Overtime

The city was dark in the window and the office was ours. Overtime, officially, except I had closed the drawings an hour ago. Simon sat in the guest chair until I told him to stand. I am forty-five. He is forty-two. My partner in bed, my equal at work, not a man above me. I perched on the desk in the charcoal turtleneck, one heel off, the bare foot dangling. I wanted the control slow tonight. I told him the stop word again. He repeated it. Then he said he wanted me in charge.

Good, I said. Take your cock out. Do not stroke unless I say. He did. I set my bare sole against the underside of his cock, a warm line, gentle. He swore. Hands off, I said. I rubbed his cock with the foot, a lazy slide, and watched his stomach tighten. When he got close I took the foot away and made him stand there aching. Look at the window, I said. Think about waiting. He waited. I touched my cunt through my clothes so he could hear it and not have it.

Back, I said, and gave him my foot again. Same edge. Same lift-away. His voice broke on my name. I liked that more than I said. Please, Greta. Not yet. I hopped off the desk and kissed him once, mean and sweet. Then I bent over the desk and looked back. Now you may fuck my cunt. If you are about to cum, you stop. He nodded, wild-eyed, and got his cock into my cunt.

He fucked me deep and I kept one bare foot hooked around his calf so I could feel him. Twice he froze because I said stop, cock buried in my cunt, shaking. Good boy is not my style. I said good man. He moaned. The third time I was ready to cum with him. Do not stop now, I said. Give it to me. I came hard, forehead on my arms, cunt gripping his cock, and told him the cum belonged in my cunt. He did, a rough grateful sound, hands tight on my hips.

He knelt and kissed the bare foot. I put the shoe back on. In the car he thanked me for the rules. I said I like a man who can hold a line.