Fully plugged
I text Wendy and Jobe:
parents away. cards. basement. 8pm.
Clay is having a shower.
He already knows the game.
sip or strip. loser picks
By eight-fifteen, the basement smells of cheap perfume and even cheaper lager.
I'm perched on the oak bar, legs crossed, my father's old work shirt knotted tight above my navel, cutoff jeans riding high on my thighs.
The strip of skin between fabric and denim is deliberate.
Besides, I have the cutest innie.
Clay leans against the pool table, arms crossed, but his eyes keep dropping to my chest.
Jobe sits on the cracked vinyl sofa, knee bouncing, a six-pack at his feet.
Wendy hovers near the pinball machine, her oversized sweater making her look even smaller, those two clips in her chestnut hair catching the flickering light.
"Rules," I say, sliding off the bar.
"We draw cards. Lowest drinks or strips. Dealer rotates."
"That's not how sip or strip works," Clay mutters.
I meet his eyes.
"It is tonight."
I deal first, sitting cross-legged on the floor, cards snapping against concrete.
Wendy draws a seven. Jobe a king. Clay a four. I flip my own: five of clubs.
"Drink or strip, Clay," I say.
He stares at me.
"Drink," he says, and grabs Jobe's beer, downing half in one tilt.
The game continues. Wendy loses next, her whole body hunching smaller, and she fumbles with her sweater before I stop her.
"Shirt," I say. "Keep the rest."
She pulls the knit over her head, revealing a thin camisole, her collarbones sharp and flushed. Jobe's knee stops bouncing. Clay's beer pauses halfway to his mouth.
I lose the third round deliberately, standing to unknot my father's shirt.
The fabric slides off my shoulders. My breasts shift beneath my thin cotton bra as I toss the shirt onto the bar. The air is cool against my skin, my nipples tightening visibly.
"Fuck," Jobe breathes, barely audible.
Clay says nothing. His jaw is working again, that muscle in his temple jumping.
I deal again. Wendy's hands shake as she draws. Another low card. She looks at me, eyes wide, and I nod once.
She unbuttons her jeans, pushes them down her hips, steps out.
Her panties are pale pink, high-waisted.
She stands in a camisole, underwear and canvas sneakers, and Jobe has gone completely still.
I lose again. My bra joins the shirt.
My breasts swing free, heavy, the weight of them familiar and weaponised.
"Jesus," Clay says, and it's not a prayer.
The cards blur. Wendy loses, loses again, until she's in only her panties, arms crossed over her chest but her eyes on mine, something new and desperate in them.
I lean forward, reach for her hand, and she lets me pull her down.
We're kneeling face to face on the carpet square, and I can smell her shampoo, something herbal, and beneath it the faint musk of her arousal.
I kiss her. Her lips part in surprise, then appetite, her whole body leaning into mine.
Her mouth is soft, hesitant, then fierce.
I feel her hands come up, not to push me away but to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples, and I moan into her mouth.
Two chicks with pebbled buds.
The boys won't stay out of the action.
Geez, what is with dudes? They're rubbing their cocks, not grabbing handfuls of available nubile.
Wendy is trembling against me, her fingers tightening, and I slide my hand down her stomach, beneath the elastic of her pink panties.
She's soaked, her slit, hot and swollen against my palm.
She gasps, breaks the kiss, her forehead against my shoulder as I find her cute hard clit and rub in very slow, small circles.
"Fuck," she whispers.
I turn her, guide her onto her back, on a couple of cushions.
Her legs fall open. I settle between them, my hair falling forward to curtain our faces, and kiss her again while my fingers work inside her.
She's tight, clutching, and I curl my fingers to find that spot that makes her spine arch.
Yep, my finger friggin' has the boys closer.
The sight, the sound, the waft of a girl being finger-fucked before their greedy eyes.
I feel Clay's shadow first, then the heat of his body kneeling behind me.
His hands grip my hips, yank my cutoff jeans down.
I'm bare beneath, my lipettes dripping, and he doesn't hesitate, shoves two fingers into me from behind, sure and claiming.
"Orggh! Yes! Yes! Fuck Yes! Aahh!"
Well, he was doing a you-beaut job; tunnelling, stretching and pleasing me.
Jobe is beside Wendy, his face flushed, his hands hovering.
She reaches for him, pulls him down by his band tee, and they're kissing messily while I gouge her love- nest with my fingers.
I feel Clay's cock then, thick and hot, pressing against my folds.
He wants in, wants to claim this moment, but I have other plans.
I pull my fingers from Wendy's folds, bring them to my mouth, taste her.
She's watching me, hazel eyes blown wide, and I smile, reach back with my wet hand, and spread her arousal over the tight pucker of her ass.
"Clay," I say, and my voice is commanding. "Here."
He understands.
His cock presses against her, and she's tensing, gasping, but I kiss her through it, swallow her whimpers as he pushes in.
"Ooff! Ooff! Aahh! Mmm! Aahh!"
Yep, she had the awkward, dryish start but found her clutching space.
She's so tight around him, I can see the resistance, the slow give, and now he's buried to the hilt, and she's moaning into my mouth, overwhelmed, overstimulated.
Jobe is naked now, his cock in his hand, and I guide him behind me.
His fingers find my ass, tentative, and I push back against them, demand more.
He slicks me with something—spit, probably; we're past careful—and then he's pressing in, and it's my turn to gasp, to feel that stretch and burn that I crave.
"Uhh! Uhh! Oohh! Yeah! Fuck Yes! Arrgghh!"
Let's just say, once I got through, bloody hell, I'll burst!
I was racing off the planet to a girly high.
My tush fully plugged.
We're a chain of bodies on the floor.
Cushion pushed.
Carpet crumpled.
Beanbags stopping heads hitting brick walls.
Wendy beneath me, Clay in her ass, me fingering her slash while Jobe thrashes the be-Jesus out of mine.
The rhythm finds itself, Clay and Jobe moving in counterpoint, Wendy's cries rising, my own breath coming short and fast.
I feel every thrust through her body, through mine, this circuit of pleasure that loops and amplifies.
Wendy comes first, screaming, her whole-body convulsing.
"Ughh!"
Clay groans, pulls out, spills across her stomach and tits in thick ropes.
"Orrghh!"
Jobe is next, gripping my hips, pounding deep, and I push back to meet him, take him as deep as he'll go, feel him swell and pulse inside me.
"Arrghh!"
Almost immediately I add;
"Ooohhh!"
We are spread out like the aftermath of a Roman orgy.
I like how Wendy's hand finds mine, fingers interlacing.
Clay's stomach rumbles.
I jump up, grab my phone.
"Pizza."
Thirty minutes, occupied by four: the washroom, the pinball machine and dime poker.
Still, the basement air is thick with the smell of cum and sex.
The doorbell is loud, jarring.
The delivery kid is maybe twenty, college-aged, dark hair falling into his eyes.
"You look tired," I say.
"Yeah, long shift, last delivery."
"Bring them through, follow me."
Well, the pizza's made it to the oak bar.
Beyond that, the dude's pants were down.
Wendy was pashing him and fondling his boner.
I was rimming his arse and licking his nuts.
Jobe was fingering me from behind.
Clay was rubbing his cock on Wendy's arse cheeks.