Liana & Matty
The cul-de-sac smells of fresh tar and drying paint, a whole street of identical roofs waiting to be filled with lives.
You stand at your bedroom window, phone dead in your hand, watching the removalist truck reverse into number seven.
A Ford arrives; the engine cuts.
The doors open. And then he steps out.
You hear his mom call his name: "Matty."
Looks nineteen, same as you.
Built like he was assembled from spare parts of Greek statues—broad shoulders, thick thighs, the kind of arms that strain against cotton sleeves. His hair is dark, cropped short, already damp with sweat from Melbourne's stubborn February humidity.
He reaches back into the cab, retrieves a skateboard, and kicks it to life on the fresh asphalt with skilled ease.
You press your forehead against the glass.
The "Fuck" O of your mouth steams it.
Your stepmum's voice drifts up from downstairs, something about unpacking boxes, about making yourself useful.
You don't answer. You've been useless for three days since the grass seed was sown, since your father kissed your forehead and disappeared into a taxi bound for Singapore.
You realised this street was a graveyard of entertainment with you as its only resident.
You have it bad for useful male parts.
Your fingers have been over busy solo, every day.
Until now.
Matty ollies over a crack in the pavement. The board spins beneath him, lands clean.
He doesn't even look down. You watch him circle the cul-de-sac once, twice, memorising its curves, its dead ends, its possibilities.
His eyes lift to your window—your breath catches—you step back, heart hammering, ridiculous.
But he saw you. You're certain he saw you.
Crap!
Did he see your hand cup your tit over your thin T-shirt?
Melbourne heat! Girly hormones! You're just plain horny.
The garage door rolls slick when you press it open one minute later.
Your father's old surfboard leans against the far wall, yellowed and wax-crusted, relic of a midlife crisis that lasted exactly one summer.
You find his old skateboard. You ignore the helmet and knee pads.
You take it to the driveway, thinking, how hard can this be?
Your mind is more interested in how hard you make Matty.
Bummer!
His skateboard is abandoned near Matty's letterbox.
You have never skated. You have never wanted to skate. But you want Matty to believe you have, and you want him to believe you need his help.
The first push sends the board shooting out from under your foot.
You stumble, catch yourself, laugh too loud at your own performance.
The second attempt, you commit.
The board rolls, wobbles, and you let yourself fall.
Your hip hits the pavement hard—Ouch!
Genuine pain, sharp and surprising.
Your palms scrape.
You lie there, sprawled in your shortest denim shorts, your thin white tank riding up, and you wait.
The sound of wheels approaches. Slows. Stops.
"Hey, you, okay?"
You look up through your hair, blinking against the sun.
Matty stands over you, backlit, haloed in afternoon glare.
His shadow falls across your body like a blanket.
God, you want the hulking frame pressing against you.
"Fine," you say, letting your voice wobble. "Just... embarrassed. I'm Liana."
He crouches. His hand closes around your upper arm—warm, big, fingers pressing into the soft flesh.
He pulls you up as easily. You stumble deliberately, pressing your palm to his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, the steady thump of his heart.
Holy cripes! A six-pack!
"First time on a board?" he asks, but he's smiling.
Dimples. God, dimples.
"I was trying to remember," you say, brushing imaginary dust from your groin, drawing his eyes to your camel-toe.
"My dad used to skate. Just unpacking stuff. Girls like to unpack."
Fuck! What's he packin'?
Pussy literally naked in front of him and typically nineteen, he's looking at a board, not realising how ready your horny girly flesh is.
"That?" Matty nods toward the surfboard in the garage.
"That's a longboard, yeah? Different beast."
"You know about them?"
"Little bit."
Fuck! You hope he knows about clits!
He shrugs, but his eyes have found the garage's cool interior, the shadows promising relief from the heat.
"Got any water in there?"
You lead him inside.
The garage smells of motor oil and cardboard, your family's life still packed in towers of boxes.
You find two bottles of water from Dad's mini fridge.
You press one to your neck before handing it over, watching Matty's gaze follow the condensation dripping between your collarbones.
"So, what's the deal?" he asks, leaning against your father's workbench, legs spread in that way boys do when they want to look bigger.
"This whole cul de sac empty except us."
"Yep," you say, "Just you and me."
"Your parents?"
"Stepmum. Dad's away."
You let that hang, watching his expression shift, recalculate.
"She's... not really around much. Works from home, buried in her office rearrangement."
