The sign-off

The On Air light was dead. I had signed off, racked the last record, and killed the board. I am twenty-three. I do not do this while I am working, and Wesley does not work here. He is twenty-eight. He had written me after a show, a plain filthy letter, and I had told him to come to the alley door on a night I would already be off the clock. He came. I met him in the booth dressed, black turtleneck, dark jeans, dark red bob, headphones on the hook, the board dark and blank. I said the whole thing before I locked the inside door. I want your cock in my ass. I am going to rub my cunt until I squirt. I have what we need in my bag. If I say static, you stop. He said static back, and he said yes, he wanted to hear me say it and then do it. That was the only audition.

I turned a chair out and bent over the desk that holds nothing but a dark board. I pushed the jeans down. I handed him the bottle and told him to slick his cock and wait for my hand. I reached back, found his cock, and took it into my ass at my speed. The stretch made me gasp and then grin. I said there, fuck my ass. He fucked my ass in steady strokes, hands on the desk, not on my throat, not in my hair until I put his hand on my hip. My cunt was dripping on my fingers. I rubbed my clit and talked because the talking is the point. I told him his cock was deep in my ass. I told him my cunt was going to make a mess and he was going to keep fucking me while it did.

He fucked my ass a little harder when I asked. The orgasm came up mean and bright. I squirted, a hot rush out of my cunt onto my hand and the floor, and I swore and laughed and told him not to stop. He kept his cock in my ass and fucked me through it, groaning, careful of the pace I had set even while I shook. I came again smaller, aftershocks, ass gripping him. I said pull out and come in your hand. I want the board clean. He stroked his cock and came in his fist, a thick spill he caught, and he looked at me like I had conducted it. I had.

I mopped the floor with the towel I keep for coffee and for this. Jeans up, turtleneck straight, bob finger-combed. I walked him to the alley and did not kiss him like a boyfriend. Static had stayed in the sentence and out of the room. I drove the car that is mine back to the one-room flat and slept hard, already hearing how I would say it next time.