The swatches

The studio is bright and empty and I am talking to the phone between the swatch racks because I do not want this softened later. Glenn locked the street door at my word. He is fifty, my partner, not someone I am pitching. The cream suit was still on. Heels already off to one side, which he noticed before he noticed the new linen book. Good. I told him to stand there and look at me. He did. I said I want worship, slow, and I will tell you when you may stand.

He went to his knees on the rug I chose for other rooms. I stayed on my feet in stocking soles and let him kiss the arch, the ankle, the inside of the knee, asking with his eyes at each inch. I said yes all the way up. He nosed the cream skirt higher and groaned when he found bare skin above the stockings and my cunt under the silk, already wet. I held his hair, not rough, and said lick my cunt, and say what you are doing. He said he was kissing my cunt because it was the most beautiful thing in a room full of beautiful cloth. I laughed once, then I did not laugh. His mouth was devoted. I came standing, one hand on a stack of velvet, telling him he was perfect, do not stop, yes.

I let him up only to get his cock out and then I turned him and sat him on the cutting table. I sank my cunt onto his cock in the open jacket, silk shell rucked to my ribs, and rode him until the second wave of that fuck hit. He asked, wrecked, if he could cum. I said yes, look at me while you fuck your cum into me. He did, hands careful at my waist like I was the sample worth keeping. After, he put my heels together neatly. I am still among the swatches. The suit can wrinkle. I wanted to be adored and I was.