The crates

I stood among them in the navy dress. I had the key. The wing was closed. Aaron waited where I had told him to wait. He is not my staff. He is a curator across town and the man I date. Before he kissed me he said, I want you to lead. I want to worship you down here, where everything is labeled except us. I told him to leave his bag by the door and his hands at his sides until I gave them a job.

I stepped in. Kneel. He knelt on the clean floor between two crates and did not touch the wrappings. I lifted the hem to the tops of my stockings and watched his face change into something hungry and attentive. Mouth on the nylon. From the ankle upward, slow, and you stop where the skin starts until I say otherwise. He kissed the stocking with real devotion, heat through the sheer, hands still down. I gave him more because he had earned the more by not grabbing. Now the bare thigh. Now the line of the underwear. He breathed against my cunt. I held a strap for balance and let him lick my clit until my knees forgot my job.

I turned, braced a hand on a wrapped corner that could bear it, and told him to stand and fuck my cunt. Slowly. Hands on my hips. If a crate shifts, we stop, and not as part of any game. He understood. He fucked his cock into my cunt and stayed slow, mouth on my neck, never a hand there, stockings tight as I set my stance. I told him when to circle my clit and when both hands had to go still. I came with my forehead against the wrap, cunt gripping his cock. He stayed deep and did not chase me, because I had not said he could move.

A few more strokes, I said, and then you cum, and you do not fall into the crates. He managed it. He fucked his cum into my cunt, holding my waist, a rough sound buried in my shoulder, grateful and shaken. I straightened the dress. I walked the row. Nothing had moved. He looked happy and slightly ruined and entirely like the man I chose, not like someone who answers to my memos. We left the inventory as we found it.