The greenhouse

The greenhouse still held the afternoon heat and a wet green smell. I stood among the leaves in my field shirt, freckles warm, braid over one shoulder. Jonah came down the path with two bottles of water. He is my partner. He set them on a bench and spoke before he touched me. I want you to lead. Praise me if I earn it. Edge me. I will stop when you stop. I said I wanted the same thing. I put his hand on a clay pot, not on me yet. Stay exactly here until I give you somewhere else to be. He stayed.

I opened the shirt enough for air, kept the boots, and kissed him until his cock was hard against my hip. Then I opened his jeans and stroked his cock in the aisle between the benches, slow. You feel good in my hand. I mean that. When his hips jumped I stopped. Breathe. He breathed. I started again and told him I liked his hand still curved on the clay, obedient because he had chosen to be. I edged his cock twice like that. My mouth touched his throat and never closed around it. He asked if he was doing it right. You are, I said. Do it again for me.

I turned, hands on the bench, jeans at my thighs, and told him to kneel and lick my cunt. He did, eager and good, and I said so while he did it. Right there, on my clit. I am close because of you. Do not speed up. He held the pace and I came with a leaf against my wrist. Then I had him stand and fuck his cock into my cunt, shallow. If you thrust hard I will stop us. He stayed shallow. I praised that control out loud. I rubbed my clit and came again, tighter, and he groaned at the squeeze of my cunt and did not chase it. Proud of you, I said.

Only at the end did I let him move the way his body wanted, and even then I kept the say-so. He could cum when I said his name and not before. Good. Stay with me. I like your cock. I like your patience. Then I said Jonah. He fucked his cum into my cunt, forehead at my braid, a soft broken sound. We laughed after, and he passed me the water before he fixed his own jeans.