Glasses off

I folded the glasses on a book and held the silk scarf in my lap. Grey sweater. Sofa. Sergei waiting for the instruction because that is the shape we like. He is fifty-seven. I am thirty. I said I want the scarf over my eyes and your voice on, and I want to be able to pull it off myself, and then I want you to fuck my cunt. He said yes. I tied it loose enough to breathe and to remove.

Dark, soft, his mouth at my ear. He told me where his hands were before they moved. Shoulder. Rib. Breast. I said lower, on my cunt. He stroked me through my underwear and then under it, patient, narrating how wet my cunt was until I was rocking into his palm. I said mouth. The sofa dipped. His tongue replaced his fingers on my clit and I came with the scarf still on, a long pulse, his name, my own hand finding his hair so I would know him in the dark.

I pulled the scarf off because I wanted to see him for the next part. I said I want your cock, slow. Fuck me. He slid his cock into my cunt while I watched his face. I set the pace with a hand on his hip. Stop. There. Again. I edged my cunt on his cock twice, greedy, and the third time I let go and came hard, sweater rucked, nails in his shoulder. I said cum in my cunt. He did, shaking, kissing my cheek, the scarf forgotten on the cushion. I put the glasses back on crooked and told him the book on the table was a coaster tonight. He smiled like a man who had been given a better job than writing.