The previous guard had already told them about me

Working on a holiday comes with its own rules. The phone rings at eight, my boss’s name appears on the screen, and what follows is inevitable. The company is Taiwanese; their days off aren’t ours, and long ago I stopped resisting that. I accepted it as just another oddity of the job, along with the bilingual forms and the coffee that tastes like dust.

They only needed me to start a data migration process on the servers. Two hours, three at most. The plant empty, the building all to myself.

I decided to make the most of it.

If no one was going to be around, I could dress however I wanted. I put on black fishnet stockings that ended at the thigh, a tight miniskirt that did exactly what a miniskirt is supposed to do, and a sheer chiffon blouse with nothing underneath. Over that, a short leather jacket for the morning cold, which I knew I wouldn’t need once I was inside. No panties: the air straight on my cunt, the fabric of the skirt brushing my ass every time I walked.

There are women who dress like that without thinking too much about it. I’m not one of them. I learned, over time and with an effort other women never had to make, exactly what works on this body and why. The result looks the same — a woman who knows what she has — but the path was different. And every so often, on Sundays like that one, I enjoy it with no guilt at all.

I put on red lipstick. I left.

The guard who had given me an unforgettable afternoon four months earlier had requested a transfer. A coworker told me, with no further details. It didn’t surprise me: men like him rarely stay in the same place for too long. So I arrived with no expectations, just four hours of automated processing and the trip home.

There were four new guards in the booth. They all looked at me when I got out of the car. It wasn’t a nosy look; it was that kind of conscious effort not to look too much that ends up being exactly the opposite. I know it well. I’ve seen it all my life.

I said hello. They answered. I kept walking.

***

Inside, the silence of the plant on a Sunday has a specific texture. The hallways that smell like oil and motion during the week, in that still state, smell like dust and cold metal. My heels rang on the concrete floor with a clarity that at any other time would have been uncomfortable. That day, not.

I started the process on the servers. The system estimated two hours and fifty minutes. I made myself a coffee from the hallway machine — awful, as always — and decided to walk.

I went through the administrative area. Then I went down to the production floor. Idle machinery has something imposing that you don’t see during the day: those huge structures that roar and vibrate on weekdays, shut off, become something else. I walked among them without hurry, brushing my fingers over the cold surface of the frames.

When I turned the corner into the logistics hallway, I ran into two of the guards.

I recognized them from the booth group. One was older, about forty-five, with that build of someone who’s lifted weights all his life and doesn’t do it for anyone to notice. The other was young, early twenties at most, with brown skin and dark eyes that made no attempt to hide where they were looking.

They blocked my path. Not in a threatening way; they were simply there, facing me, occupying the hallway with an intent that was hard to ignore.

“Good afternoon,” the older one said. His voice was calm, unhurried. “Everything all right around here?”

“Everything’s fine,” I replied. “Just killing time while the systems finish working.”

“We understand perfectly.”

There was a short pause. The young one was looking at me shamelessly, eyes fixed on my tits under the chiffon. The older one was looking at me in a different way: more calculated, as if he were confirming something he already knew in advance.

“Our previous partner,” he said, “told us about you before he left. In quite a bit of detail.”

I felt heat rise up my neck. Not embarrassment, exactly.

“Did he now?” I said.

“He said that when you came by on days like today, you got bored waiting. And that you usually went down to the production floors looking for something to keep yourself entertained. He also said you sucked better than any woman he’d ever had in his fucking life.”

I looked him straight in the eye. He looked back without blinking. Behind me I heard a step, and before I could turn I felt the younger man very close, inches away. I noticed it by the heat coming off him and by the hardness pressing against my lower back.

“What kind of entertainment are you talking about?” I asked, though I already knew.

The older one didn’t answer with words.

***

He stepped closer and took me by the waist. It was a firm movement but not rough, as if he had calculated exactly the force required. He drew me to him and kissed me: slowly at first, testing, then with more pressure when he saw I wasn’t going to pull away. His tongue opened my mouth and started fucking it calmly, as if he were warning me about what was coming next with his cock.

The young man behind me lifted my miniskirt without rushing. He did it with a dexterity I wouldn’t have expected from someone his age: hands on my hips first, then the fabric sliding upward, slow and deliberate, until my ass was bare.

He found out I wasn’t wearing any underwear.

I heard him suck in a breath through his teeth and felt his hands spread my cheeks to look at me properly.

“She came prepared,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question. “She’s already wet, the little bitch.”

