The heels off

I had the key to the quiet suite lounge and I was off the clock. Martin met me there after his dinner, not as a demand from a guest, as a man I had invited. I am thirty-eight. He is forty-seven. I kept the burgundy blazer open over the black dress and left the heels on until we were on the sofa. I like to decide the minute they come off. He knows. He waited.

Tell me what you want tonight, he said. My feet in your hands. The heels off when I say. Then your cock, if you still want to fuck me. I want you, he said. I smiled and lifted one shoe toward him. Now. He caught my heel and eased the pump off. The sound was small. He set it on the carpet and kissed the top of my foot. Again, I said, the other one. He did. Both heels on the carpet. Both feet bare. I flexed my toes and watched his face.

He rubbed my soles with his thumbs until I sank into the sofa. Months of marble floors live in those muscles. His hands were warm and patient. I told him the sore spot under the left ball and he eased it without making it a problem. Kiss me there. He did. I slid the dress up and showed him I had nothing under it. My cunt was bare for him, I said. Because I wanted this.

He went down on my cunt with both hands still busy on my feet, which is a talent I intend to keep. I came against his mouth, one sole pressed gently to his shoulder. Then I turned over the sofa arm and asked him to fuck me from behind while he held my ankles together. He checked. Yes, I said. I want your cock in my cunt. He fucked me thick and slow. The blazer fell off one shoulder. He kissed my calf. I told him harder. He gave it.

I came again saying do not let go of my ankles. He held them. He asked, wrecked. On my feet, I said. I want your cum on them. He pulled his cock out and came over my soles, then wiped them and kissed the clean arch. I put the heels on myself.