The parlor

The parlor was empty. The fire was low. I stood in the wool cardigan, honey-grey hair on my shoulders. He came in from the desk, the book closed, the sign turned. No one is here. The inn is empty. Then he said the rest, the part he had carried since supper. Let me serve you. Go slow. Lead me. I want the evening to be yours. I locked the front door myself. I told him to take his shoes off and to kneel on the rug.

He knelt. I stayed standing, cardigan open over a plain dress, and I set his hands on my hips. I had him kiss me through the cloth, patient, knee to thigh. He checked my face. I nodded. Underwear down. His mouth on my cunt, as slow as the fire. I refused to chase it. I made him keep a pace that nearly irritated me and then turned into the burn I actually wanted. When I came it was long and quiet, clit under his tongue. I said his name. He is my husband. The room stayed ours alone.

I sat in the armchair and drew him up to stand between my knees. I took his cock out and stroked as slowly as he had licked. His hands stayed on the wings of the chair because I had put them there. You do not hurry a room this quiet. He laughed once, then lost the laugh when I turned my wrist the way he likes. I edged his cock. I stopped to kiss his stomach. I started again. He asked, politely, if he could cum. Not yet, I said. I am still using you. He said yes, Marlene.

I had him sit back on the rug and I sank onto his cock, cardigan still on, the fire ticking. Short motions in my cunt. Deep ones. His hands could hold my waist and nothing else. I fucked him in that slow burn until it caught me and I folded forward and pressed my mouth to his shoulder, no teeth, just heat, and I told him to fuck his cum into my cunt with me. He did, careful with his arms, voice rough in the empty parlor. We did not leap apart. I kept him close until it went tender, then I set us to rights and poured the tea at last. Two cups. The inn stayed empty.