The kitchen floor

Whit is forty, and he came alone, which I had asked for after a month of pairs. I wanted one man, a tile floor, and enough time to soak it without coordinating two mouths. I told him at the door that I squirt, that I like to see it, and that he would cum on my stomach if he lasted, not in me. He said he had read that and still wanted the night. Good. Reading is not the same as standing in my kitchen.

Before any of it I was ordinary on purpose. Linen shirt, brown trousers, braid loose, a mug already on the counter from the pot I had started and then ignored. The floor was dry. I stood there and let him look at the dressed version, the blender jars, the lamp, me with my hands clean. I said the photo of the night, if there had been one, would have been that, shirt on and nothing spilled. Then I took the trousers off and got down on the tile because I like the cold on my back when I know I am about to make a mess.

He knelt and kissed my knee like a gentleman, which made me laugh, and then he did what I actually wanted. Three fingers, slow, working my cunt open while his other hand rested on my stomach so he could feel it jump. I talked him through it in the soft voice I use when I am being precise. Curl. Stay. Do not rush the wet. My cunt gripped those fingers and then gave, slick and noisy. I told him when to put his cock in. He fucked me on the floor with those three fingers still a memory in the stretch, his cock thicker, his shirt shoved up so I could see his stomach. I held the leg of the table and let the sounds be ugly.

The squirt hit when he got a thumb on my clit and kept fucking me at the same depth. I warned him with one word, now, and then my cunt let go across the tile, a wide hot splash over his wrist and the grout, my heels slipping. He swore and stayed in me, which was right. I came through it, shaking, laughing, one hand over my own mouth and then not, because nobody upstairs cares and I do not either. He fucked me a little longer, cock dragging through the mess, until I tapped his hip and told him stomach. He pulled out and came on my stomach in heavy stripes, watching it land, flushed and grateful.

I lay there until my legs worked. Then I stood up naked, put the kettle back on, and made tea while he wiped the floor and his hands. The mug from before was still on the counter, innocent. He drank a cup. I did not ask him to sleep here. When the door shut I was bare in my own kitchen, floor clean again, cunt still pulsing, pleased with the size of the mess and the quiet after it.