Liana, Kat, Prisha & the boys.
You find Matty slumped against the lamppost outside his house the next morning.
His denim shorts hang low on his hips, and he's got that sullen look dudes get when they think the world's conspiring against their dick.
He's kicking at the asphalt with one sneaker, watching the way the streetlight catches cracks in supposedly new pavement.
"Three dudes," he mutters as you approach, not bothering to look up.
"Three bloody dudes, Liana. And two girls in the street."
He finally lifts his head, and his jaw's tight, the muscle jumping beneath his tan skin.
"How am I supposed to compete with BBCs?"
You stop in front of him, your denim shorts tight; your thin white tank top doing nothing to hide the shape of your nipples.
You don't bother with a bra—haven't since Prisha's touch.
"You're stupid if you think that's how sex works."
Matty's eyes drop to your chest, then snap back to your face.
His hands fist at his sides. "Duh! Girl and Boy."
"Nah, pansexual, omnisexual, any combo available, Sunshine."
Before he can respond, you hear the engines.
Two trucks rumble in from the main road, and behind them, purring like something expensive and unnecessary, a sports car.
Number 6.
The one that's been empty since you moved here, its garage door mocking you with its silence.
The sports car pulls up first, and the door opens like a revelation.
A big-boobed chick, maybe nineteen, unfolds herself from the driver's seat—platinum blonde hair already pulled back in that high ponytail, sharp cheekbones and nipples that strain against her fitted tank top in a way that makes Matty's complaint about cul-de-sac ratios disappear.
She's wearing high-waisted leggings that show off a gymnast's build, a lucky rabbit's foot keychain swinging from her hip as she steps onto the asphalt.
"Gorgeous," Matty breathes, and you can see him already calculating, already forgetting his insecurity in the face of new flesh.
You grab his wrist, your fingers wrapping around the bone, feeling the tension there.
You pull him across the street, and the blonde watches you approach with bright blue eyes, assessing.
She's bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet—excitement or nervous energy, you can't tell yet.
"Hi," you say, stopping close.
You release Matty's wrist.
"I'm Liana. This is Matty. Number 7."
You tilt your head toward his house.
"We've been here a couple of weeks."
"Kateryna," she says, and her accent's thicker than you expected, Ukrainian curling around the vowels.
"Kat. My stepdad left me with boxes. Bloody racehorses to stable."
She laughs, but it's sharp, edged.
"Said I'd 'figure it out.' So, I'm figuring it out."
She waves to the removal dudes to dump boxes in the house.
Matty steps forward, his confidence reasserting itself now that there's fresh territory to claim.
"Need help with anything? Personal items?"
Her blue eyes sparkle: "Yeah, my box of toys."
Matty scratches his head.
You know she doesn't mean soft plush animals.
You're hoping for a strap-on.
But Kat's already looking past him, her eyes widening slightly, her posture shifting in that way you've learned to read.
You turn, and there they are: Shaq and Deion emerging from between the two trucks, basketball tossed between them; the Gbadebo brothers in matching fitted streetwear that somehow looks effortless on them.
Shaq's in a loose Tee, joggers hanging just right, that short afro catching the light. Deion's got the twists and the silver chain, and he's already smiling broad and cheeky, the one that made you gag on him last night.
"Well," Kat says, and her voice has changed, gone warmer, more interested.
"Hello."
She moves toward them without another word to you or Matty, her ponytail swinging, her hips carrying that gymnast's grace.
You watch her insert herself into their space, watch Shaq's eyes drop to her chest and stay there, watch Deion's hand find her elbow to steady her as she laughs at something he says.
"Fuck," Matty breathes beside you.
"See? BBCs. I'm already invisible."
But then Prisha's there, materialising from the shadows near her house, number 12, her cropped top tied above her gold navel piercing. Her messy bun's even messier than yesterday, like she's been running her hands through it, and her low-sitting belt loops sit exactly where they should, drawing the eye to the jut of her hipbones.
She takes in the scene—Kat flanked by Shaq and Deion, you and Matty standing like forgotten furniture—and her mouth curves in that smutty smile you know too well.
"Genuine blonde," she says, and she's already moving toward Kat, her small, high breasts barely contained by her top.
"I'm Prisha. Number 12. And you are absolutely gorgeous."
She reaches Kat before you can follow, and you watch her hand find Kat's waist, casual and claiming, her nose stud catching the light as she leans in to say something that makes Kat laugh, makes her turn away from the brothers for just a moment, makes her notice Prisha's mouth, Prisha's eyes, the gold at her navel.
"She's bi," you tell Matty, because you can see it, the way Kat responds to Prisha's touch, the way she's suddenly caught between three appetites.
"And Prisha's planning. You're not out of the picture yet."
