The back counter

Glen is forty-six, and he asked to be pegged before he asked my name. That is a good order. I told him after close, back room, not the counter where people buy soap. He is not a customer. I do not fuck customers. I do not have a husband. I have a drawer and a strap and a cunt that will soak a mouth if the mouth stays.

I stood behind the counter first, green shirt, silver-black hair in a clip, plain bottles in a row with nothing to read on them. He saw me dressed, warm, the shop smell of citrus between us. I told him the rules in a voice I use for curing times. Lube. He bends because he wants to. I fuck his ass. I stroke his cock. He cums. Then he eats my cunt until I squirt, and he does not apologize for his face. He said please. We went in the back.

I buckled the strap on under the green shirt, hiked the hem, and bent him over a table that was not the cutting block for loaves. Towel down. Lube on my fingers, then on the toy, then on him. I worked a finger into his ass until he opened and asked. Then I fucked him. The strap sank in and he groaned like a man getting exactly the thing he had typed. I reached around and stroked his cock, slick with his own leak, and I fucked him in a steady certain rhythm. Not fast to show off. Deep enough that he had to hold the table. I told him he was taking it well. He was.

He came in my fist, cum spilling over my knuckles, his cock kicking, his ass tight around the strap. I fucked him through it and then eased out. I wiped my hand, unbuckled, and got on the table myself, shirt open, cunt bare. I told him to lick. He did, grateful and hungry, tongue broad on my clit and then lower. I held his hair and rocked. The squirt built the way it does when I stop being polite, a pressure and then a give. I warned him. He stayed. I came and soaked his mouth, a rush out of my cunt across his chin and the towel I had shoved under my hips. He licked through it. I came again, smaller, thighs shaking, still dripping on his tongue.

I sent him to the sink. Soap, actual soap, my soap, until his hands were clean. I kissed his cheek and did not invite him up the stair. One night. He left by the alley. I stood behind the counter again in the green shirt, bottles in their row, and I smiled at an empty shop.