Liana & Prisha
You've already gotten off in the shower with the jet-head.
The water pressure is ace in the new subdivision.
Nothing else.
You used your vibrator after breakfast.
Screw Matty and his decision to look for a part-time job today.
From your window, an empty cul-de-sac.
Then you hear it.
Two removal trucks lumber around the curve of the street, engines grinding in low gear, and pull up hard at the house directly opposite yours. Number Twelve.
You watch men in matching polo shirts drop the ramps. Boxes slide out—cardboard towers marked FRAGILE, someone's life in packing tape and permanent marker.
Your pulse picks up. New blood. New distraction.
Competition for Matty. Nah, a threesome sounds great.
A silver 4WD follows, crawling slowly, and your breath catches because the girl who steps out from the passenger side is—
Fuck.
She's small, compact, wearing a cropped tank that shows a strip of brown stomach and the glint of something gold at her navel. Her hair is long and black, caught up in a messy bun that somehow looks intentional. Even from here, you can see the sparkle in her ears, the stud in her nose catching sunlight like a warning.
She stretches, arms above her head, and her shirt rides higher.
You press harder against the glass.
You're dry humping your bolster.
Her parents emerge from the driver's side—mother in a silk tunic, father in a polo shirt with sweat already darkening the collar.
They gesture at the removalists, pointing, directing, and the girl—she must be your age, maybe exactly nineteen—she turns in a slow circle, taking in the emptiness, the identical roofs, the heat-haze rising from fresh asphalt.
Her eyes find your window.
You don't duck away. You hold there, pressed to the glass, and you watch her watch you.
Her head tilts. A glint curls at the corner of her mouth.
You grab your shorts from the floor—denim, the same ones from yesterday and pull them on commando.
The tank top you find crumpled near the door, thin white cotton that does nothing to hide what the air conditioning has done to your nipples.
You don't check the mirror. You don't brush your hair. You want to look like exactly what you are: a tart, bored, available.
The concrete burns your bare feet as you cross the street. The removalists pay you no attention, hauling a wardrobe up the ramp, but she sees you coming.
She's waiting at the letterbox, one hip cocked, thumb hooked through a belt loop that sits low on her hips.
"Please tell me you're not here to sell me solar panels," she says, and her voice is smoke and amusement, accent thick enough to taste.
"Or Jesus. I'm not in the mood for either."
"Just welcoming the neighbourhood," you say, stopping close enough to smell her—sandalwood, sweat, musk underneath.
"I'm Liana. Number Eight. Been here a week, dying of boredom."
"Prisha."
She doesn't offer her hand. Her eyes drag down your body, slow and deliberate, enjoying the tight peaks beneath your tank, the flush you can feel spreading across your chest.
"It's hot out here, but hey, follow me to somewhere hotter."
The gold at her navel winks at you, a small curved bar with a tiny gem that catches light when she breathes.
"Upstairs."
"What about your parents?"
"Pita only cares about his man-cave, and Mata only worries about setting up the shrine, north-east corner."
"And you?" you ask.
"Not what's in a known box; I prefer unwrapping something fresh"
You follow her booty shimmy up every frickin stair.
Her bedroom is a mattress against the wall and taped boxes.
Her hand trails down your arm, and you shiver in the heat.
"This room needs breakin' in. Want to help!"
She moves like water, navigating obstacles without looking, and you watch the shift of her hips, the flash of gold at her navel, the way her hair sways against her spine.
Sunlight pours through naked windows, turning the walls blinding white. The floorboards are new, still smelling of fresh polish.
Prisha kicks the door shut behind you.
"So," she says, turning, and the smile she wears now is nothing like the one at the letterbox. It's pure smutty, lip-licking.
You understand she's predatory, completely in control.
"Liana, Liana, I reckon you're a three-finger tart."
You open your mouth to deny it, to qualify it, to explain that you've only— that you haven't really— but she's already laughing, soft and warm, crossing the space between you.
"Don't even try denial; it's a waste of breath, " she says, pressing one finger to your lips. Her skin tastes of salt and desire.
She replaces her finger with her mouth, and her kiss is nothing like Matty's desperate effort, nothing like the fumbling boys from your past. The one girl you kissed and felt up last year.
This is skilled, devastating, a language she's fluent in, and you're just learning.
Her tongue slides past your teeth, exploring, and you make a sound you didn't know you could make.
"Uhh! Mmm, mmm."
She pulls back, just enough to speak against your lips.
She whispers: "Tell me bitch, that you haven't been thinking about tits and cunts since you saw me step out of that car."
You can't.
Your hands find her hips, the warm skin where her tank has ridden up, and your thumbs brush the gold barbell in her navel.
She grinds, presses closer, and you feel the hardness of her nipples through two layers of cotton.
"Thought so," she murmurs, and then she's kissing you again, deeper, filthier, walking you backward until your shoulder blades meet the wall.
Her thigh slides between yours, denim against denim, and you grind down without thinking, desperate for friction, for pressure, for everything she's offering and you hope will come.
She laughs into your mouth, breaks the kiss to trail her lips down your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing the tendon there hard enough to mark.
"Eager," she observes, like she's noting the weather.
"I like enthusiasm."
Her hands find the hem of your tank, pull it up and off in one smooth motion. The air conditioning hasn't reached this room yet; your skin pebbles anyway, tight and waiting.
She steps back to look at you, and her expression—God, her expression—makes you want to hide and preen at once.
"Pretty," she says, and cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you arch into her touch.
"Sensitive. I can work with cute and sensitive."
