Her place

Apron on the chair. Silk robe. City going blue in the window. I sat on the edge of the bed and Miles stood where I pointed, twenty-six, attentive, not performing a student and not on my payroll. I am forty-four. I said clothes off, then kneel, and ask before you touch the robe. He asked. I said yes.

He kissed my knee, my thigh, and waited. I opened the silk and told him to lick my cunt until I said he could fuck me. He did, devoted, hands on the mattress because I had put them there, tongue on my clit. I came with my head back, a low yes, fingers in his hair, cunt pulsing. Then I said on your back, I am going to ride your cock and fuck you. He lay down. I sank my cunt onto his cock and set a pace that suited me, stopping when I wanted his eyes. Look at me. Tell me you want this. He said he wanted it, voice wrecked, hands hovering until I put them on my hips.

I came on his cock and kept fucking him until he asked, desperate and polite, if he could cum. I said yes, in my cunt. He did, hips stuttering, my name in his mouth. I stayed seated on him until we both laughed at the sensitivity. Then I fetched water and made him drink before I did. The robe stayed half on. The apron stayed a work object on the chair. I told him he could sleep here and leave in the morning without a speech. He gave me a small speech anyway. I allowed it. I like him.