And it was true. I could feel it running down the inside of my thigh. His fingers ran along my pussy lips from bottom to top, two times, three, until he pushed a little into the entrance and brought out the slick. He smeared it on my clit and started moving his finger in slow circles, unhurried, as if he had the whole Sunday.

Meanwhile, my hands were busy. I’d undone the older man’s belt almost without thinking, pure instinct. I lowered his zipper and reached in: he was already fully hard, more than the uniform would have suggested. I pulled out his whole cock, thick and heavy, the head purple with how swollen it was, and spat on it before starting to jack him off with my hand. I gripped him slowly and listened to his breathing change rhythm.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Tighter.”

I squeezed him. I ran my thumb over the tip, spreading the clear bead that had already appeared, and he let out a short growl through his nose.

The young man behind me crouched down. I felt his tongue sliding over me slowly, taking all the time he wanted, with no hurry at all. He started at the clit, with flat licks that made my knees buckle, and went down until he was fucking me with his mouth, pushing into my cunt with the stiff tip like it was a little cock. I closed my eyes and rested my other hand on the older man’s chest so I wouldn’t lose my balance.

“Suck,” the older man said to him, and tugged a little at the young man’s hair, and I understood that the order was for both of us.

I bent, still standing, and took the older man’s cock into my mouth. I did it in one go, all the way down, until I felt the tip against my palate and the gag reflex climbing. I stayed there for a few seconds, breathing through my nose, eyes watering, and he held the back of my neck with an open palm. When I pulled off to catch my breath, a long string of saliva hung from my lip to his cock. I swallowed him again. And again. And again.

The young one behind me had replaced his tongue with two fingers. He was sliding them in and out while licking my clit, and I could feel the orgasm starting to build in my belly, dense and close.

“There’s a room at the end of the hallway,” the older man said against my ear, pulling me away just before I came. “Sofa. More space.”

I nodded, my mouth still full of saliva and the taste of man.

***

The logistics room was small: black leather sofa, long table, television off on the wall. We moved the sofa a few inches forward without saying it out loud. We simply did it, the three of us, as if we’d been coordinating for a while.

I pulled my blouse off over my head. I’d already left the jacket in the hallway. They both stared at my tits for a second, my nipples hard from the cold and the heat, and then started unbuttoning their pants without saying a word.

I knelt on the cushions, facing the back of the sofa, ass bare and skirt wrinkled at the waist. The older man in front, the young one behind.

They offered me what they had at the same time. I took them with both hands and started alternating: tongue on one, hand on the other, taking the younger one into my mouth — a little slimmer, perfectly manageable — while I massaged the older one with slow, steady movements. I sucked the young man’s tip with my lips tight, circling my tongue around the glans, and he whined softly. I jerked the older one with a hand completely soaked in saliva, sliding the foreskin up and down, squeezing hard at the base.

Then I switched. The older man in my mouth, so thick he barely fit, and the younger one in my hand. I kept alternating like that for a long while, spitting on them, sucking their balls, taking them into my mouth one at a time, while they stroked my hair and told me dirty things in low voices.

“Look at this bitch suck,” the young one said.

“Hungry,” the older one said. “Hungry for cock.”

The older man rested his palm on my hair without pressing. Just letting it rest there, marking my rhythm with two fingers on the nape of my neck.

Then I heard the young one moving behind me.

The sound of a wrapper, the crackle of plastic. I was glad they had a condom; I hadn’t thought of it myself, and that says a lot about a man. Then something cold: lube, though he didn’t need it, not with how much I was already dripping down my thighs. His fingers first. Two, then three. Exploring, preparing, taking the time he needed without me having to ask. He spread me with his thumbs and blew, and I felt the shiver run up my spine.

When he started to enter, he did it very slowly. I guided him with my breathing: inhale, relax, receive. The first part always has that particular mix of tension and anticipation that doesn’t resemble any other feeling. The exact moment the body decides to give, when resistance turns into opening. I felt the head of his cock forcing the entrance, gaining ground a centimeter at a time, and let out a long moan with the older man still in my mouth.

And I yielded.

I felt him move deeper inside me, full and hot, moving with a measured rhythm that spoke of control. When he reached the bottom, he stayed there, still, letting me get used to having him all the way in. Then he started to pull back, almost all the way out, and drove back in with a single clean thrust that shook my whole body forward.

“How it grips,” he murmured. “How your cunt grips, daddy.”

