After service

The phone is on the bar and I am talking low because the dining room finally went quiet. Service is done. Cal stayed. He is thirty-eight, my lover, and he does not touch me until I give him a sentence. Tonight the sentence was lock the door and come to the back table. I left one lamp on. My black silk blouse was stuck to my spine. I sat, and one shoe came off under the table. I left it there. The other stayed on, heel on the rung.

He looked at my bare foot and said I had carried every table and still looked like I wanted to be fucked. I told him to say that closer. He knelt on the banquette side. I said yes, and I opened my knees. He pushed my skirt up and put his mouth on my cunt like he had been waiting since the first ticket. I kept a hand in his hair. Good. Slower. Right there on my clit. Do not rush. Praise makes my voice go thin and he knows it, so I gave it to him on purpose. He groaned against my cunt when I said he was perfect. I came with my heel knocking wood, biting down so the bottles would not hear it.

I pulled him up by the shirt and said I wanted his cock in my cunt. He checked my face. I said please, now. He pushed his cock into my cunt while I was still pulsing and we stayed in that chair, one shoe on, the other lost under the table, his forehead on my throat. I talked him through the fuck. Harder. Stay deep. Your cock feels so good. He held the table so the glasses would not walk, and he came in my cunt when I said he could, shaking, saying my name like thanks. He rubbed my bare arch while we shared the last of a water glass. I am saying this into the phone before I pretend it was only tiredness. I wanted him to fuck me. I said so. The shoe is still under that table.