The bench

The lamp was on. The trays were unlabeled, just wire and findings, nothing the night needed to name. I sat at the bench in a black apron over a silk camisole, gold hoops against my jaw. Sam closed the shop door and washed his hands because I had asked. He is my partner. He waited at the side of the bench. We had talked at dinner. He wanted the collar. He wanted me to lead. I wanted a yes that was still true.

I showed him the collar before I closed it, a smooth band with a small ring. Two fingers beneath. No pull toward his jaw. He breathed, swallowed, and said the fit was comfortable. Say the rest, I said. I want you to lead, he said. I want to wear it. I want to serve. I buckled it and rested my fingers on the ring without lifting. Good. The apron stays. Your shirt comes off. He stripped to the waist. I had him kneel between the bench and my knees and kiss the silk at my stomach, slow, the lamp making a warm coin of light on his shoulder.

I drew the camisole up and guided his mouth onto my cunt. The apron strings brushed his cheek. He licked my clit until my hips rolled on the stool, and I kept the pace with an even voice. When I came I held the bench, not the collar. I do not steer him by the throat. I steer him with words. Stand. Hands on the bench. Cock free. He did each thing and then waited. I stroked his cock with a scrap of silk over my palm, fabric first and then my bare hand, and I stopped whenever his knees started to bargain with him.

I turned on the stool, apron still tied, and told him to fuck his cock into my cunt slowly. He did, forehead between my shoulder blades. The collar rested on his chest. It did not touch his breath. You may cum when I say your name twice, I said. He waited, shaking, while I fucked myself on his cock until I crested again. Sam, I said. He held, barely. Sam. Come. He came with a groan I felt in my ribs, and I felt his cum in my cunt. I unbuckled the collar at once, kissed the skin where it had been, and made him drink at the sink. We closed the trays.