Matty nods slowly, understanding without words.
The silence stretches, comfortable, charged. He drinks, throat working, a drop escaping to trace his jaw.
You want to catch it with your tongue.
Fuck you want your tongue licking and sliding along his stiffy.
"That surfboard," you say, moving toward it, letting your hips sway.
"Think I could borrow it?"
"Go ahead and feel it," you say.
Or feel me up, you think.
You turn at the board's edge. He's close now, close enough that you can smell him—sweat and deodorant and gooddam testosterone.
You reach past him, pretending to adjust something on the wall, pressing your chest to his arm.
"Feels better than a board."
You're a tart.
"Welcome to the neighbourhood, Matty."
You kiss him.
Your boobs buffet his chest.
It's not gentle. You have been alone too long, hungry too long, and your mouth crashes against his with five days of stored wanting.
Five Days!
An unwanted record at nineteen.
You're a trampette.
You have needs.
Matty can fill them.
Oh, your last fuck- yeah, it was Johnny, at the park, the day you packed and moved.
He startles—hands hovering—then grabs.
His fingers dig into your waist, pulling you against him, and you feel him hardening against your hip even as his tongue pushes past your lips.
The surfboard clatters to the concrete. Neither of you look.
Your hands find his hair, short and coarse between your fingers.
His slide down, cupping your ass, lifting you slightly so you're pressed against his thigh.
You grind there, shameless, moaning into his mouth when the pressure hits just right.
"Fuck," he breathes against your jaw, kissing down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone.
"Your stepmum—"
"Office," you gasp, arching into his mouth. "Other end. Can't hear."
He lifts you onto the workbench, tools scattering. Your legs spread around his hips, pulling him into the space between your thighs.
Through denim and cotton, you feel him—thick, insistent, straining—and you reach down to palm him, making him groan.
"Jesus, Liana—"
"You've been watching me too," you say, working him through his shorts.
"At the window. I saw you look up."
His eyes darken, caught.
"Couldn't help it. I saw you…"
"Don't help it now. And get busy…"
You pull his shirt up, over his head, revealing the body you imagined—tan skin, defined abs, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
You follow it with your fingers, hooking into his shorts, and he helps you, shoving them down along with his underwear.
His cock springs free, heavy and flushed, curving up toward his stomach.
Matty, Matty, you think, that is decent meat.
You wrap your hand around the base, feeling it pulse, watching his face go slack with pleasure. He's bigger than you expected, thick, and the thought of taking him makes your pussy clench; its current empty state gets an ache.
"Your turn," he growls, and pulls your tank top over your head.
You didn't wear a bra. Your breasts fall free, nipples tight in the garage's cool air, and he makes a sound of pure boyish happiness.
His mouth finds them immediately, sucking hard, tongue flicking, and you cry out, hands gripping his hair, holding him there.
"Matty—fuck—"
He doesn't stop. He switches sides, leaving the first wet and swollen, and his hand finds your shorts, yanking them down your thighs.
You kick them off, spreading wider, showing him everything—your shaved mound and pink lipettes, glistening already, your folds slick with wanting.
Well, five days- you really pampered your kitten.
"Goddamn," he breathes, staring.
He touches you, one finger tracing your slit, and you shudder, hips bucking.
"You're so fucking wet."
"For you," you pant. "Five minutes of watching you—"
He pushes two fingers inside, curling them, and you seize around him, walls fluttering.
You love when a guy's fingers operate like internal scissors.
His thumb finds your clit, circling, and you ride his hand, desperate, grinding down on his palm.
But you want more. You crave to be ruined.
You push him back, slide off the bench, and drop to your knees on the concrete.
His cock bobs in front of your face, vein thick along the underside, tip beaded with pre-cum.
You look up at him, meet his eyes, and open your mouth.
You hold the devastating eye lock as you quaff his hot sausage.
The first taste is salt and heat, musk and male.
You lick the knob, gathering the pearl there, moaning at the flavour.
His hand finds your hair, not pushing, just holding, and you take him deeper.
You're a deep-throat princess.
Your lips stretch around his girth. Your tongue flattens against the vein, feeling his pulse.
You sink lower, taking more, until he hits the back of your mouth and you breathe carefully, relaxing, accepting.
"Fuck, Liana—"
You deliver the sloppy, gug, gug, gurgly, gug.
You pull back, spit shining on his shaft, and sink again.
