The proof

After, I could not have spelled my own name on a composing stick. Seth got the apron off me and draped it over the chair. My hands were black in the lines and shaking, the good shake, the one that means I left my body and came back. He pulled the stool out, sat me down, and put a glass of water in my right hand and a clean towel by the stack of blank paper. Nothing on that paper but blank stock.

Drink, he said, and I did. He did not make a speech. He wet the towel at the sink, warm, and took my left hand like it was a plate he did not want to chip. He wiped the ink out of the creases, slow, thumb in my palm, between my fingers, under the nail where the black likes to live. He kept washing.

When both hands were clean he dried them and kissed the center of each palm. I pulled him between my knees and rested my forehead on his stomach. He stroked my hair, sandy and probably also inked, and asked what I needed. I said stay, and then I said I want your cock in my mouth for a minute because I want to give you something that is not an accident of how hard I came, and then I want you to fuck my cunt slow on the table with the towel in reach. He checked, because he always checks when I am floaty. I told him I was present. I said his name. I said please.

He let me suck his cock until his hand cupped the back of my head, not pushing, just there. Then he lifted me onto the table, blank paper shifted aside, and fucked his cock into my cunt with my clean hands on his shoulders. Slow, like I had ordered. I came again, smaller, sweeter, with my face in his neck and my cunt snug around his cock. He came across my stomach when I asked him to, his cum on my skin, and he used the same towel, no fuss, and made me finish the water. The apron stayed on the chair. He stayed until the shake was gone and the shop looked like a shop again.