt. I said yes. He stroked my cunt through cotton until I was rocking, and he did not speed up when I swore. I like that. I told him mouth, still slow, and do not fuck me until I say.

He knelt and licked my clit until the stool creaked and I came with my hand on the bench, careful of the thread, a long rolling finish, cunt pulsing on his tongue. Then I wanted his cock. I said so. He stood, I opened his jeans, and he worked his cock into my cunt while I held his shoulders. Slow. I said that twice. Fuck me slow. I came again on his cock, forehead on his chest, and told him to cum in my cunt. He did, shaking, kissing my hair, thank-you. We washed again. The boards were untouched. I said that was the point. He smiled and started the kettle.