The cabin porch

Calder was not the man from the fire road. He was fifty-five, grey at the temples, a tin of tobacco he did not open, and he had asked at the feed store if the cabin road was still passable. I told him it was, and that I might want company on the porch if he could leave when I said leave. He said he could. Three nights later his truck nosed into the clearing. I was already seated on the step in a flannel shirt and boots, grey braid over one breast, a tin mug gone cold in my hand, trees black behind the stove smoke. He stood in the yard until I pointed at the other side of the step. We talked about the ruts and about nothing. Then I set the mug down and told him I wanted his mouth.

The word, if we needed it, was still pine. He nodded. I opened the flannel myself this time, no run, no tree, just the porch and the wish. He knelt on the lower step, boots planted in the dirt, and kissed the inside of my knee before he put his mouth on my cunt. I held his hair, not hard, and let him lick. He was patient. His tongue worked my clit until my heel scraped the board. I told him he was good at it and I meant the words. When I was close I pushed his forehead back. I said my turn, and I wanted his cock.

He stood. I stayed seated, opened his belt, and took his cock out. Thick, a vein I traced with my thumb, the head already wet. I sucked him slow, one hand at the base, the other on the step so I did not tip. He groaned like a man trying to be polite and failing. I liked the failure. I sucked until his thighs tightened, then I let his cock leave my mouth with a wet sound and told him to sit. He sat on the step. I shoved my pants off one leg, kept the boots, and climbed into his lap.

I sank onto his cock and my cunt took him to the root. The step creaked. I rode him there, flannel open, braid swinging, his hands on my waist because I put them there. I fucked myself on that cock at my pace, then faster when the angle hit. He said my name once. I told him not to make it tender. I wanted the fuck. I came with my forehead on his shoulder, cunt clutching, a rough short laugh after. I said cum in my cunt. He nodded, held my hips, and came deep, cock pulsing, heat spreading. I stayed down on him until the twitch stopped.

We did not go inside. I sat beside him with his cum slick on my thigh and we talked about the price of stove wood, which is to say we talked about nothing. He asked if he should come back through the week. I said no. A porch is not a lease. I walked him to the truck, kissed his mouth once because I felt like it, and shut the door. His taillights went down the ruts. I rinsed the mug, banked the stove, and slept in the middle of the bed with the fuck still warm in my cunt.