The bench

Greg asked me on a Monday while I weighed sugar. He said he wanted Luis in the kitchen before open, and he wanted to stay. Luis is a friend who bakes across town. I have wanted his cock. I told Greg yes, and I told him to be the one to text, so the ask stayed his as much as mine.

The ovens were still cold. Trays of plain tarts sat under film. My braid was a crown and the pink shirt was already floured at the cuffs. I unlocked the door and locked it again behind them. Greg set a coffee on the bench for me. Luis waited with his jacket folded, which made me like him more. I said the rules out loud. Door stays locked. Tarts stay covered. If I say stop, we stop. Greg said he had asked for this and he would not forget the rules just because his cock was hard. I kissed him for that.

Luis kissed me second, slow, flour transferring to his black shirt. I laughed and told him he could unbutton the pink one. He did, and he told me I was beautiful in the work of the morning, which is a better compliment than any dressed-up version. Greg stood at my side and said he agreed, voice rough. Luis palmed my breasts and praised the weight of them, then knelt and praised my stomach, my hips, the damp cotton he peeled aside from my cunt. His mouth was warm on my clit. I held the bench. Greg stroked my hair and said I sounded perfect.

I came on Luis's tongue with my cheek near a tray of tart shells, trying not to knock them, failing to be quiet. Then I turned, braced my forearms on the wood, and asked Luis to fuck my cunt. He did, cock deep and even, one floured hand on my waist. Greg stayed where I could see him and told me I was wonderful, that he loved watching me take the fuck I wanted, that he was proud of the ask and proud of me. I reached back for his belt and jerked his cock while Luis fucked me. The rhythm was messy and good. I came again, sharper, my cunt gripping that cock. Luis pulled out and came on my thigh when I told him where. Greg came over my fist a minute later, kissing my shoulder, saying thank you into the pink cotton. The tarts survived.