The boxes

I had pushed the cart back, clipped my hair up, and stood between the plain grey boxes in my olive cardigan with the building finally empty. Peter waited at the end of the row because I had asked him to come, and because I had told him we do not touch the collection. We touch each other. The boxes stay shut.

He kissed me once, backed me gently toward the shelves, and said he would tease me for as long as I stayed quiet in the way I use at work. If I wanted his hand on my cunt I had to ask in a full sentence. I rolled my eyes. He waited. My body got ahead of my pride. I said, please put your hand on my cunt. My voice cracked on please. He smiled like I had handed him something rare, and he did exactly what I had asked, over my underwear, slow enough to make me angry.

He kept the tease cruel and kind. A circle of his fingers on my clit, then his hand gone to my waist. A kiss at my ear where he told me I sounded beautiful and that he wanted to hear more. I tried to guide his wrist and he moved it back, not rough, and said use your mouth, not your grip. So I did. I told him harder, then fuck my cunt, then stay there. Each instruction came out shaky and he followed it and then stopped just short of enough. My forehead rested on his shoulder. A box corner dug into my hip and I shifted us both away from the shelves so we would not knock anything down.

He dropped to his knees on the linoleum and licked my cunt through the cotton until I was babbling, then moved the cloth aside only when I asked him to. He brought me up and left me there, twice, kissing my thigh, telling me to say whether I wanted to come. I said I want to come, Peter, please do not stop again. He did not. He fucked my clit with his tongue until I came, my hand over my own mouth out of habit, and he caught my wrist and said no, let me hear you. I did. The boxes stayed shut. My voice did not.