The stacks

Dusk in the law library, charcoal suit, short natural hair, stacks going dim. I was not working. Richard was not a client. He is fifty-nine. I am twenty-seven. We had tickets later and an hour to waste, and I wanted to waste it on him. I told him to walk me to the quiet end and kiss me, and to keep his hands where I put them, and that he would not fuck me until we were home.

He kissed me between two ranges of books. I put his palm on my waist, then lower, over the skirt, and told him not to move it until we were in my flat, no matter how wet my cunt got. The restraint made my cunt ache. I liked watching him obey in a public-adjacent room without either of us becoming a scene. I said good. Now we leave. Heels on the stone, his hand at my back, no one important enough to notice.

At home I made him stand by the bed. Jacket off, mine. I opened his trousers and stroked his cock slowly, stopping every time his thighs tightened. He is good at the edge. I told him so. I said you will cum when I say, and until then you will watch me. I touched my clit with the skirt up and the heels still on, and I came first, looking at him, two fingers on my cunt and no shame. Then I let him put his cock in my cunt, my pace, three stops, and on the fourth I said now, fuck me. He came in my cunt, shaking, hands careful, thank-you against my throat. I kicked the heels off after and left them on the floor. I said the concert can start without the first piece. He agreed.