Paying the Interest

You finish first.

The bathroom is as honest as it is going to get. The futon looks like a futon. Jeff is on his shelf. You decide you want your fun too—not as Daddy. As her boyfriend.

She is still mopping the hall where the soot footprints never quite died, bent over the last grey ghosts of the shed night. You come up behind her and slide a hand down the back of her shorts, palm finding bare ass, kneading slow and shameless. She jolts, laughs, nearly drops the mop.

“John—”

“Keep working.”

You steal a kiss from the side of her mouth when she turns. Your other hand cups her breast through her shirt, thumb brushing the place you know is marked underneath. You talk while you do it, romantic on purpose, horny on purpose, the two things braided so she cannot pick which one is winning.

“I’m so lucky,”
you murmur against her cheek.
“That a girl like you is in love with me. That you agreed to be my one and only girlfriend. Do you know how long I wanted to say that without turning it into a joke.”

She tries to mop. Your hand in her shorts makes it a comedy. Every stroke of the mop becomes a stumble. You squeeze. She swears. You kiss her again, softer.

“Finish the task,”
you tell her.
“Then you can do anything else. Not before.”

“That’s evil.”

“That’s the deal we made. Clear ship first. I’m just making clear ship interesting.”

The dance takes a while.

She pushes the mop forward; you follow, glued to her back, fingers spreading on her ass, lifting the hem of the shorts just enough to remind her there is nothing under them. She tries to be stern. It lasts three seconds. You tell her she is perfect and she makes a noise that is not about floors. You tell her you love her and your hand slips further, not quite giving her the friction she wants, just presence, just claim-as-boyfriend.

“You’re going to make me miss a spot.”

“Then don’t miss a spot.”

“I can’t think.”

“Think about the footprints. Think about your parents not asking why the hall looks like a fireplace.”
You kiss the back of her neck. “Think about how pretty you are when you’re trying to be responsible.”

Sandra plants the mop like a spear and leans into your hand anyway, forehead against the wall for one weak second.

“Boyfriend John is worse than Daddy John. Daddy John at least lets me come.”

“Boyfriend John lets you finish the floor.”

She growls. You laugh into her hair and keep kneading, keep talking—lucky, mine, only, the words you used to swallow in this same hallway when you were just the boy who slept on the futon.
The soot fades by inches. Her breathing does not.
By the time the last print is gone she is flushed and furious and smiling, mop abandoned, turning in your arms to point a wet finger at your chest.

“Ship is clear,” she says. “Interest. Now.”

The interest comes slowly.

You do not rush her against a wall. You kiss her and keep kissing her, and the clothes come off in the spaces between.
Shirt over her head without your mouth leaving hers for more than a breath.
Shorts down her thighs while your tongue is still in her mouth.
You palm every sensitive place as it is revealed—the undersides of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the hot marked skin above her cunt, the still-tender curve of her ass.
You stir her gently through the hall and into the kitchen, step by step, until the back of her legs meet the counter.

When you lift her onto it she is already impatient.

Her legs open for you. Her arms are worse.
She got your pants down somewhere between the last kiss and the lift, and she has not let go of your cock since—stroking, squeezing, trying to pull you in before you are ready to give her that.
You catch her wrists long enough to kiss her down her body instead. Throat. Sternum. The word on her breast. The tally on her thigh.
Then her pussy, spread on the edge of the counter she used to eat cereal at.

You eat her out thoroughly.

Not as punishment. As worship. Slow, wet, patient work that lets her come undone on your tongue.
You hold her thighs and take your time, licking through the slick she made while you were “helping” her mop, sucking her clit until her voice goes high and broken and she fists your hair. She comes with her heels on your back, shaking, demanding more before the first one has even finished leaving.

You give her a minute. Then you give her more.

When you finally enter her it is slow. One long, deep stroke that seats you against her cervix and stays there, a kiss she can feel in her stomach. Her mouth falls open on your name. Her arms lock around your neck. You fuck her like that on the kitchen counter—deep, unhurried, the kind of rhythm that says I know we have to stop living in this house tomorrow and I am not wasting the last of it on something cheap.

Sandra starts talking because she cannot not.

“How the fuck,”
she pants, forehead against yours,
“am I supposed to survive the coming days without this. Without your cock kissing my cervix every few hours. I got so used to it. I got ruined. I’m going to sit in lectures and feel empty. I’m going to sleep in this bed and reach for you and hit the wall instead. That’s not fair. You don’t get to train my body to need you and then send me back to being alone in this house.”

You thrust in answer, slow, bottoming out, and she moans like the point is proven.

“We’ll find our ways,”
you tell her. “We’ll find hours. I’m not disappearing.”

“I know. I know. I still want you in me now. I want it so I can remember the shape.”
Her legs tighten.
“Harder. No—stay slow. Just—deeper. Like you mean it. Like you’re staying.”

The fuck stays slow and deliberate.

No one is chasing a peak.
You hold her on the counter and move like you have all the time the holiday no longer has—deep strokes that kiss her cervix and stay, then drag back, then fill her again.
Sandra’s arms stay around your neck. Her voice keeps breaking on words that are supposed to be practical.

“Uni,”
she manages, then moans when you bottom out.
“Where. Between hours. I can’t sit through a lecture empty after this. I need—ah—somewhere. A bathroom is pathetic. I want you to fill me properly.”

You roll your hips and think while she clenches.

“The back stairwell on the third floor.The accessible storage by the old library if we lock it and don’t take forever.”
Another thrust. She gasps.
“The unused seminar room on Thursdays. They never book it.”

“During lectures,”
she says, already gone on the idea. Her exhibition kink lights her up even while she is taking you in her parents’ kitchen.
“I could wear a short skirt. Sit on your lap. Borrow it. Like I always used to. No one would look twice. You’d already be inside me. I’d have to be quiet. maybe I’d fail. I want to fail.”

You fuck her through that picture—slow, filthy, her pussy fluttering at the thought of a lecture hall and a secret. Your mouth finds her ear.

“I can still get the janitor keys. I worked with them long enough. They still like me. Storage. The service corridor behind the canteen. An actual lock.”

Sandra comes a little just from that, not the full thing, a sharp clench and a whimper, and you have to freeze or you will follow her. When you start moving again she is laughing and crying at once.

The memory surfaces while you are still inside her.

“You used to wait for me. After the shifts. Hours, sometimes. You never had to. I thought you just didn’t want to ride the bus alone.”

You say the next part against her mouth, still thrusting, still stupid with how obvious it was.

“I was so stupid. I didn’t see how much you loved me. You were sitting on those awful plastic chairs outside the loading dock so we could walk the same way home, and I thought it was habit.”

Sandra nods, then moans, then nods again.

“You were denser than osmium. For sure. I was in love with you on that bench. I was in love with you when you came out smelling like floor polish. I was in love with you when you asked if I wanted chips. I wanted you to kiss me against the service door and you asked about chips.”

You drive in harder once, then catch yourself, return to the slow rhythm because that is the deal of this fuck. She takes it and keeps talking, because the conversation and the sex have become the same thing.

“So we use the keys,”
she whispers.
“We use the lap. We use the stairwell. I don’t care if it’s filthy. I care that I don’t have to go back to pretending I can last until the weekend. Promise you’ll fill me between hours. Promise I get to walk into the next class with you still dripping out of me.”

“I promise.”
You kiss her, deep, and stay seated against her cervix so she can feel the vow.
“ I know. I’m trying to be less dense from now on.”

She laughs into the kiss and rolls her hips, asking for another slow stroke, and you give it to her, talking and fucking in the clean kitchen about the dirty map of a campus you are going to use until the empty house is just the place you learned how.