The glass office

The second time that month we did not even pretend there was still work on the desk. I had kicked my heels off under the sofa before Ian arrived. The silk shirt was untucked, city lights smeared on the glass, the office dark except for the lamp I use when I do not want to look like a skyline. The collar was already in my hand. I asked him to put it on again, same rule as always, loose, a sign and not a grip. He buckled it, checked two fingers under the leather, and waited.

I told him I wanted to do the serving from the sofa, not the floor. He smiled and sat where I put him. I undid his belt because the task was mine, took his cock in my mouth until he swore, and then climbed into his lap when he said up, please, I want you there. The please from him is part of what makes the order feel like ours. I sank my cunt onto his cock and stayed still because he had not told me to move. His eyes were on my face, not on the view.

He said I could ride. I did, fucking him in slow rolls, shirt hanging open, his hands on my waist only as heavy as I asked. The collar ticked my collarbone when I leaned in to kiss him. I could breathe. I told him how his cock felt in my cunt and that I was close and that I wanted his hand on my clit. He gave it. I came with my forehead on his and my bare feet braced on the sofa cushions, cunt squeezing his cock, heels somewhere on the rug like they belonged to a different woman.

He asked permission to finish and I gave it, watching his face because I like that part of the service, the moment he stops being composed. He came while I kept fucking down on him. After, I stayed in his lap. He unbuckled the collar without being asked and set it on the arm of the sofa, then rubbed the place it had rested, which had never been squeezed, only warm. He passed me water from my own side table. I drank. I put my head on his shoulder and let the shirt stay untucked.