Flour morning

There is a tray of plain rolls on the counter and I am recording this before I score them, apron open over a t-shirt, flour on my forearms, morning all over the floor. Mateo is barefoot because I stole his attention before he found his shoes. Thirty-four. My lover. He came down when he heard the mixer and I met him at the wood with a kiss that was not a good morning, it was a decision. I said the rolls can proof. I said I want your mouth on my cunt and then I want to ride your cock. He said yes like a man who had already decided upstairs.

He lifted me onto the counter away from the tray, shoved the open apron aside, and licked my cunt until I had to hold the edge. Flour handprints on his shoulders. I told him he was perfect, told him not to get clever, just stay on my clit, and he did, humming when I tugged his hair. I came fast, surprised, laughing into my wrist. He looked up with his mouth wet and said he could do that every morning they invent. I told him to sit on the stool and find out.

I sank my cunt onto his cock in the t-shirt, apron hanging off one shoulder, and rode him with my forearms braced on his chest so the flour smudged both of us. He praised me in a rough voice. So warm. So gorgeous. Look at you fuck your cunt down on my cock. I said more of that and moved harder. The second orgasm rolled through while he held my hips and told me he had me. I said cum in my cunt, with me. He did, face in my neck, both of us sticky and pleased. The rolls survived. We washed our hands like professionals and then he kissed my floury wrist anyway. I am starting the day already ruined, in the best way, from that fuck.