After check-in

Check-in hour ended on an empty book. Nobody had arrived. The inn was empty. I sat in the chair in my cardigan, shoes off, a tea tray for two on the low table. Carl stood barefoot on the rug, sleeves rolled. He is my husband. The house is ours, he said. Will you keep leading. Slow. Let me serve. I poured his cup, then mine. Service can look like tea until I decide it looks like his mouth. I pointed at the floor between my bare feet and he went there.

He sat on his heels and rubbed my feet because I told him to. The tea steamed. The front door was locked. When I was ready I lifted the hem and let him kiss higher, slow on purpose, my hand in his hair. Kiss my cunt properly, I said, and he did, patient on my clit, two fingers in my cunt when I asked for them, curling just enough and no more. I came with a cup still foolishly in my other hand, laughed at myself, and set it down before I wore it. He kissed the inside of my knee while I got my breath.

I drew him up and opened his trousers. I wanted his cock in my mouth and I wanted the pace to remain mine even there. Deep, then shallow, hands on his hips, a full stop whenever his cock thickened too fast. Not yet. He stroked my hair and asked if that was allowed. I said yes to the hair and no to the orgasm. I edged him until his manners went soft and broken. Then I turned in the chair, knees on the cushion, forearms on the back, and told him to fuck my cunt slowly and to stay slow even if it undid him. The tray was for two. Nothing else had been invited, and nothing else was in the building.

He fucked me in a long gentle rhythm and reached around for my clit when I said his name in the tone he knows. I came again, muffled against my arm, and I told him he could finish. He came in my cunt, pressed close, one broad hand on my stomach, careful of me and of the old chair. We folded back into the seat and he poured fresh cups because the first had gone cold. I drank. He drank. The book was already shut.