Sunday allowance

Sundays he brings cash because I asked for one day that is not a transfer. I like the paper. I like counting it where he can see, twice, out loud, robe closed until the number is right.

Three thousand. Rent, the rest of the month, and the shoes I already ordered. I told him the split. He sat on the chair by the window like a man at his own restaurant, watching the staff. I am not his staff. I am the bill he is happy to pay. I put the stack on the duvet, climbed over him, and opened the robe. The robe is also his. I like fucking him in his own money, his cock in my cunt, the stack where I can still see it.

I rode his cock slow and kept talking. The coat from August. The dinner on Thursday. The fact that he does not get to cum in my cunt every week, and this week he does, because the count was clean. He held my hips and tried to speed the fuck up. I put his hands back on the mattress. You paid for the hour I set, I said. I am using it. I came with my forehead on his, cunt snug around his cock, the cash still in a neat fan beside his thigh, and I said thank you in my regular voice, which is the only one I have.

He came in my cunt when I told him he could. I stayed on his cock and counted the stack again so he would hear the paper while his cock softened. Then I made coffee. He asked if I wanted him to stay. I said the allowance covers the morning, not the afternoon, and I kissed him like I meant the limit. I did.