The workshop

The workshop holds the heat of the day even after I kill the big lights. Rolls of plain fabric stood along the wall, denim shirt rolled at my wrists, silver at my temples that Neil pretends not to notice and then kisses when he thinks I am being vain. I locked the street door. I covered the client sofa with a clean drop. What I wanted was not going to happen on someone else's order.

He came in from the house with two mugs and knew my face before I spoke. I still said it. I want your hand. Spank me. I am asking. Not a tool, not a paddle, you. Enough to warm me, and you stop the moment I say so. He set the mugs down, kissed my mouth like a husband, and said tell me where. I bent over the padded bench I use for hand-sewing, forearms down, and told him jeans first.

His palm through the denim woke the nerves up. I said bare. He eased the jeans down himself, kissed the small of my back, and spanked me. The sound was soft in a room full of cloth. He paused. I said more, love. He gave me more, a rhythm we have learned, heat building, his other hand spread on my ribs so I felt held and not parked. Pink, he said, checking with his eyes the way I check a seam. You are so beautiful like this. It undid me worse than the sting.

I reached back, found his belt, and said I want your cock now, while my skin is warm. He fucked my cunt slow, chest to my back, mouth at my ear telling me he loved me and that I had asked so nicely and that he had me. One hand stayed curved over the heat in my skin, not striking, just there. I came with my forehead on my own arms and his name in my mouth, my cunt pulling on his cock, and he came with his face in my hair, shaking, saying Harriet like a vow. After, he pulled me upright, jeans still at my thighs, and held me among the fabric rolls until my breath matched his. The cloth could wait until morning. The fuck was his, and so were the arms around me after.