The studio desk

I turned the monitor off before he knocked. Short dark hair, copper where the lamp hits it, oversized black sweater, heels still on because I like the sound. Mark is fifty. I am twenty-five. He does not pay me. He does not approve my work. He came up because I texted the door code and the words I want you patient, and I want your mouth on my cunt before you think about fucking me.

He stood by the desk. I stayed in the chair and told him to keep his hands at his sides while I looked at him. I like that minute. I told him he could kiss me when I stood. I stood. The kiss was deep and I did not let his hands wander until I put them on my waist myself. Sweater thick, body warm under it. I said you can feel, over the wool, and he groaned when he found I had nothing else on my legs and my cunt was bare under the sweater. I laughed. I had planned that.

I sat on the desk, monitor a black rectangle, and opened my knees. He asked. I said mouth, slow, and if you speed up I will stop you. He knelt in his good coat and licked my clit like a man who had been told the rules and liked them. I held his hair and teased him with my voice. Almost. Not yet. There. I came when I decided to, heels digging his back gently, no injury, just the press, cunt pulsing on his tongue. Then I stroked his cock with the sweater pushed to my elbows and told him he could cum in my hand, and that I was not going to let him fuck me tonight. He did, thanking me, forehead on my knee. I turned one lamp off and left the monitor dark. I said stay for a glass of water. He stayed.