His come leaking down my thighs

Chapter 10

The marble slab was cool against my bare hip as I leaned across the tasting counter, and I felt Bruno's hand slide up my thigh from under the table, his fingers already working my skirt up past my knees. The customer—a middle-aged woman with a sharp perfume that cut through the ammonia tang of the washed-rind wheels—was asking about the Époisses, and I heard my own voice answer her while his knuckles brushed the damp cotton of my panties.

"The rind develops that orange bloom after about three weeks of washing," I said, and I felt his thumb hook the waistband of my panties, pulling them down my thighs in one slow drag. I heard the fabric whisper against my skin, felt the cool air hit my bare cunt, and then his mouth was on me through the gap in the marble, his tongue flat against my slit, lapping up the wetness that had been pooling there since he'd knelt down.

"Are you alright, dear?" the customer asked, and I heard my voice crack on the word "rind" as I answered. "Fine, just—the ammonia, it catches in your throat sometimes."

The customer laughed, leaning closer to the wheel, and I felt Bruno's tongue push inside me, his nose pressing against my c**t. The marble edge bit into my hip as I shifted, spreading my legs wider under the table, and I felt his rough fingers grip my thighs, pulling me closer to his mouth. The sound of his tongue working my cunt was obscene, wet, and I heard the customer's voice through the marble as if from a great distance.

"The texture looks lovely," she said. "Is this the one you're entering in the festival?"

"Yes," I managed, and I felt his tongue curl inside me, hitting the rough spot on my front wall. My hips jerked, and I grabbed the edge of the marble slab to steady myself. The customer's perfume mixed with the ammonia and the dust of the shop floor, and I smelled my own arousal rising from under the table, sharp and sweet.

He pulled his mouth away with a wet pop, and I felt his fingers replace his tongue, two of them sliding into my cunt, curling upward. I heard the squelch of my wetness around his fingers, and I bit my lip to keep from moaning.

"Would you like to taste the Époisses?" I asked, my voice too high, too bright. "I can cut you a sample."

"That would be lovely," the customer said, and I watched her lean forward, her eyes on the wheel. Her foot was inches from the edge of the table, inches from where Bruno's hand was working between my thighs.

I reached for the cheese cutter, my hand shaking, and I felt Bruno's fingers curl inside me, pressing against the rough spot, stroking in a rhythm that made my vision blur. I cut a thin wedge of the Époisses and placed it on a small plate, sliding it across the marble toward her.

"Pair it with the Sancerre," I said, and I heard my voice wobble. "The acidity cuts through the cream."

The customer picked up the wine glass, and I watched her sip, her eyes closing in appreciation. Bruno's fingers were still inside me, moving faster now, and I felt my c**t throbbing against the seam of my skirt. I pressed my thighs together, trying to trap his hand, and I felt him pull his fingers out, heard the wet sound they made as they left my cunt.

Then I felt his hand on my hip, pulling me backward, and I understood. I shifted on the bench, turning my body away from the customer, and I felt the blunt head of his c**k pressing at my entrance from behind. He pushed inside me in one slow, thick stroke, and I felt the stretch, the burn, the ridge of his shaft dragging over my inner walls until he was seated against my cervix.

I gasped, and the customer looked up. "Are you sure you're alright, dear?"

"Just—the wine," I said, my voice strangled. "It's a bit sharp."

She nodded, turning back to the wheel, and I felt Bruno's c**k pulse inside me. He was completely still, buried to the hilt, and I felt my inner walls gripping him, clenching around the thick heat of him. The marble edge pressed into my hip, and I felt the cool stone against my hot skin, the contrast making me shiver.

"Is there a damp cloth under the table?" the customer asked, and I froze. I felt Bruno's hands grip my hips, and he pulled out slowly, then drove back in, the sound of his skin slapping against mine muffled by the tablecloth. I heard the wet slide of his c**k inside me, and I knew she could hear it too.

"Just the cellar cloth," I said, my voice cracking on the word "cellar." "For cleaning the wheels."

