The cabin

Hair down, olive shirt, a towel over one shoulder from a shower we had already taken. Bill on the porch with two mugs. Boots by the step. He is fifty-three. I am twenty-eight. The radio was inside and off. I told him I wanted to be fucked in the chair by the window and praised like he had on the trail, specific, no poetry unless it was accidental, his cock in my cunt.

He said you walked twelve miles and you still look like you want me to fuck you. I said I do. I climbed into his lap in the chair, shirt open, nothing under it. He kissed my breasts and told me they were lovely and that my shoulders were strong and that he liked the way I asked. I reached down and put his cock in my cunt, slow, my choice. The chair creaked. I rode his cock and stopped when I wanted the praise more than the friction. He gave it. Your cunt feels perfect. Look at you. I am right here.

I started again and came with my forehead on his, a rough sound, cunt gripping his cock, nails in the olive shirt he was somehow still half wearing. I said cum in my cunt. He did, arms around my back, breath hot, thank-you against my throat. We stayed until the chair complained. Then I put the towel back over my shoulder like a joke and made him come to the stove. Eggs, as promised. My feet were bare on the boards. I told him he could stay the night if he wanted the morning too. He wanted it.