Liana, Prisha & Matty
The next day you push through Prisha's front door with your pulse still thrumming from the walk over, expecting her parents' absence to mean the ultimate privacy, just the two of you.
The afternoon heat presses through your thin tank top, denim shorts riding up where sweat has gathered at your thighs.
You've been counting the hours since her early morning text and hot selfie. A close-up of a nipple pinch in her bedroom mirror.
But her loungeroom stops you cold.
Matty sprawls naked across her sectional, one arm draped over the back, his cock standing thick and flushed against his tan stomach, still wet at the tip.
His chest rises and falls with that post-suck-off heaviness, muscles gleaming under the ceiling fan's slow rotation.
He grins when he sees you, dimples cutting deep, shameless as a cat who found the cream.
"Your girl called me over," he says, "Said she wanted to introduce herself. What was I meant to do? She opened the door, naked."
Prisha emerges from the kitchen doorway wearing nothing but her gold jewellery—navel barbell catching light, nose stud glinting, earrings swinging as she moves.
God, a birthday suit never suited a girl better.
Still, what a skanky bitch.
Her brown skin carries a sheen of fresh sweat, nipples tight and dark, and you can smell her on the air, that musk you learned this morning, mixed now with something else, with Matty.
"Surprise," she says, and her smile shows you those gleaming teeth.
She crosses to you, hips swaying, and you notice her thighs are damp, inner skin sticky where she's let him finger her.
"Couldn't wait. Couldn't stop thinking about both of you."
Her hand finds your tank strap, hooks through it like a leash, pulls you closer.
"Share him with me. You know you want the both of us, together."
Your throat clicks dry.
You came here for her mouth, for her fingers pinning your wrists, for the way she made you forget your own name.
But Matty's watching, cock twitching at your attention, and Prisha's already tasted him, already fluffed him, and the thought of her watching you take him—of her guiding you, controlling this—sends heat flooding between your legs.
Prisha is into choreography, porn style.
Her tongue traces your lobe.
"I want to see you fuck him. Want to see his face when you take him deep, and I lick his balls."
Matty groans, hand moving to his cock, stroking slowly.
"She's been talking about you the whole time," he says. "Couldn't shut up about your mouth."
Prisha laughs, pushes you toward him.
"On your knees, Liana. Get busy, bitch. Show me your technique."
The carpet is plush under your bare knees as you sink, shorts still on, tank still clinging to your flushed skin.
Matty's thighs spread wider, that trail of dark hair leading your eye to where he's thick and straining, veins visible, head flushed, straining for action.
Prisha settles onto the couch beside him, one leg tucking under her, the other dropping open so you can see her—swollen, wet, her gold clit piercing, catching light like a stripper joint's neon.
"Look at her," Prisha tells him, fingers finding his nipple, pinching.
You let your tongue flatten against the base of his cock and drag upward, gathering the salt and sweat and the faint aroma of her still on his skin.
Matty's eyes lock on yours, his throat working, and Prisha makes a satisfied sound, hand moving to her own clit, rolling the barbell between her fingers.
"Mmm, mmm. Good girl," she murmurs. "Take him deeper. I want to see your throat bobble or you fuckin gag."
You do. You open for him, let him slide past your tongue, past your gag reflex that you've trained on nights alone with your fingers, until your nose presses his stomach and his hands find your hair, gripping tight enough to burn.
"Yeah, I suspected you were a tonsil tickler, you over-heated tartlette."
Prisha shifts, kneels beside you on the carpet, her small breasts massaging your shoulders as she watches your throat bulge, as she reaches down to cup your jaw and feel him moving inside you.
You watch as she dribbles spit along Matty's cock as it eases in and out of your mouth.
"Fuck," Matty breathes. "Fuck, both of you are—"
Prisha doesn't let him finish.
She swings one leg over his lap, positions herself above his face, and sinks until her exposed mound covers his mouth.
"Lick stud," she orders, looking down at him, then at you.
"Both of you. No stopping."
The pace finds itself—your mouth working his cock, his tongue working her clit, her hands controlling both of you, one in your hair guiding your tempo, one on his chest pinning him still.
She rocks against his face, gold piercing grinding against his chin, and you can feel his cock swell harder in your throat each time she moans, each time she pounds down.
"Look up," she gasps, and you do, eyes watering, spit stringing from your lips to his shaft.
"See how he loves it? See how he loves being used?"
Matty's hands have migrated from your hair to her thighs, gripping hard, and you can feel him trembling, holding back, waiting for permission she hasn't given.
Prisha leans down, kisses you messy and open around his cock, tasting herself on your tongue, and the three of you become something tangled and wordless, sweat-slick and catapulting in an escalating direction.
"Now," she decides, pulling back, sliding off his face and pulling out his cock from your mouth, with a wet sound that makes you clutch around nothing.
"Fuck her, Matty. I want to watch."
She doesn't mean gentle. She doesn't mean slow. She means the way he hauls you up by your armpits, spins you to face her, bends you over the couch arm so your shorts are the only barrier.