She bends, mouth replacing thumb, and the wet heat of her tongue makes your knees buckle. She supports your weight easily, pinning you to the wall with her hip while she sucks, bites, soothes with broad strokes that have you clawing at her shoulders.
"Bed," you manage, but it comes out as a whine.
"Mattress," she corrects, and releases you just long enough to tear open the covering plastic, to wrestle the mattress flat on the floor. She doesn't bother with covers. She pushes you down, follows you with her body, and suddenly she's straddling your hips and pulling her own tank over her head.
Her breasts are small, high, with dark nipples standing tight and proud.
You reach for them, but she catches your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand while the other works at your shorts.
"First," she says, and her voice has dropped to smooth, "I want to taste you. Then you can touch. Then we can fuck properly."
She drags your shorts down, tosses them aside, and spreads your legs with casual confidence. The air hits your wetness, and you whimper, already so close, already desperate from minutes of denied release.
She settles between your thighs, and you expect teasing, expect buildup, but Prisha apparently doesn't believe in either.
The girl knows the slutty, skanky, muff dive approach.
She drags her tongue through your folds in one long, empowering stroke, and your back arches off the mattress with a cry that echoes off bare walls.
"Uhhh!"
"Fuck," she breathes against you, and the vibration makes you twitch.
"You taste like you're fresh off a vibrator, you tart. Like you've been fucking yourself raw."
You have. You can't say it.
You think it takes a skank to know a skank.
Your hands find her hair, thick and soft, and you grip tight.
No other approach would work given her fierce tongue basting.
She moans against your pussy, the sound warbling through you, and then she's eating you like she hasn't had pussy in ages, yet you suspect it might have been only yesterday.
Her tongue circles your clit, flicks, presses flat and hard while two wet fingers slide into you without warning.
Prisha understands female anatomy.
The stretch spreads perfectly, and you're already clenching around her, already climbing toward something that feels like it might split you open.
"Not yet," she murmurs, and pulls back, leaving you gasping, empty, furious.
She moves fast, repositioning, and suddenly she's swinging her leg over your head, facing your feet, and you understand a second before she lowers herself onto your face.
"Join the fun," she says, and her puffy mound and charming lipettes are right there, dark and wet and pierced—a curved barbell through her clit hood, glinting gold to match her navel, and you have no time to process before she's grinding down, demanding.
You lick automatically, instinctively, and the taste of her explodes across your tongue—sweeter than you expected, sharper, addictive.
The bitch is heated in her sway, smell and vocab.
"Ahh! Yes! Yes! You skilled bitch! Right there! Uhh! Uhh!"
She moans above you, the sound muffled as she returns her mouth to your aching flesh, and then you're both moving, licking, sucking, grinding against each other's faces with no tempo, only fast-paced need.
The barbell in her clit bumps your nose, your chin, and you learn to angle your tongue around it, to flick the metal and feel her shudder.
"Ohh! Yeah, you tartlette! Flick the gold! Uhh! Mmm, mmm, mmm!"
She mirrors you, finds your rhythm, and soon you're both panting, sweating, the mattress beneath you growing damp with spit and arousal.
Her fingers join her tongue, drilling you faster than an automated Jillsaw.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she chants against you, and you feel the vibration travel through your own slash, building, building.
Her thighs tense around your head, her hips stutter, and you suck her clit hard, metal and all, and feel her come apart above you.
"You bitch! Yes! Yes! Orgghh!"
She screams into your flesh, fingers digging and scissoring your slit, and the pulse of her orgasm against your tongue triggers your own.
"Hnnghh! Ughh!"
You buck beneath her, crying out, your vision centred on a gold clit barbell as wave after wave of trembly bliss shards crash through you.
She doesn't stop. Even as she trembles through post-ripples, she keeps licking, softer now, almost tender, drawing out your pleasure until you're twitching, oversensitive, pushing at her shoulders.
"Uhh! Oohh! Too much," you gasp, and she finally relents, rolling off you to rest at your side.
The mattress is a soaked wreck.
You're both bushed—sweat-slick, spit-smeared, your hair tangled with hers where it fans across the bare fabric.
Prisha turns her head, meets your eyes, and grins, wholly satisfied.
"Welcome to the neighbourhood," she says, and you laugh, breathless, still feeling real or phantom pulses between your legs.
You lie there for long minutes, breathing each other's air, listening to the removalists shout downstairs, her mother's footsteps in the hall.
Prisha traces patterns on your stomach, casual intimacy that feels more natural than anything with Matty.
"Your parents," you say eventually. "They'll—"
"Come looking? Eventually."
She doesn't sound concerned. She props herself on one elbow, and you watch her breasts shift with the movement, still fascinated.
"I'll introduce you like ghee wouldn't melt in my mouth."
She's already moving, swiping her lady bits with tissues, gathering clothes, already becoming what the world below expects.
You watch her dress, watch her smooth her hair, become demure, proper, respectable in a matter of seconds.
She offers you tissues and a comb.
She offers you a hand up. You take it, still naked, still smelling of her.
"Come on," she says, and her voice has shifted too, lighter, sweeter.
"Mata makes amazing chai."
She leads you downstairs like you haven't frigged and licked out each other upstairs, like your pussy isn't still wet, like her parents won't recognise sexually satisfied smiles, the second you enter the kitchen.
But they don't. Or they pretend not to. Her Mata presses a warm cup into your hands, her Pita asks about school, and Prisha sits beside you on a packing crate, thigh pressed to thigh, and smiles at you over the rim of her cup like they can't see her foot tracing your ankle under the table.
Like they can't see the gold in her cowl.
So pretty. You think you'll have to get a clit piercing soon.