The cutting table

I locked the shop at eight and turned the sign myself. Rashid is thirty. Tomo is twenty-eight. Blake is thirty-five. I met them at a bar two blocks away, not at the counter where people bring me alterations. They are not customers. I do not fuck customers. I am twenty-seven and I know the difference between a fitting and a guest. I told them three cocks, my mouth, my cunt, and cum on my face from two of them. They came to the alley door like men who had been invited, which they had.

Before anyone touched the table I stood at it dressed. Cream shirt buttoned, dark trousers, cropped curls, shears set down, no labels facing up. I let them see the tailor version, exact and closed, the cloth still squared from the afternoon. Then I moved the shears to a shelf, because I am not careless with tools even when I am about to be a mess. I said Rashid and Tomo would cum on my face. Blake would cum in my cunt. If anybody wanted a different ending they could say so before clothes came off. Nobody did.

I sucked them one by one, kneeling on the mat I keep for long hems. Rashid's cock first, heavy on my tongue. Then Tomo, a little curved, fun to swallow around. Then Blake, while the other two watched with their cocks in their hands because I told them they could. I got spit everywhere and did not mind. My cunt was wet inside the trousers before I stood up. I bent over the cutting table, cheek near the wood, and told Blake to fuck me. His cock went into my cunt in a smooth push. Rashid and Tomo stood close. I turned my face and sucked whoever was nearest between thrusts. Blake fucked me steady. I rubbed my clit on my own hand and came with my mouth full, a rough moan around a cock, my cunt clamping down. I tapped the table when I wanted the ending.

Blake stayed in my cunt and came there, deep, because that was his job in the night. I dropped to my knees again. Rashid came first, cum across my cheek and my open mouth. Tomo followed, stripes over my lip and the other cheek, his cock pulsing in his fist. I held still and let them see it. I like the mess aimed. I like my face used for exactly that and nothing meaner. I wiped nothing until they had looked. Then I washed at the utility sink, sent them out the alley, and cleaned the table with the care I use on wool. In the morning the shears were back in their place. I slept in the room behind the curtain, alone, cream shirt on a hook, cunt sore in a way I had ordered.