Customers... multiple

The green curtain pulls back and the room gets six more bodies in it, all men, all adults, all dressed like they have houses near the palace. They stop before you, and they look at the ivory-and-black, at the long blonde hair hanging, at Sera’s chest in the lace, at the way the extra cloth has already opened your knees over the bed. Their trousers tent while they are still pretending to judge a hem. Hemm comes last with chalk on his fingers and a smile that is only for the sale.

"These gentlemen bought the most after your little event the other day," he says, talking while he checks a knot at your wrist that he did not tie. He begins looking towards the men "So I have been working on something new to fit their tastes. Enchanted sample. She is the sample. You do not take the lace home tonight. You take what you came to take, and if you want a pair for a wife you speak to me after, not to her."

A man with a heavy ring laughs at the trapped woman before him. The youngest one swallows and does not look away from your mouth. You try a full sentence because silence will be taken as agreement anyway.

"Hemm—"

"You said fine," he says, not unkind and not kind. "Caveat."

The fabric listens to him more than it listens to you. A spool on the shelf wakes and a flat ribbon comes and takes your ankle higher, and you tip forward until your hair brushes the coverlet and your mouth is at the height of the first man’s belt. He does not ask the room. He opens his trousers and puts the head of his cock on your lip, and when you do not open at once the ribbon at your jaw helps, not rough, just sure. You take him because the alternative is teeth and a worse knot. He tastes like wine and coin. Behind you someone is already touching the lace between your legs as if it were clothes to inspect.

The first fuck is from the back while your mouth is busy.

The man with grey at the temples steps onto the bed-frame to get the angle and the cloth spreads you for him, a triangle of ribbon at each knee, and he pushes into the wet the hanging has already made. You sound around the cock in your mouth. He holds your hips where the magic has left him fabric to grab and he uses you in short, pleased thrusts, talking to Hemm about last week’s twenty sets as if your body is the receipt. When he cums it is sudden and deep, a heat you feel all the way, and he stays planted until it stops leaking around him. The youngest makes a noise of protest at having to wait. The cloth does not care. It turns you.

Ribbons shorten at your shoulders and lengthen at your thighs until you are on your back in the air, still above the bed, Sera’s breasts spilled in the lace, knees pulled toward your chest. The man with the fat purse gets the front of you. He is heavier and slower and he looks at your face the whole time.. He fucks you missionary in a hammock of shop-cloth, and every time he bottoms out the binding creaks. The quiet one comes to your head and feeds himself into your mouth without speaking. You have two of them now, and the room smells like men who paid.

Hemm watches from the chair with his own trousers open and his hand idle. He does not join yet. He is counting the incoming windfall.

When the heavy one finishes he pulls out in a mess that runs down the small of your back onto a stranger’s sleeve, and that man swears and laughs and wipes it on your hip as if you were the towel. The fabric already knows the next request. It folds you.

You feel the ribbons take your knees to your ribs and roll you until your chest is toward the mattress and your ass is offered up, lace pulled aside by a live strand, and a finger that is not gentle finds the tighter hole and works the spend from the last man into it. You shake your head. The cloth holds your head still.

"In this room," Hemm says, almost mild, "they bought the right to be particular."

The ringed man is the first in your ass. It burns and then it does not, only fills, and you make a raw sound into the hanging air that the youngest takes as an invitation to put himself back in your mouth. They find a rhythm that does suit you. The magic helps them: when one wants deeper the ankle-ribbons give; when one wants your throat the collar-strand of lace at your neck lifts you onto him. You drool on the bed. The man in your ass lasts longer than the first one did, and when he spends it is a thick wrong heat that stays when he pulls out, because the cloth does not let you close.

They do not rest you.

A third man takes the cunt the grey-templed one already used, sloppy and loud, and a fourth waits with his cock in his fist until the ribbons tip you upright again. Hemm’s chalk clicks on a slate. Someone laughs about a wife at home who will never know about fucking the sample. You hate that you can still hear the prices. The heavy one comes back for your mouth because he liked the face, and you take him until your jaw shakes and he finishes again on your tongue with a grunt he does not bother to hide.

Then they want both at once.

The fabric lowers you just enough that a man can lie back on the mattress under you, and the ribbons sit you down on him, full in the cunt, facing the room. The grey-templed man steps in behind and works into your ass while you are already seated, and the stretch of both is a single white thought. You hang between them, double stuffed, the enchanted strands taking the weight so their hands can be cruel on your breasts instead. The lace creaks. Someone at the side cheers as if it were a race. Hemm’s laugh stifled by the sounds of fucking.

"You're quite the beautiful specimen" he says. "You see why a single dummy was never going to do."

They fuck you like that until the man under you comes with his mouth on your nipple through the kit, and the man behind does not wait. He keeps going until he spends in the tighter place and the mix of them starts to run. You are shaking so hard the ribbons sing. You cum somewhere in the middle of the double penetration, a hard clamp around both of them that makes the man under you swear in pleasure. The fabric will not let your thighs close. The orgasm has nowhere to go but out, wet over him and the lace and the bed.

They do not cut you down.

The last two who have been stroking themselves through their trousers take the open mouth and the sloppy cunt in turn, standing on either side of the bed while the cloth presents whatever they point at. The youngest lasts longest in your mouth and finishes on your tongue with an apology he does not mean. The sixth, who has barely spoken, takes you from behind one more time with both holes already used and makes a mess of the leftover, grinding until he has nothing left. You come again when he is in you, with the ribbons still hold you open. Nobody praises you for it. Hemm writes a number on a slate.

They use you after that in smaller, uglier pieces — a mouth while someone catches his breath, a hand in your hair, the cloth flipping you onto your side so two of them can share the length of you, one in the ass and one against your breasts — until there is no position left that has not been paid for. Your wrists are numb. Your jaw aches. Sera’s chest is marked with fingerprints and spend. When the room is finally only breathing and the sound of men putting themselves away, the enchanted strands lower you onto the soaked coverlet in a fold that is almost kindness, still bound, still open, leaking from both places onto Hemm’s backroom bed.

The ringed man buttons his coat and looks at Hemm, not at you.

"I will take two more for my house and its women. "

The other men agree, some ordering one set another daring to order 3.

"Excellent choices gentlemen," Hemm says. "Lets move back to the the countercounter."

They file out through the green curtain the way they came, richer in stories to tell the other noblemen than when they entered. Hemm stands over you with the slate and the rise in his trousers not yet dealt with, and he rests two fingers on the ribbon at your sternum as if he might still have a use for the sample before he cuts you down.

"That is the keep," he says. "You learn pins in the morning."

You cannot find a sentence that is not a sound. The magic cloth ticks as it cools. The novice linen that holds your male save is still on the chair, folded, out of reach, and you are Sera on a ruined bed with six men’s work in you and a tailor who has not yet decided whether the lesson has started.

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