I reached down, my hand finding the cloth on the floor, and I felt the damp spot where my cream had been pooling. Bruno thrust into me again, deeper this time, and I felt the head of his c**k pressing against my cervix, the pressure building in my belly. I mopped the floor with the cloth, my hand shaking, and I felt the customer's foot shift, inches from the puddle.

The customer leaned forward, sniffing the washed-rind wheel, and I felt Bruno's c**k sink into me to the root, his balls pressing against my c**t. I heard the customer's voice through the marble, muffled, distant: "It smells wonderful. Like a barn, but in a good way."

"Yes," I managed, and I felt the first contraction building in my belly, my inner walls fluttering around his c**k. "That's the—the ammonia bloom."

Bruno thrust into me again, slow and deep, and I felt the heat spreading through my thighs. The customer's foot was inches from the puddle of my cream on the floor, and I mopped it with the cloth, my hand moving in desperate circles while his c**k filled me.

"Are you sure you're alright?" the customer asked, and I heard the hesitation in her voice. "You look a bit flushed."

"I'm fine," I said, and I felt my cunt clench hard around his c**k. "It's just—the heat."

The customer nodded, turning back to the wheel, and I felt Bruno's hand slide around my hip, his fingers finding my c**t. He pressed hard, circling, and I felt the orgasm building, hot and urgent. The fear of the customer's foot, the risk of Mona walking through the door at any moment—it all made everything sharper, my skin hypersensitive, my inner walls gripping his c**k like they were begging for his seed.

"Please," I whispered, barely audible. "Daddy, please."

He thrust into me harder, faster, and I felt the rhythm climb. Each stroke hit my cervix, the pressure building, and I felt my wetness running down my thighs, soaking the cloth in my hand. The customer was talking about the festival, about the judging criteria, and I heard my own voice answering her in a bright retail tone while his c**k split me open.

The first contraction started deep in my belly, spreading through my inner walls, and I felt them clench around his c**k, pulling him deeper. My vision blurred, my breath caught, and I heard the customer ask if I was okay one more time before the orgasm crashed over me.

I came hard, my cunt clenching and releasing around his c**k, and I felt the hot flood of his come hitting my cervix, thick and warm, spreading through my inner walls. He thrust into me one last time and held, his c**k pulsing, and I felt the second wave of contractions milking him, pulling every drop of his seed deeper into my womb.

The customer stood up, and I felt the panic shoot through me. I pulled the cloth from under the table, mopping the puddle of his come from the floor just as her foot stepped forward. She paused, looking down at the damp spot, and I laughed too loudly, too brightly.

"Sorry," I said. "I spilled some wine earlier."

The customer looked at me for a long moment, and I felt his come leaking out of my stuffed cunt, running down my thigh in a warm trickle. She smiled, but I saw the hesitation in her eyes.

"You two run a good shop," she said, and there was a slight pause before the last word, a beat of something unspoken.

"Thank you," I said, and I felt Bruno's hand slide up my thigh under the table, his fingers finding the wet mess between my legs. He pulled his hand back, and I heard him suck his fingers clean.

The customer left, the shop door chiming behind her, and I collapsed onto the bench, my legs shaking. Bruno crawled out from under the table, and I saw his face, flushed, his lips wet with my cream.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out my panties, the damp cotton crumpled in his hand. He knelt in front of me, and I felt him slide them up my thighs, over my hips, pulling them into place like a collar. The cold key ring pressed against my wrist as he adjusted the waistband, and I felt the warmth of his come still leaking out of me, soaking into the fabric.

"Mine," he said, his voice low. "Every time you wear these, you'll feel me inside you."

I looked at his hands, the calluses, the dust of the shop floor on his knuckles, and I felt the stairwell memory shift inside me. I was no longer the girl hiding in the shadows, watching him work. I was the one in the washed shirt now, my own body the wheel he was washing, my own rind softening under his hands.

The cellar cloth was folded on the counter, the suspicious dried stain dark against the white fabric. Mona would see it when she returned. She would ask.

But I felt his come still warm inside me, and I knew I was his.