The shed

Colm is forty-four. A different man, a different month. He came to the gate and I told him the stop word was still gate, and that we were going to the shed, not across the field and not near the boxes. He agreed. I walked him past the cottage. Warm bulb. Jars on a shelf with nothing readable. Tools hung. My hair was braided. White shirt, jeans. I stood in the doorway, clothed, and let him see that I was sure. Then I fixed the door so it could not latch us in, and I pulled him inside.

I sat on the bench and opened my jeans. I said he could use his mouth until I made a mess, and then I wanted his cock in my cunt. He knelt and licked my cunt like he had time, tongue flat on my clit, then sucking. I held the braid over one shoulder and rocked on his mouth. My cunt got sloppy. I told him two fingers. He fucked my cunt with two fingers and licked my clit and I felt the squirt coming. I warned him. I came and squirted on his mouth and the bench, a soak he did not flinch from. He kept licking. I squirted again, less, thighs shaking, and I said fuck, that is my cunt, stay there.

I turned and bent over the bench. He stood and fucked his cock into my cunt in one wet push. I told him not to be sweet. He held my hips and fucked my cunt hard enough that the jars ticked. I reached back and spread myself so his cock went where I wanted it. I came again on his cock, tighter, forehead on my arm. I said cum in my cunt. He did, shoved in, cum flooding me, his voice broken. I stayed bent until I felt it leak down my thigh.

I buttoned the shirt, braid intact, and walked him out to the gate. The stop word had stayed unspoken the whole time. I kissed his mouth once, tasted my cunt there, and locked the gate after his truck turned. I was not building a habit with him. I was building a night. The bulb went off. I went in alone.