The mud room

I sat on the mud-room bench with the chore coat open and one foot in a basin of clean water. Garden clogs beside me, caked, not coming into the house. Paul had filled the basin when I asked, warm, a squeeze of plain soap. I am thirty-six. He is forty. This is our porch ritual when the rows are mean. It is a wash, water and skin, and today I wanted it to become a fuck after I was clean.

He knelt with a cloth. May I, he said. Yes. He lifted my foot and rinsed it, washing the arch, the heel, between the toes. The water went cloudy and he changed it because he is decent. Second foot. Same care. His hands were steady. I watched his wrists and felt my cunt open. When both feet were clean he dried them in his lap. Kiss them, I said. Now that they are honest. He kissed the soles, then the tops, then the ankles. I shrugged the coat off my shoulders.

I want your fingers in my cunt, I said. Then your cock. Here is fine. The inner door is shut. He nodded. He slid a hand up my thigh and found my cunt wet. From the washing, I said. From you. He rubbed my clit in slow circles while his other hand held my foot against his chest. I came on the bench, head back against the wall, saying do not drop that foot. He held it the whole time.

I stood, turned, and knelt on the bench cushion with my forearms on the backrest. I said, fuck my cunt. Slow first. He put his cock in my cunt and fucked me in long strokes. One clean foot dangled. He held the ankle. The basin sat on the floor, ordinary. My cunt was not. Faster, Paul. He went faster. His hand left my ankle only to grip my hip when I asked for harder.

I came with a rough sound, pushing back, telling him I wanted his cum deep in my cunt. He gave it to me, my name broken in half. Then he emptied the basin and kissed both clean feet. We napped on the cottage bed, my soles against his shin.