The silk blouse

I sat on the cellar bench in the burgundy blouse, one heel off, Adam between my knees because I had pointed. Twenty-seven. I am forty-eight. The shop had been dark for an hour. I said I want your mouth on my cunt again and then I want you to fuck me on this bench, and I will tell you the pace.

He kissed the silk over my stomach first. I liked the patience. Then under the skirt, underwear moved aside, his tongue on my clit. I told him slower, then there, then do not you dare stop. I came with my hand over my own mouth, heel scraping stone, thighs tight around his ears, cunt pulsing on his tongue. I pulled him up by the shirt and opened my blouse so he could see me. He said I was stunning. I believed him because he looked wrecked by it.

I freed his cock and guided him into my cunt, bench hard under me, one shoe on and one off, and I told him shallow, then deep, then stay. He followed. I rubbed my clit and came while he held still, cunt gripping his cock, shaking with the effort, eyes on mine. I said now you can move, and fuck me until you cum in my cunt. He did, a few desperate strokes, my name, his forehead on my collar. After, I put the heel back on and buttoned nothing. I told him to carry two glasses upstairs. He did. We drank water, not wine. I like him sober when he chooses me.