I am already running late when I notice the earring is missing. I catch my reflection in the mirror by the door, see that it must have fallen off somewhere. I search the couch, the rug, the hallway. In a mess of frantic energy I decide to check the bedroom, wondering whether it got snagged and fell off while I was getting dressed.
You’re sitting on the bed with your laptop open when I come in. You might be working, might just be playing with something. I don’t ask. I’m busy anyways, checking behind furniture, scanning the floor for a glimmer. You look up, annoyed, and ask me what the fuck I’m doing. I freeze, startled by your reaction. I try to explain but you stop me. “No. What are those?” You nod towards my feet.
Shit. We don’t wear shoes in here. I apologize quickly and take them off, set them outside the door. I try to resume my search, but you stop me again. “Clean it.” I tilt my head, incredulous. You must be joking.
“Right now?” I ask. “I should have left ten minutes ago.”
You don’t care. You insist that my group will be fine, that I can meet up with them afterwards if I want. You remind me that I didn’t want to go anyways, and you’re not wrong. I go to grab the mop but you say no, that I should grab a couple towels, a bowl of water and some soap instead. I want to ask you why but something about your tone tells me not to, so I listen.
I set everything down on the ground but you tell me to stand back up. You look me over, head to toe, and direct me to take off my sweater. I understand what we’re doing now. It’s a sort of game we play. You decide the rules and I try to follow, never knowing what the next one might be. I like not knowing.
I lift my top over my head, set it aside. I’m in my skirt and bra now, unlined triangles of cotton and lace. You tell me to take that off too, that it was pointless under the sweater anyways. I unclasp the back, slip it off of my body. Slowly. You angle your head slightly, like you’re making up your mind. You instruct me to turn around and take off my panties. I slide them down my legs, set them down with my other clothing. I begin to take off my skirt but you tell me to leave it on, to start cleaning.
I get down onto the ground and soak one of the towels, wring it until it’s only damp. I empty a small amount of soap onto it and work it over the floor in little circles, wiping it clean with more water and then drying it with the other towel. You watch me, bent over in my skirt, bare knees against the floor, scrubbing.
When you’re satisfied you tell me to leave everything outside the doorway and to stand in front of you. No matter how many times we’ve seen each other undress, I am always nervous when you look at my body this way. Appraising. Something that belongs to you. I resist the temptation to wrap my arms around myself, hide. You’d never let me do that anyways. In fact, the moment I feel this urge you sense it and take away what small coverage I have left. Your voice is almost cold, detached, when you tell me to lift my skirt, to show you my cunt. It turns me on to hear you say something so abrasive, and I lift the hem of the skirt, showing it to you.
You demand that I touch myself, make me rub my clit for you. I move my hand between my legs and I am surprised by how much I want it, how much it had been building up inside me. You’d laugh if you knew how aroused I was, how desperately my body prepared for you without a single touch, as though you willed it to with each stroke of the towel against the floor. Your expression is still, however, entirely unreadable when you say that I should see how slutty I look touching myself like that. That it’s obvious how much I want it.
Suddenly you ask if I think that I deserve you. My face burns a little but I don’t stop. I glance downward, slightly embarrassed, tell you the truth. No. Probably not. You shrug, tell me maybe you’re sentimental after all. You ask me if I’d like you to touch me, and I say please. I would beg you to right now, but you don’t make me beg. You shut your computer. Approach me. Run your fingers from my jaw down over my breasts and stomach and then up my thigh. You lean in close, slide your hand over mine, moving your fingers with me over the sweet wet skin, and whisper, “Too fucking bad.”
You tell me to get back down on the ground so I kneel in front of you. You undo your belt, unzip slowly. You know how much I want to see your dick so you’re making me wait for it. I’m impatient. I reach for your waistband to pull off your underwear but you grab my hand. “Did I ask you to help?” I tell you I’m sorry. You say, “Good.” You undress yourself, bring your hard cock to my face. I want to touch it, to trace the shape of your head, follow a vein down the length of you, feel the throb of it. I lift my finger but you say no. To use my tongue.
I lick the tip, taste a little bit of you there, warm and salty. I kiss it. Run my tongue all around your head, gently suck underneath it. You watch me move down your shaft, savoring it. You tell me I’m lucky that you let me suck your dick, and I tell you I know. I mean it. I show you how much I mean it, pulling you into my mouth, my throat. You bring your hand down to my head, run your fingers through my hair, push hard. You’re fucking my mouth now and I love it, the way my pussy aches with each thrust. When you’re close you tell me to stop so I pull away, expecting you to cum on me, on my face, neck, tits. Anywhere you want.
Instead you cum on the ground, bursts of milky white semen streamed all over the clean floor. I watch you finish, surprised. You say nothing at first, silently putting your clothing back on. You haven’t told me to get up yet, so I don’t. When you’re dressed again you reach for my chin, ask me to look at you. I gaze up and you touch my face gently, sweetly almost. Your eyes move from mine down to the mess.
“Clean it.”
I start to rise, to go get the towels and bowl again.
Your hand on my shoulder.
“No.”
I realize what you mean. My heart is pounding as I bend down slowly. I look up at you again, a brief glance to confirm that this is what you want. It is.
I part my mouth, lips lightly swollen and pink from earlier, and I lower my tongue. I close my eyes and lick your cum off of the floor. You watch as I draw my tongue through another small puddle and bring it into me, see it dripping down my chin. I swallow. You’re staring at me, excited. You weren’t sure I’d do it. You don’t stop me right away, you let me clean our floor with my mouth a little longer, enthralled and aroused by the sight of me lapping up these small tastes of you.
Eventually you wave your hand, break into laughter, “Ok, ok, you can stop now!” I stand and wipe my mouth. You bring me to you, kiss my forehead, tell me that you love me and you know how lucky you are too. You can’t stop smiling. You grab my ass then smack it lightly, tell me to have a good night with my friends. That you’re sorry for making me so late. That you’ll make it up to me when I come home. That you maybe found my earring over an hour ago but forgot to mention it. It’s next to the bathroom sink.
I shake my head and laugh, unable to suppress the mixture of adoration and amusement when I tell you that you owe me. I lick my lips and I know that you’re not sorry about anything at all, but neither am I. It was worth it. It always is.