Work Crew Gang Bang
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting that yellowed, exhausted glare across the stainless-steel prep table where Felishia stands, her paint-stained overalls still unclipped and loose at her waist, the white tank top beneath clinging to her wiry frame.
She's humming something tuneless, some fragment of classic rock from her father's old radio, when the basement door bangs open hard enough to rattle the stack of sheet pans on the shelf above her.
Four men file through, work boots thudding against the linoleum, carrying toolboxes, the smell of motor oil and fading lines from smutty jokes.
"Boiler crew," the oldest one says, fifty if he's a day, grey stubble and a clipboard.
"Council inspection, random."
She knows these warren tunnels better than these men ever will, knows every valve her grandfather mapped, every weld her father repaired.
But she nods, jerking her chin toward the main access door.
She can hear them through the walls, the clang of wrenches banging, testing, the hiss of pressure releases, the occasional muffled curse in at least two accents she can distinguish—Scottish rumble, Spanish quickness.
She focuses on her inventory update, cleaning fluids, washroom supplies.
Then the laughter starts.
It comes through the access door—sniggering, the kind of male noise that raises her hackles immediately.
Then louder, a burst of it, someone saying "skins of love" in a mock-posh voice.
Felishia sets down her checklist and walks to the door; her boots click on the worn linoleum.
They're clustered around something near the old storage lockers, garish lighting washing over their faces.
Seth—she catches his name from his embroidered patch, Hispanic, compact build, thirty-five maybe—holds up something between two fingers.
Angus, the Scot, forty-two with reddish hair and forearms like hams, leans in grinning.
Murray, pale, Mayflower descendant written in his bones, actually has his phone out like he's documenting evidence.
"Found your toyboy's leftovers," Seth calls out, seeing her in the doorway.
He dangles the used condom, tied off, glistening faintly in the bad light.
"Someone's been having fun in your zone, janitor girl."
"Basement's full of secrets," Angus adds, his accent thickening with amusement.
"College boy leaving his seed behind."
The boss hangs back, arms crossed, but he's smiling too.
Felishia walks toward them, her overalls swaying at her waist, her tank top thin enough to show the shape of her through the fabric.
She stops four feet away, looks at the condom, looks at each of their faces in turn.
Her nose ring catches the emergency light.
"Toyboy," she repeats, flat.
She laughs once, sharp, almost a bark.
Reaches up with a swift hand and pulls her ponytail tighter, stray strands escaping around her ears.
"You think I'd waste my time on some soft kid who doesn't know how to leave a deposit?"
Seth's grin falters. Angus straightens. Murray actually lowers his phone.
"I like men," Felishia says, stepping closer, close enough to smell the sweat on them.
"Men who know what they're doing."
She looks at the condom in Seth's hand, then down at his belt, then back to his eyes.
"Drop your pants, guys. I'm on the pill."
Silence. The boiler hums below them, that heartbeat thrum.
"Serious?" Angus asks, his voice dropping half an octave.
"Fucking serious." Felishia reaches down and unclips her overalls the rest of the way, lets them fall to her boots. Steps out of them. Stands in her tank top and nothing else below, the fluorescent light catching the curve of her hips, the shaved skin between her thighs.
"You want to talk about seed? Let's fucking taste some."
Seth's hands come up, not pushing her away, settling on her waist as she works his belt free. His fingers are stained with grease, and they tighten when she gets his cock out—thick, dark, already half-hard from the shock of her.
She strokes him once, twice, feels him fill in her palm.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"That's the idea."
She turns, still stroking him, looks at Angus and Murray.
"You two waiting for an invitation? None required; this is a free-for-all"
They move then, shedding tool belts, work shirts, the pretence of workplace professionalism.
Angus is thick everywhere, barrel-chested, his cock ruddy and heavy when he frees it.
Murray's leaner, longer, surprisingly pretty in a way that clashes with his waspy bones.
They circle her like wolves who've found something unexpected in their territory.
Hardness meets softness in a steamy instance.
Felishia goes to her knees on the cold linoleum, doesn't flinch at the temperature.
Takes Seth in her mouth first.
He groans above her, his hand finding her ponytail, not guiding, just holding, grounding himself.
She works him with her tongue, her lips, the hands that know how to grip and torque and pressure.
Felishia loves her sausage meat at the back of her throat.
Angus moves behind her, his big hands spreading her knees, then her thighs, then the soft skin of her ass.
She hears him spit—crude, practical—and then his fingers are there, testing, opening, and she pushes back against them because she's ready; she's been ready since she made the offer, since she decided to take what she wanted from these men who thought they could laugh at her.
"Christ, she's tight," Angus mutters, and then he's pushing in, thick and slow, giving her time to stretch around him.
She moans around Seth's cock, the vibration making him curse in Spanish, his hips jerking involuntarily.
Murray finds her hand, presses his cock into her palm, and she strokes him in rhythm with Angus's thrusts, with Seth's shallow fucking of her mouth.
Four bodies, moving, finding tempo.
Seth pulls out of her mouth with a wet sound, his cock slick and throbbing.
"Want to share that pussy," he rasps, and Angus obligingly shifts, pulling out with a grunt of complaint, repositioning.
They move her like she's weightless, Seth sliding beneath her on the linoleum, guiding her down onto his cock while Angus finds her mouth, his taste different, sharper, the Scottish sea in him somehow.
Murray doesn't wait for invitation anymore, kneels behind her where Angus was, spits again—she's going to be wet with their saliva, marked by it—and pushes into her ass in one long, burying stroke.
She screams around Angus's cock, not from pain, from fullness, from the sheer filthy completeness of being filled in every hole.
"Oof! Oof! Ah! Ahh!" between cock jagging back and forth in her gob.
They each find their place in a compression.
Holes filled, drilled, man-handled.
Seth thrusts up from below, his hands hard on her hips, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in circles that make her thighs shake.
Murray holds her gaped ass open, fucking her with short, sharp strokes that jolt her forward onto Angus's cock each time.
Angus has her head in his big hands now, fucking her mouth with abandon, his reddish hair falling into his eyes, his accent devolving into guttural nonsense.
"Take it," Seth grunts beneath her. "Take all of it, you cute tart—"
Felishia's arse is buggered.
Her pussy is pummelled.
Her mouth is chock full.
She comes first, her body gripping both cocks inside her, her scream muffled by Angus's skull thrusting.
"Nnghh!"
They feel it, feel her ripples around them, and it drives them harder. The smell of sex cutting through the industrial cleaner and boiler oil.
Angus pulls out of her mouth to watch her face, his fist working his own cock inches from her lips.
"Beautiful," he breathes, Scottish soft. "Fucking beautiful, look at you."
Seth comes next, his hips jerking up off the floor, his cock pulsing deep in her cunt, filling her with heat she can feel spreading.
The sensation triggers Murray, buried in her ass, and he groans long and low, his reserve finally cracking, pumping her full: a subterranean cream injection.
Angus finishes on her face, splatters of cum across her cheeks, her chin, her open mouth, and she licks her lips and smiles up at him, bushed and triumphant.
They roll together on the cold floor, breathing hard, the boiler humming its constant song.
Felishia wipes Angus's cum from her cheek with the back of her hand, tastes it.
"You're fucking dangerous, you know that?" says Murray.
"Yeah."
She finds her overalls, steps back into them, clips one strap with a casualness that makes Murray stare.
"I know."
She walks out through the access door, leaving them naked and spent in the green light, her boots loud, cum drying on her mound, a slick leaking from her arse and pussy, already humming an old rock tune.