The pass

The pass is clean, the copper is hung, and my clogs are off to the side. I am recording this before I go upstairs because my knees remember the mat and I want the night said plainly. Enzo stayed to help stack. He is forty-three, my lover, not staff I am confusing with desire. When the last pan was up I told him to wash his hands and stand at the pass. I said I want your cock in my mouth. I said you do not hold my head. He said yes, and thank you, which is why he gets this.

I knelt on the mat in the black chef shirt, bun still tight, and opened his trousers. His cock was already hard. I licked his cock from the base to the head and looked up so he could see I was choosing the depth. He groaned and kept his hands on the steel shelf, knuckles pale, good. I took his cock in, slow, wet, one hand stroking what my mouth left free. I like the weight, the salt, the way his voice goes stupid. He said my name. He said I did not have to. I pulled off long enough to say I know, I want your cum, tell me when. I went back down. He warned me. I stayed. He came on my tongue and I swallowed and kissed his hip after, pleased with myself.

He did not zip up and leave it one-sided. He turned me, lifted me onto the low pass, and said he wanted his mouth on my cunt, could he. I said yes, shirt open, now. His mouth on my cunt was hungry and grateful. He sucked my clit and slid two fingers into my cunt and I came with a pan handle digging my shoulder and my hand in his hair, telling him not to stop. Then I said cock, fuck my cunt, quick. He fucked me there among the clean steel until I came again and he asked to cum on my thigh. I said yes. We cleaned the pass like people who respect a kitchen. Upstairs I am still smiling. My jaw is a little proud.