The corner booth

Morning, and I am recording this from the corner booth before the prep cook has a key in the lock. Blinds closed. Espresso in my hand. Silk blouse untucked over the same skirt I wore out of the flat, no armor yet. Cal came down when I texted one word: booth. He is thirty-eight and he still knocked on the swinging door. I said come in. I said I want you to fuck me before the room turns into work.

He slid in beside me and told me I looked unfair in that half light, blouse open at the throat, mouth already on the cup. I like the praise when it is specific. I set the espresso down and climbed into his lap, knees on the vinyl, and kissed him slow so he would feel that this was the plan and not a maybe. His hands stayed at my waist until I put them on my breasts. I said there. I said under the silk. He swore, soft, and told me I was gorgeous and that he could feel the heat of my cunt through the cloth.

I got his cock out and sank my cunt down on it with my forehead against his. The booth hid us from the pass. I rode his cock in short rolls, not a performance, just a morning fuck, and I asked him to keep talking. He said my cunt felt perfect, said he loved the weight of me, said please do not stop. I did not stop. I came with my mouth on his ear and my blouse stuck open, and I kept fucking him until he asked, voice wrecked, if he could cum. I said yes, in my cunt, I want your cum. He held my hips and did. We stayed piled there while the machine ticked. He handed me the espresso. I drank it with his cock still in my cunt and told the phone, later, up in the flat, that the blinds can stay shut a little longer tomorrow.