Chapter 3 Staff Orientation #2
I got my own hand into the oil, warmed it as she’d just taught me, and slid it up the inside of her thigh, slow, reading her the way she’d read me, and when my fingers found her slick and open at the top of it she stopped narrating mid-sentence.
“Ah,” she said, in Portuguese, all the English gone. “Querido.”
“You stopped teaching,” I said.
“You’ll get it back.” But she didn’t get it back, not for a while.
I dragged two fingers through her, parting her, finding her swollen and slippery and so wet the oil was beside the point, then pushed both fingers up into her, slick and easy, and curled them forward against the spongy place that made her clever stroking hand forget its rhythm entirely.
She was hot and tight inside, gripping my knuckles, fluttering, and when I pressed the heel of my palm flat against her clit and ground it in slow circles she made a sound that started as a word and gave up being one halfway through.
I fucked her on my fingers, slow and deep, my palm working her clit while she tried to keep working my cock, and the lesson dissolved into something with no curriculum, her forehead dropping to my shoulder, her fist on me losing its clever rhythm and finding a needier one, her hips grinding down onto my hand, riding it, while she swore softly in a language I didn’t speak and understood perfectly.
The heft of her moved against me, all that warm weight she joked about so no one else could, and I had a hand full of her ass and the other buried in her and her breath going ragged and wet against my throat.
“You read the body,” I said, giving her own lesson back to her, curling my fingers until her thighs jumped. “I’m reading it.”
“Cala a boca,” she gasped, which I was fairly sure meant shut up, and which she did not mean.
“Edge of the pool,” she got out, dragging my hand out of her by the wrist before she went over. “Move. I want, I want to finish you with my mouth, and then you’re going to put your mouth on me until I can’t stand, and that’s the lesson, that’s everything, vem.”
We moved to the plunge-pool edge, marble cool under us, steam rolling off the warm water beside it.
She knelt between my knees on the wet stone, pushed my thighs apart with her strong hands, and took my cock in her mouth in one long warm slide, and there was nothing clinical left in her at all, none of the teaching, just heat and want and the wet obscene sounds of it loud in the small stone room.
She worked me with that same reading intelligence she brought to everything, her lips stretched tight around the shaft, her tongue dragging up the underside, watching my face over the length of me for the gauge.
She took me to the back of her throat and held me there until her eyes went glassy, then drew off slow with a flat wet pull of suction, hollowing her cheeks, easing off whenever my hips tried to chase and building me back up, drawing it out, one slick hand fisting the base in time with her mouth, her dark eyes laughing up at me the entire time because she knew exactly what she was doing and exactly how good she was at it.
“You taste like the work,” she murmured, pulling off to breathe, a thread of spit and precum connecting her lower lip to the head of me, her fist still pumping slow and slick.
“Salt and steam. I like it. Most men taste like apology. You don’t apologize.
” And she took me back into her throat before I could answer, deeper this time, swallowing around the head, and I gave up answering, and she sucked me hard and steady until she built me to the edge and over it.
I gripped the marble lip and said her name and came, hard, jerking, spilling thick and hot across her tongue and down her throat while she hummed around me, pleased, working me through every spurt, swallowing it all, taking it like she’d earned it.
She pulled off at last with a wet pop, licking her lips, grinning like she’d won something, which she had.
“That,” she said, husky, wrecked, delighted, “is how you do that.”
“We’re not done,” I said.
“We are extremely not done.” She climbed up over me, knees on the cool marble either side of my head, looked down the length of her own oiled body at me with absolute satisfaction, all that warm strong weight poised above me, the slick pink heat of her right above my mouth, and lowered herself onto my face.
“Now,” she said, gripping the rail behind my head, settling her cunt against my mouth.
“Read me. Show me you were listening this morning.”
I read her. I had a great deal of motivation.
I gripped her thick strong thighs and held her where I wanted her and licked into her, slow at first, flattening my tongue and dragging it up through her slit to her clit, finding the rhythm her body wanted and then giving it to her, sealing my lips around the swollen knot of it and sucking.
She made a sound that rolled off the stone walls and came back doubled.
She was loud, gloriously loud, no shyness anywhere in her, riding my mouth, smearing herself against my chin, and somewhere in the back of my head I remembered that the walls in this wing were famous and I understood now exactly for what, and I decided I didn’t care, and she clearly never had in her life.
“There,” she gasped, grinding her hips down against my mouth, “there, you did listen, bom menino, don’t stop, don’t you dare…
” and then the English ran out and it was Portuguese, fast and broken, and then it wasn’t even that, just sound, the narration she lived inside finally collapsing into the wordless real thing.
She rode my face shameless, her thighs clamping tight around my head, soaking my chin, one hand fisting hard in my hair to hold me exactly where she wanted me, and when she came she came against my mouth shaking and swearing and laughing all at once, all of her clenching tight, her cunt pulsing against my tongue, grinding down through every wave of it, riding it out until she was wrung dry and boneless and slid off me to collapse against the warm marble.
She slid down off me and into the plunge pool with a splash and a whoop, cold water, and dragged me in after her, both of us laughing now in the freezing plunge while the steam rolled overhead.
“No more tonight,” she said, treading water, hair coming down in dark wet ropes.
“We’re saving the rest. I want the table for the rest. The thin walls deserve the real thing and I am going to give the corridor a memory.
” She splashed me. “But that, novato, that was your orientation. Welcome to staff.”
We didn’t talk about the blood. We didn’t talk about the blank board or the printer or the thing Marlene was going to tell me tomorrow. She got out, wrapped herself, blew me a kiss, and padded off barefoot into the dark, leaving wet footprints and a quiet I didn’t know what to do with.
I dried off and dressed and took the long way back, past the main corridor.
The office light was on.
Through the glass, Marlene stood at the board.
She had the white magnet in her hand, the lonely one from the blank wing, turning it over in her fingers.
And as I watched, she crossed to the desk, took the folded page out of the drawer, the one she’d nearly torn up, and stood with it, reading it again in the dark, her mouth set in a hard flat line she didn’t have to hold for anyone but herself.
Then she set the magnet against the empty grid, in the corner of the scrubbed-clean wing, not in the grid, just touching it, like a key rested against a lock she hadn’t decided to turn.
She didn’t move it. She put the page back in the drawer. She turned off the lamp.