The reading lamp

The lamp is on and the book is closed in my lap and I am telling the phone before I lose the nerve to be this explicit. Stockings on. Shoes off. Moss cardigan open over a slip. Walter is on the ottoman between my knees. Fifty-four. He read one paragraph aloud when he arrived, because that is our joke and our fuse, and then he closed the book and asked what I wanted tonight. I said your voice and your mouth on my cunt. I said do not make me perform. Court me, then fuck me.

He kissed the inside of my stocking, thumb stroking the band, and told me my legs had distracted him since the chair. I said higher. He moved the book to the side table and licked my cunt through the cotton first, describing it, your cunt is soaked, I am going to take these off, and waiting for my yes. I gave it. Bare, his tongue was exact on my clit. He talked between licks. You taste like heat. Hold my hair if you want my pace. I held it. I said slower, then do not stop, and I came with the lamp in my eyes and his name broken in half.

I told him to sit back. I climbed into his lap in the armchair, cardigan falling off one shoulder, and took his cock into my cunt while I talked this time. I told him his cock felt thick, told him I loved being fifty in his hands, told him to watch my face. He said he could not look anywhere else. I rode until the chair clicked, and when I was close again I said cum with me, fuck your cum into my cunt. He gripped my hips, asked once, and I nodded and said yes out loud. We came together, messy, laughing once when the book slid to the floor. He fetched it, marked nothing, and put my shoes side by side. Romance, it turns out, can be a filthy fuck and still put the room back.