The drop cloth

Amos was not at this one. I did not invite him. A different empty room, a different party, my band and my rules and nobody who thinks a repeat makes a claim. Late light came through bare windows. I sat on the folded drop cloth in a white t-shirt, hair down, canvas pants still on, and I asked ages at the door before I let a cock into the story. Kip is twenty-seven. Reza is thirty-four. Al is forty-one. Bo is thirty. They said the numbers out loud. They opted in. I told them done means I am out, the fuck stops, and I can leave. Each of them repeated it. I smiled like a woman with a van outside and no reason to stay past my own want.

I sucked them in a loose rotation because I like to start with mouths and because I like to feel four different cocks and still be the one deciding. Kip was eager. Reza was thick. Al was patient. Bo talked too much until I told him to shut up and fuck. I got the pants off and the shirt rucked and I took them in my cunt one after another on the drop cloth, the canvas rough under my knees and then under my back. They came inside because my band and my mouth both said that was the night. I wanted the sloppy fullness. I wanted to feel cum leak when the next cock pushed in. Reza fucked me when I was already a mess and I came on his cock, hard, clutching, swearing, hair stuck to my mouth. I laughed after. He laughed too. Nobody got weird about it.

Al and Bo finished in me after that. I was open and loud and greedy and still counting. Four. I checked in with myself the way I always do, which is just a question: do I want to go. I did not, until I did. When Bo pulled out and the last of it slid down my cunt onto the cloth, I was done in the true sense. I said the word. Done. They stopped with their hands in the air like the word had a shape. Kip had been reaching to help me up and he froze and then actually helped, no cock, no extra grab. I told them I was fine and finished, not scared, not hurt, just out. I can leave. That is not a metaphor.

I showered in the empty bathroom. Soap, hot water, washing, nothing else. I wanted their cum off my thighs and that is all a shower is to me. I dressed, shook my hair, and drove the van home with the windows cracked. Nobody followed. I am not a girlfriend at the end of a band night. I am a painter who got fucked the way she asked and then left.