The red blouse

The case was already closed. One shoe was off. I sat on the piano bench in the red blouse and told Howard, fifty-eight, that I wanted him to talk while he touched my cunt. I am twenty-six. This is not a lesson. I said that out loud so the room would hear the boundary and then we could ignore the furniture.

He stood behind me and spoke into my hair. You sounded like yourself today. I want my hands under this blouse. I want you to tell me when. I said when. His palms came up over the silk, slow, and his voice kept going, specific, never cute. I rocked on the bench. He asked if he could kneel and lick my cunt. I said yes and toed the other shoe off so I could brace. He licked my clit until my thighs shook and I had to hold the bench. I told him not to stop. I came against his mouth and said his name like a note I meant, cunt wet on his tongue.

Then I wanted his cock. I said so, plain. Fuck me. He sat and I climbed into his lap, blouse open, and sank my cunt down on his cock while he told me I felt extraordinary and that I could fuck him as long as I liked. I did. I set a slow grind and came again with my forehead on his, laughing once into the kiss, cunt gripping his cock. He asked. I said cum in my cunt. He finished with his hands careful at my waist, voice broken into thank-you. I stayed in the red blouse. The violin stayed in the case. I put my bare foot over his shoe and told him to walk me home.