Target This
The basement air hangs thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and cue chalk dust.
I stand at the throw line, my right foot planted exactly where the worn tape marks the distance, and watch my last dart sink into the triple twenty.
The board shudders. The red flights tremble. My three darts cluster tight as a fist, and I know before I turn around that I've beaten him.
Fuck! The elation. My pussy frickin tingles.
Clay, my new stepbrother, stands with his empty hand still half-raised, the dimpled plastic of his last dart abandoned on the scarred oak bar behind him.
His jaw works sideways, the muscle in his temple jumping like a trapped insect.
He's wearing that stupid vintage Metallica t-shirt, and I can see the sweat spreading dark beneath his arms even though the basement's cool.
"Again," he says. "Best of seven."
All typical male demand.
"You've lost three straight."
I pull my darts free, the satisfying tug of steel against cork, and line them up in my palm.
"This is bullshit."
He kicks the leg of the pool table, hard enough to make the balls rattle in their pockets.
"This is my room. I've never lost in this room."
I notice the way his voice cracks on the last word, how his fingers curl into his palms.
Nineteen years old and he's never learned how to swallow defeat.
I imagine him down here, practising alone, building this mythology of himself as the unbeatable king of this concrete cave.
The vintage dartboard, numbers faded, the wire spiderwebbed.
"My mom married your dad," I say, rolling the darts between my fingers.
The points prick my skin, sharp and grounding.
"That makes this my room too now."
He laughs, ugly and broken.
"I never wanted a fucking stepsister. You know that? Dad didn't even ask. Just showed up with you two like luggage."
He paces to the bar, pours himself something from a half-empty bottle of Jack, and drinks it without offering.
"Some chick from his office, dragging her kid into my house. Into my space."
I set my darts on the scoring table, the wood sticky with years of spilled beer.
The basement's single bulb flickers overhead, casting his shadow long and distorted across the green felt of the pool table.
I can see the pulse hammering in his throat, the way his breath comes short and angry through his nose.
"We could both be winners," I say. The words come out softer than I intend, almost swallowed by the hum of the ancient refrigerator in the corner.
"Same roof, Clay. Same last name on paper now. Doesn't have to be war."
He turns, and something in his face shifts.
Not softening—never that—but sharpening, focusing.
His eyes travel down my body with the kind of assessment I've learned to recognise, the calculation that happens in doorways and parking lots and, apparently, in musty basements after dart games.
I'm wearing cutoff jeans and an old work shirt, knotted above my navel, and I watch his gaze catch on the strip of skin there.
"Winners," he repeats.
I cross the space between us in three steps.
The concrete floor is cold through my bare feet.
I can smell him now—sweat and whiskey and that particular boy-smell of cotton that's been washed too many times.
My hands find the waistband of his gym shorts, the elastic worn soft, and I don't hesitate.
I pull.
Let his shorts drop.
His cock springs free, half-hard already, flushed dark against his pale hip.
He sucks in a breath sharp as a new dart, his hands coming up to grip my shoulders, but he doesn't push me away.
His fingers dig in, pressing bone.
"Kylie—"
My name breaks in his throat.
I drop to my knees.
I take him in my hand first, feeling the weight of him, the heat radiating against my palm.
He's thick, uncut, the skin sliding as I stroke once, twice, watching him swell to full hardness in my grip.
A drop of precum beads at the slit, and I lean forward to catch it with my tongue.
He tastes like salt and something bitter, male and urgent.
I open my mouth and take him deep, hollowing my cheeks, letting my tongue press flat against the underside of his shaft.
His hands move to my hair, tangling, pulling just hard enough to make my scalp sing.
I pull back slowly, letting my teeth graze him lightly, and he groans, a sound that seems torn from somewhere low in his gut.
"Orggh! Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, Kylie, you're a tart—"
I answer as a tramp knows best.
I suck him harder, taking him deeper until I feel him nudge the back of my throat, until my eyes water and my jaw aches with the stretch of him.
Gug, gug, guggle, gurgle, gug, gug.
Yep, I'm the eighteen-year-old princess of sloppy, sloppy head jobs.
My hand works the base where my mouth can't reach, twisting, squeezing.
God, the way I value nuts would make any squirrel jealous.
I can feel his thighs trembling, the way his hips want to thrust but he holds them still, locked in place by unexpected shock and pure male boner satisfaction.
I pull off with a wet sound, pop, pop so deliberate, and look up at him.
My lips glazed in spit.
His cock coated from knob to balls in my smattered drool.
His face is wrecked, lips parted, pupils blown wide and black.
God, guys go silent when a girl takes the lead.
"You going to stand there," I ask, my voice pitching, "or are you going to fuck me?"
I don't wait for an answer.
Christ, nothing more might happen.
And my pussy is sopping.
I plop on the old sofa pushed against the far wall.
The upholstery is cracked vinyl, cold and sticky, the kind of furniture that exists in every basement rec room, and witness to a thousand awkward teenage moments.
I strip off my shorts and underwear in one motion, kicking them aside, and lie back.
The vinyl clings to my bare skin, slightly damp, slightly tacky.
I spread my legs.
Well, I spread eagle my legs.
Ballet training, knees pinned back towards my ears.
He's cuntstruck.
He stares.
So, the prick should.
I'm very fetching where it counts.
Puffy outer folds, cute butterfly winglets flying out.
I watch him stare.
My pussy is wet, I know, flushed and open, and I don't close my thighs or cover myself.
I feel drips of creamy girly gel sliding towards my tushy crack.
I let him look.
I let him see exactly what he's getting, what I'm offering.
"Both winners," I say, and I reach down to touch myself, two fingers sliding through my folds, spreading my wetness.
So pink, so slick, my clitty peeks too.
"Clay, use your cock as a dart, target this."
He moves like he's been released from a trap.
He enters the real trap of life, a woman's enveloping pussy.
Three long strides and he's on me, between my thighs, his cock hot and heavy against my thigh.
His mouth invades mine, all teeth and desperate tongue, and I taste the whiskey on him now, sharp and burning.
I love the slush of lips, the tangling of tongues.
His hand replaces mine in my slash, strong fingers probing, testing, and then he's pushing his boner inside me in one long thrust that makes my back arch off the sofa.
"Shit," he gasps against my neck.
"Shit, you're tight—"
I know the muscle-tightening routine.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and pull him deeper.
I know the God-given womanly angle for deep, deep pleasure.
He starts to move, frantic and unpractised, his hips snapping against mine with a rhythm that's all urgency and no finesse.
Still, he has girth, he has piston stiffness and manic stamina.
And I'm so randy.
My legs so slutty in their lock.
I feel my welling.
I feel the delicate stir.
The concentrated hedonistic tingles.
"Orrghh!" moans Clay.
"Arrghh!" from me.
Blissful shards of release, in sync from my throbbing clitty and my spasming pussy.
The old sofa is soaked in his spare jizz and my leaking girly cum.
Clay is male pooped.
I need more.
Slutty girls always need more.
"Get up, put your pants on. Tell you what. Clay boy, if you can win just one game, you can lick my tush."