After close

The library is dark except for the desk lamp and I am recording this under it, shoes kicked under a chair, moss cardigan still on. Walter stayed after I locked the front. He is fifty-four, my lover, and he treats a closed building like a courtesy, not a dare. I told him I wanted to be talked through it. I told him romance first. He set a returned novel aside, came around the desk, and asked if he could kiss me. I said yes. The kiss was unhurried, his hand at my jaw, my grey-threaded hair caught on his thumb.

He said, against my mouth, that he had watched me shelve in that cardigan all evening and thought about getting under it to my cunt. I said then ask. He asked. I put his hand on my breast and said talk. He told me I was lovely, told me he wanted his fingers in my cunt, told me to say stop and he would. I said do not stop unless I say it. He opened my trousers and rubbed my cunt through the cotton until I soaked it, narrating. You are wet. I can feel it. I am going to put two fingers in and fuck you slow with them. I said yes. He did, slow, palm on my clit, voice steady while mine was not.

I turned and braced on the desk and said I want your cock, and I want you to keep speaking. He put his cock in my cunt and told me how the fuck felt, warm around him, told me he loved the sound I made when he hit deep. I answered. Harder. Say my name. Tell me I can cum. He said my name like a vow and told me to cum on his cock, he had me, the door was locked, it was only us. I came with my forehead on my wrist. He asked, shaking, if he could cum in my cunt. I said yes, I want to carry it home. He did. We fixed my trousers. The cardigan never came off. I am taking the long way so my legs remember that fuck.