At the same time, I took the older man into my mouth all the way to the throat and let him start moving too. He held my head with both hands and fucked my mouth slowly, careful not to choke me completely but not letting me go either. I swallowed saliva, moaning around his cock, and the sound came out muffled and obscene.

The three of us found the rhythm.

***

I don’t know how much time passed. Time works differently when the body is completely occupied, when attention has nowhere to slip away because every centimeter is being claimed.

The young man held my hips firmly, pulling me toward him with every thrust, closing the space between us until there wasn’t any left. The sound of his hips slapping against my ass mixed with the splashing of my soaked, wet, hungry cunt. He gave me short slaps on the ass, not hard, just enough to leave my skin red, and I answered by clenching around him from the inside.

“Like that, bitch, like that,” I heard him say. “Move.”

I rocked my ass against him, seeking him, impaling myself on each thrust. The older man had his hand in my hair, not tightening, just keeping time with that small gesture that is, sometimes, more intimate than anything else. Every time the young man shoved me forward, the older man’s cock sank a little deeper into my throat. The two of them coordinated without speaking, as if they’d done the exact same thing a thousand times with other women.

We changed positions. The older man sat on the sofa and made me ride him, facing him, with my knees at the sides of his hips. He guided his cock to the entrance of my cunt and lowered me onto him in one firm stroke. I cried out. It slipped out of me; I couldn’t hold it back. I felt him all the way to the bottom, touching something inside me no one had touched in months.

The young one settled in behind. I felt the lubed tip press again, this time against my ass. I didn’t say anything. I lifted my hips a little to let him in, and he did it patiently, millimeter by millimeter, while the older man sucked my nipples and talked in my ear.

“Hang in there, babe, hang in there,” he whispered. “You can do it.”

When the young man finished entering, I stayed still for a moment, with both of them inside me, not knowing whether to breathe or scream. I had never felt so full. Every hole occupied, every centimeter claimed.

They started moving. First one, then the other, alternating, finding a rhythm that left no room for anything else. I was suspended between the two motions, with no space left to think about anything other than exactly what was happening at that moment. I came. Hard, without warning, trembling all over the two cocks, mouth open against the older man’s shoulder and unable to make a sound.

When the young one accelerated, I knew it before it happened. His breaths turned short, irregular. He gripped my hips harder, so hard he was going to leave marks. Then the final surge, deep, and the long shudder of the body that can no longer hold itself back. I felt him throb against the walls, unloading inside the condom.

He slipped out slowly. He stepped away a few paces, took off the full condom and tied it off with the calm of someone who has just finished a job.

Almost at the same time, the older man lifted me off him. He made me get down from the sofa and kneel between his legs. I finished pulling his cock out of my mouth — the taste of myself mixed with his — and started jerking him off fast, my tongue circling the tip. He tensed. I knew it by how his hand closed in my hair and by the sound he made, deep and restrained, when he came.

He shot on my face. Long, hot jets, landing on my forehead, my cheek, my open lips, my chin. I didn’t turn away. He came so much it was still coming out when he was already shaking, and I took it with my eyes closed and my tongue out. When he finished, I cleaned the tip with my mouth and swallowed what was left of him, looking up at him from below.

I stayed kneeling on the sofa for a moment, still, feeling the weight and heat of everything that had happened. Semen was running down my face. I ran a finger along my chin, lifted it to my mouth, and sucked it clean without hurry.

***

The three of us sat down. Me in the middle, legs crossed, skirt still wrinkled at the hip. Nobody spoke for a while. There was no need.

The young one was the first to get up. He kissed me on the cheek — soft, almost formal, despite what he’d just done to my ass — and buttoned his uniform carefully. The older man stood after that, adjusted his belt, and looked at me with something that wasn’t exactly a smile but was very close.

“Your partner was right,” he said. “About everything.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

I let them go. I stayed in the room a few minutes longer, listening to the silence of the plant, fixing my hair in the dark reflection of the powered-off television. I wiped my face with a tissue from my bag, touched up my red lipstick, and pulled my skirt down to where it should have been.

When I got back to my desk, the process had finished. Two hours and forty-three minutes. I checked the logs, saved the files, and shut off the monitor.

On the way out, I passed the booth. The four guards were there. The two who hadn’t been in the hallway looked at me with the same calculated discretion as that morning. The other two looked at me differently.

I said nothing. I smiled, got into the car, and started the engine.

I think I’m going to have to work Sundays more often.