The hallway
I know a bad partition the way I know a cheap lock. This one was solid. Narrow dim hallway, closed door beside me, canvas jacket still on, auburn pixie not yet a mess. The arcade had checked ID at the street door. I checked again with my mouth. First knock, I asked age. The voice said old enough and laughed like that was a key. I said a number over twenty-one or I close the slot. He said I should trust the door. I do not trust doors I did not hang. I shut the slot. Done.
Two men stayed useful. Twenty-eight, then forty-seven. They said the numbers without decorating them. I opened the slot for the younger cock first. It was pretty in a blunt way, flushed, a little curved. I licked him from the underside to the head and then sucked his cock properly, jaw relaxed, hand twisting what my mouth left out. My other hand was in my jeans. My cunt was wet and I was not in a hurry to be anywhere else. I fucked my fingers in time with the suck. He tried to push. I pinned the base and set the depth myself. When he warned me, I pulled off and let him cum against the lip of the slot, not down my throat. I wanted the ache to last. I wanted the second load.
Forty-seven was thicker. His cock filled my mouth until my jaw started that sweet stupid throb I chase on these nights. I sucked him slow, then faster, spit on my chin, cunt fluttering around my own fingers. I came like that, forehead against the wood, moaning around his cock, and I did not take my hand away until the orgasm finished wringing me out. Then I took him deep again and told him to cum. He came in my mouth. I swallowed. I like the second one swallowed. It feels like a decision instead of a spill. I stayed on my knees after the swallow and fucked my cunt with three fingers until I came again, harder, the taste of him still on my tongue. The man on the other side asked if I wanted his cock back through the slot for another round. I said no. One swallow was the fuck I had come for, and my jaw had the ache I like, not an ache I needed to double. I am practical about this the way I am practical about a lock: when the job is done, I stop turning the key.
I wiped my mouth on the inside of the jacket, closed the slot, and walked out past the door that had checked us in. Nobody got a number that rings. My cunt was still twitching. The shop keys stayed in my pocket, where work belongs, and the night stayed on the other side of that door.