Prisha kneels before you, hooks her fingers in your waistband, drags denim down your legs until you're bare, shaved and puffy and dripping girly dew where she can see.
"Beautiful," she says, and then her mouth is on you, licking where you're wettest, while behind you Matty lines himself up, one hand spreading you open, the other guiding his cock to your sloppy slit.
"Tell me," Prisha demands against your clit, tongue flicking. "Tell him to fuck you."
"Fuck me," you gasp out, and he does, thrusting deep in one powerful shove.
Matty doesn't wait for you to adjust—he sets a pace that shakes the couch, that makes your breasts bounce where they're crushed against the cushions, that has Prisha scrambling to keep her mouth on your clit as you jerk and writhe.
"Pump her," she orders him, looking up past your stomach, eyes dark with command.
"She can take it. She's likes being stretched."
He grips your hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above your ass, and pounds into you with a force that drives your face into the couch, that makes your thighs shake, and your toes curl.
Prisha stays with you, her tongue relentless, her fingers joining to stretch you around him, to press against your front wall where he's filling you, and the dual sensation—being fucked, being eaten, being watched and commanded—unravels you faster than you thought possible.
"Orggh! Yes! Uhh! Oohh! Arrggghh!"
You're coming, screaming into the upholstery, pussy walls clamping down on him so hard he grunts.
"Hnggh!"
"Not yet," Prisha says, already moving, already positioning herself where you were, presenting her ass to him, looking back with those perfect teeth, bared in challenge.
"My turn. You've had her mouth, her cunt—now fuck me like you mean it. And you bitch, finger my arse."
Matty doesn't hesitate. He slides into her with a wet sound, and you watch her gold piercing swing with each impact, watch her small breasts bounce, and her fingers work her own clit where he's not reaching.
You spit on your finger and rim her cute pretty little balloon knot.
You poke her backdoor and the skank coos.
"Mmm, mmm, that is fuckin good! Ooh yes! Uhh! Uhh!"
You angle closer, needing to be inside of this, and she grabs your hair, pulls you to her mouth, kisses you sloppy and desperate while he takes her from behind.
"Touch yourself," she gasps against your lips. "I want to feel you come while he fills me. And keep your other finger in my tushy."
Your fingers find your clit, an erect pea, and you rub and rub.
You're peaking again impossibly fast, oversensitive and so aware of two other bodies chasing release.
Matty's watching you both, pupils blown, sweat dripping from his hairline, and when Prisha starts to clench around him—when she bites your lip hard and moans into your mouth—he loses control.
"Arrghh! Orgghh!"
It's a bursting feast of boy gravy.
She milks him, while you watch his face crumple with pleasure, while your own orgasm crests and crashes watching them, feeling them, being part of this thing that has no name except urgent and necessary.
Her cute crinkly flapettes dribble jizz in creamy dollops.
Afterwards, you lay together on the sectional, limbs tangled, fluids drying sticky on your mound and his stomach and her butt cheeks.
Prisha collects a pitcher of juice from the kitchen—mango, too sweet, perfect—and you pass it between you, drinking from the same cup, passing mouth to mouth to mouth until it's empty and you're all stained orange at the corners of your lips.
Our trashy hostess flings tissues at us, and we mop up a surfeit of jus and jizz.
We hit post-coital.
That hazy, lazy, indolent phrase of being mutually stuffed
The open window draws your eye—You watch a magpie land on the letterbox, shake out its feathers, fly off.
The cul-de-sac is quiet, baking in February sun.
Then the rumble.
You all three kneel, peer over the ledge naked.
A removal truck—larger than Matty's was, newer paint, interstate logo—turns into the street, engine grinding as it navigates the cul-de-sac's tight curve.
Behind it, a silver sedan, windows tinted, bass thumping even from here.
"Another one," Matty says.
The sedan doors open.
No one cares about the oldies in front.
Your eyes, like Prisha's, are watering in anticipation.
Two figures, exit the back—tall, broad, dark skin gleaming where sunlight hits their arms.
They move with that loose confidence of young men who grew into their bodies early, who know the space they occupy.
One wears a tank that shows sleeve tattoos; the other is shirtless already, basketball shorts riding low on hips that narrow to a V.
Prisha's breath catches
"Fuck! More excitement than Holi."
They're nineteen, maybe twenty.
Their parents are struggling with front door keys.
The removal dudes are in the van.
Two dudes, old enough to know what they're looking at when their eyes find Prisha's window.
Well, the tart is waving naked in her birthday suit.
Matty slumps on the sofa; he sees insta defeat in hunk competition.
Still, he says, "Christ, Prisha, you're waving like they know you and your body already."
"Hell, no, Matty, I'm introducing myself."
She kisses your cheek.
"What do you think, Liana? Up for more?"
Your pussy pulses, freshly used and already; new hunt on, and you know this afternoon isn't over, know that Prisha's games have only begun, that the cul-de-sac you thought was a sexual graveyard has become something else entirely—a red light district.
You reach for the juice cup, drain the last warm swallow, and smile at her with your orange-stained mouth.
"I think," you say, "we should introduce ourselves."
"Yeah, bitch, and commando under our cut-off jeans."