Spit-roasted
Three days later, I hear male voices in the rec room before I enter.
I stop, peek and listen.
My yoga ball steady.
Clay leans over the green felt, lining up a shot.
His Metallica shirt rides up, a pale strip of hip where his gym shorts sag.
The cue slides through his fingers like he's stroking his wood.
Can't help it, the dirty boy.
Jobe watches from the other end, his fingers jiggling the balls in the corner pocket.
Boys and their pocket billiards.
"Your stepsister," Jobe says, out of nowhere.
His voice carries that particular earnestness that makes Clay's jaw tighten.
"Kylie. Study hall rumours say she's a—"
"Stop."
Clay doesn't look up from the shot.
The cue cracks, stripes scattering.
"Bro, you don't want to know."
"I like her."
Jobe says it plain, simple, the way he says everything.
All focus, same as his lacrosse plays.
"Like, actually like her. Not just aiming to get in her panties—"
"She's high maintenance."
Clay moves around the table, hunting his next angle.
"High maintenance how?"
Clay finally looks up, and I can picture his expression without seeing it—that sideways assessment, pupils blown from the basement's dim light and whatever he's remembering.
"The kind that needs multiple attention."
Jobe's knee starts bouncing, that nervous habit.
"Maybe she just hasn't found the right—"
I roll my yoga ball into the rec room.
That doesn't get the boys' attention.
My pink lycra yoga pants do.
Okay, they are tight; the fabric defines rather than hides my camel toe.
Okay, the pink- the colour is that fleshy carnation, like a second skin.
Yep, I love my puffy, purry pussy, and its shape is enticingly visible beneath the synthetic sheen.
Clay's cue hovers mid-air.
Jobe is sweeping back his hair.
I'm spread across my yoga ball.
Arse raised.
What girl with a peachy, pert tush doesn't mind a captive audience?
I sneak a glance.
Oh boy, dudes are so simple.
Clay is rubbing the cue stick near his groin.
And Joel, the guy who supposedly likes my mind, my eyes, or whatever about me, is fondling his nuts through his pants pockets.
I can't help myself.
I stretch my legs apart.
Fuck I test the seams of the lycra.
Yeah, exercise.
The only kind a young woman needs is regular humping.
I roll my hips; I grind into the ball.
Press and bounce.
Sliding and slinking.
Dry-humping.
Outercourse.
In my mind, seeking intercourse.
All this gets my juices flowing and leaking between my thighs.
"Fuck," Jobe breathes.
"Minx," Clay says.
I had no control from the moment I saw two pairs of shorts.
I increase the pace of my hump and grind.
I let the yoga ball rock and sway me.
Fuck, if the ball had an inbuilt vibrator, I'd be getting myself off naked in front of two guys.
"Studs," I say, "Get over here, relieve a girl's tension."
I turn, still riding the ball, facing them now.
My hands go to my breasts, pinching through my thin sports top.
No bra.
The double, daring invitation.
Jobe moves first, predictably.
Dudes only heard my rep.
I'm offering more than skanky; trailer-trash rumours this afternoon.
Jobe's across the room in three long strides, lacrosse muscle coiling as he drops to his knees.
His hands replace mine on the yoga ball, controlling its movement, and he presses his face to my thigh where the lycra meets skin.
He inhales, groans, and I thread my fingers through his sun-streaked hair.
Clay watches longer.
He'll try to resist.
But I'm Miss Irresistible.
He's behind me, hands spanning my waist, pulling me back from the ball until I'm suspended between them—Jobe's mouth working up my inner thigh, Clay's erection grinding against my ass through his shorts.
Cocky pricks outnumbering me two to one.
Male bravado in tandem.
Clay yanks the lycra down my legs, the fabric peeling away to reveal my pussy wetness.
Jobe tears his own shirt off, that boyish torso lean and trembling, and buries his face in my gash; the moment it's exposed.
I'm the fem-spit roast.
Jobe's cock in my gob.
Clay's fingers spreading my butt cheeks.
One finger in my tush.
Together they lift me onto the pool table, green felt against my back.
Jobe climbs over me, positioning himself at my entrance, and Clay moves to the table's edge where my head hangs back, feeding on his cock until I gag around him.
Christ! Of course I gagged! My frickin head was upside down.
I twisted my head to better accommodate my steppies schlong.
Made it easier for Jobe's boner to slide into my pussy slick.
Gug, gug, guggle on pecker.
Pumped and drilled between my thighs.
My body tugged in two directions.
Eventually the sods find a rhythm—counterpoint, thrust and withdrawal.
I'm never empty, always stretched and probed somewhere.
The orgasm race.
I was in lane frickin one.
Christ, dudes are usually quick, leaving a girl to finish off herself.
Not on the pool table.
I was throbbing where it counted.
My clitty passed the climax peak first.
"Orrgh! Aahh! Fuck! Yes! Ooohhh!"
Jobe made a grinding deposit in my honey tube.
Clay made a jagging cum instalment that tickled my frickin tonsils.
His spare gravy trickled down my chin.
The cunning bastards got me off the green felt before I wrecked their table.
As for my wreck of a body, the pair just blank post-male release; didn't fuckin care.
I grabbed my lycra and strolled naked to the downstairs bathroom to clean up.
Returning in ten, I found Jobe and Clay were sitting on the sofa drinking a beer like they had worked up a sweat after one-on-one basketball.
Clay was saying, "I told you…Kylie was…"
He stops when I appeared.
Jobe says, "Want a drink? I'll get you one."
"Nah, I'm fine," I say, grabbing my yoga ball.
"Let's play cards Saturday night."
"Sure," he says, taking a swig from his can.
"Clay," I add, "You can join in too, but bring Wendy."
Hell, I was never designed to be shared with one.