Before the oven

Dawn in the bakery and I am flour to the elbows, talking at the phone on the proofing rack before the ovens earn their keep. I texted Mateo one line: door is unlocked if you want to fuck me. He is thirty-four, my partner, and he showed up with his hair crushed from sleep and his hands clean. Clogs by the door, mine. Apron on, bun up, the shop still ours. He asked, in the doorway, if before the oven meant what he hoped. I said yes. I said I want you to fuck my cunt against the bench and tell me I look good doing it.

He crossed the room and kissed me like a greeting and a plan. Flour got on his shirt. I did not care. He untied the apron, lifted me onto the wood, and went to his knees because he likes to start there and I like his mouth on my cunt before his cock. His mouth was hot. I told him yes, good, just like that, and he answered by sucking my clit until my heel bumped a scale. I praised him back. You are so good at this. Stay. When I was close I said now, I want your cock.

He stood, checked my eyes, and put his cock into my cunt slow while his thumb stayed on my clit. The bench was solid. The room smelled like yeast and sugar and sleep. He told me I was beautiful with flour on my cheek, told me he loved how my cunt took his cock, told me to use him. Praise, specific, at dawn, is my undoing. I came around his cock with my arms on his shoulders and my bun coming loose. He asked if he could cum on my stomach so he could see it. I said yes. He pulled out and did, gasping, and then he laughed and wiped me with a clean towel like a man who respects a work surface. The ovens can wait ten minutes. I am keeping the apron off until they cannot.