The guest room

The guest room is made within an inch of its life and I am about to ruin the point of that, which is why I am saying it into the phone now, bare-legged on the duvet in a silk slip. Cream jacket folded on the chair. Swatch book closed on the nightstand. Glenn knocked. Fifty, my partner, ridiculous and dear. I said in. He stopped when he saw the slip and the neat bed and understood the assignment without a speech. I told him anyway. Kneel. Worship. Ask before you change anything.

He knelt on the rug and slid his hands under the silk only after I nodded. The fabric dragged up my thighs. He kissed the crease of my hip and told me the slip was unfair and that my cunt was the reason the room worked. I said show me. He licked my cunt slowly, reverent, two fingers sliding into my cunt when I asked for them, curling, while his mouth stayed on my clit. I held the silk at my waist so I could watch his face. I came with my heel dug into the mattress edge and his name in my mouth, not a shout, a confession.

Then I said on the bed, on your back. He went. I straddled him and took his cock into my cunt in one long sit, silk spilling over both of us. I moved the way I wanted, grinding, and he looked up like a man at an altar that had decided to fuck him. His words stayed worshipful and specific. So warm. So gorgeous. I feel your cunt grip my cock. I came again and kept fucking him until I said now, cum in my cunt. He did, hands open on my thighs, not grabbing past what I had allowed. After, he straightened the jacket on the chair because he knows I like the picture restored, then he brought a warm cloth and stayed. The bed is no longer a sample. Good.