This time you don't stop. You push past the resistance, feeling your throat open, the depth of intrusion, and you keep going until your nose presses against his stomach, until he's completely sheathed in your drenching heat.
Your throat convulses around him. Your eyes water, tears spilling down your cheeks, but you hold him there, counting seconds, feeling him throb against your tongue.
When you pull back, gasping, strings of saliva connect your lips to his cock, swinging and glistening.
"Again," he whispers, voice wrecked. "Please, do that again—"
You do. You take him deep, over and over, letting him fuck your throat in shallow thrusts, breathing through your nose, to relax around his invasion.
Your jaw aches. Your throat burns.
Drool spills down your chin, onto your breasts, making you filthy, making you his.
You love a quality skull fucking.
"Gonna come," he warns, trying to pull back, but you grip his hips and hold him, sucking harder, wanting it.
He explodes down your throat, hot and thick, pulse after pulse.
You swallow convulsively, taking it all, milking him with your tongue until he shudders and goes soft against your lips.
You pull back slowly, licking him clean, showing him your empty mouth, and he groans, amazed at your swallowing.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he pants, leaning against the bench for support. "Where did you learn—"
"Matty, Matty, be a good neighbour and you'll get even better service."
You gather your clothes.
"Matty, back here after lunch, two o'clock, don't be late."
Matty wasn't late.
You're already on the bench, naked; you spread your legs, arch your back, presenting yourself like an offering.
Your pussy is vibrator prepped; soaked, lips swollen, clit throbbing where it peeks from between your folds.
You hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Condom," he says, fumbling.
"Pill," you counter. "Just fuck me, Matty."
You bend over doggy.
He doesn't hesitate.
His hands grip your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and you feel him there—hard, pressing against your entrance.
"Look at you," he murmurs, dragging his crown through your wetness, teasing. "So, fucking desperate for it."
"Yeah, and what about you?" you say.
He slams inside you.
"Uhh!"
You scream.
The stretch is brutal, perfect, his thickness splitting you open, filling you completely.
He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and thrusts again, harder, setting a rhythm that shakes the workbench, sending tools clattering to the floor.
"Fuck, you're tight," he grunts, pounding into you.
"So, fucking tight —"
You know your muscle exercises.
You push back to meet him, taking him deeper, feeling him hit places that your fingers also really like.
Your breasts swing with each impact, nipples brushing the cold bench surface.
Your hands grip the edge, holding on as he destroys you.
You're made for shaggin' destruction.
"Harder," you beg, voice breaking.
"Fuck me harder, Matty—"
He obliges. His hips become a piston, relentless, skin slapping together in a wet percussion.
The garage fills with the sounds of your rutting—grunts and gasps, the squelch of your slit taking him, the creak of protesting wood.
"Uhh! Uhh! Ohh! Aahh!"
He reaches around to find your clit, rubbing rough circles.
"I want to feel you come on my cock—"
Your orgasm builds fast, coiling low in your belly, sparked by his fingers and the relentless pounding of his hips.
You crest, shatter, as your pussy clamps down on him, milking him in rhythmic pulses that make him groan.
"Orggh! Orggh!"
"That's it," he praises, not slowing, fucking you through it. "Keep coming, keep squeezing my dick—"
You do. You come until you're sobbing, oversensitive, but he doesn't stop.
He shifts angle, finding deeper purchase that builds your bliss again.
"Gonna fill you," he warns, fingers nestled on your hips.
"Gonna come in this tight fucking pussy—"
"Yes," you gasp, pushing back, taking him as deep as possible.
"Come in me, Matty. Fuckin' overload me—"
He roars, burying himself to the root, and you feel it—the hot flood of his release, pulse after pulse, filling your slash until it spills out around him, dripping down your thighs.
He collapses over your back, breathing hard, his sweat mixing with yours.
For long moments, you stay like that—joined, messy, ruined.
Then he pulls out slowly, and you feel the gush of combined fluids, the dripping slosh between your legs.
You don't move to cover yourself. You turn around instead, sitting on the bench, and pull him between your thighs for a kiss.
He tastes like you now.
Like sex and salt and surrender.
"So," you say against his mouth, "want to see that surfboard?"
Matty laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest.
"You're fucking insane."
"You're fucking me," you correct, and pinch his chest.
"And you're going to again. After you help me carry that board to your place."
"My place!"
"Matty, Matty, a girl like me never fucks twice in the same place!"