Whoever's walking

Saturday, different lot, same door. Two men, friends, early thirties, the kind who dare each other. I told them the rule before anyone's zipper moved. One at a time. Come inside. Talk to me like you're trying to breed a woman you met four minutes ago. Either of you can leave.

The first one was shy until I said put a baby in this cunt in the same voice I use for square footage. He lost the shyness. The second watched, then took his place, sloppy with his friend's cum, and I liked that more than I expected. More, I said. I want to smell like a risk I am choosing.

I didn't get their numbers. I drove a buyer through a colonial an hour later and said this room gets beautiful light while my thighs stuck together. The house sold. I don't know what that says about me and I'm not taking it to anyone. I like a clean car and a filthy half hour and a commission. The breeding talk is a match I strike. I blow it out before I pull into my own garage.