But Matty's shaking his head, watching the five of you arrange yourselves in the street, the power dynamics shifting faster than quicksand.
Prisha says, "Matty, is your place minus the oldies?"
"Yeah," he says.
"Well, boy, lead us to that pool room."
She turns, her hand still on Kat's waist, and her eyes find yours, then drop to three male crotches.
"Pool room," she repeats, and her voice carries, "Matty's house."
She pulls Kat with her, and Kat goes willingly, her eyes flicking back to Shaq and Deion with obvious interest even as she lets Prisha lead her. The step-brothers exchange a look—Shaq's sharp and knowing, Deion's eager —and they follow, rolling the basketball towards their driveway.
You grab Matty's hand, feel his fingers thread through yours, and you pull him toward his own house, toward what's coming.
You suspect Prisha's maximum smut.
The pool room is exactly what he promised: spacious, private, the table taking up the centre under a single overhead light that casts everything in gold and shadow.
The cues are racked on the wall, the felt green and pristine, and Prisha laughs when she sees it, a low sound that vibrates through your chest.
"Perfect," she says, and pushes Kat to sit on the edge of the table, the blonde's athletic build folding gracefully, her breasts still straining, her eyes wide and wanting.
"Kat. Sweet Kat. Here's your chance to make friends fast."
Kat nods, her ponytail bobbing, and you can see her chest rising faster now, the anticipation building.
"Titty-fuck the dudes," Prisha says, and it's not a request.
"All three. Show us what those gorgeous tits can do. I bet you're a starlette with them."
Prisha, the bitch, has tramp-stamp radar.
She doesn't give anyone the chance for second thoughts.
Prisha pulls her cropped tank top over her head, her small dark nipples pebbled, that gold navel piercing catching the light.
She reaches for Kat's tank top, and Kat lifts her arms, lets Prisha strip her, and then she's bare, her breasts fuller than Prisha's, heavy and real, nipples pink and already hard.
You're impressed.
These are bountiful jugs.
They should frickin' flop.
Instead, they defy gravity.
Her boobs jounce, jiggle and wobble.
Matty makes a sound like he's dying.
"Ahh! Oh, my God!"
You push him toward the table, your hand at his back, feeling the muscle there, the tension.
"Get your gear off," you whisper.
Three guys in a line.
One set of big, bouncy boobs cupped with a crevice for stiffness between softness.
Shaq and Deion are already there, already freeing themselves from joggers and boxers, their cocks dark and thick and exactly what Matty fears.
But Kat doesn't hesitate—she presses her breasts together, creates a channel, and takes Matty first because he looks and is the most desperate, because his normal-sized cock slides between her tits while he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
"Uhh! Orggh! Fuck! Heaven! Uhh! Uhh!"
"Good boy," Prisha murmurs, and she's naked now too, her curved barbell clit piercing glinting gold as she moves to watch, her hand between her own legs.
She spits on Matty's cock to lube the channel between Kat's marshmallow fun-bags.
When Prisha sees Matty's eyes roll, she gets the next dude lined up.
"Liana, spit on their dicks. Kat, dribble some drool into your crevice."
Big cocks; seemingly bigger boobs to cradle, massage, and bury stiff, long sausage.
Kat turns her head, takes Shaq into her mouth while she works him with her tits, and Deion waits his turn with a hand on his own thigh, watching, learning.
The room fills with the wet sounds of cock squeezed between titties, the slap of skin, Matty's choked curses, Shaq's deeper groans, and Kat's own muffled sounds of effort and pleasure.
"Face-sitting," Prisha announces, and her voice cuts through the haze.
"Girls. Join me on their faces. Now."
She pulls Kat up by her ponytail, and Kat gasps, her mouth wide, her breasts slick with saliva and pre-cum from three cocks.
Prisha pushes her to the felt-covered table, spreads her own legs, and lowers herself onto Shaq's face with a precision that speaks of absolute control.
You don't need to be told twice. You strip your tank top, your denim shorts, and you're naked, shaved and flushed and ready.
You push Matty down onto the floor—he's still hard, still dripping—and you straddle his face, feel his needy hands grab your thighs, his mouth finds your pussy with desperate enthusiasm.
He's not as skilled as Prisha, not as controlled, but he's eager, and his stubble bristles against your inner thighs as he licks, as he sucks, as he tries to drown himself in you.
Above you, on the table, you can hear Kat's sounds—higher, more surprised—as Deion's mouth finds her, as Prisha rides Shaq's face with the control of someone who knows exactly what she wants.
The room is like a recording room of wet sounds, of breathing, of the creak of the table under shifting weight.
"Mmm, mmm."
"Uhh! Uuhh! There! Yes! Oohh!"
"Ahh! Aahh! "
"Share your buttholes, girls," Prisha calls out, and her voice is strained now, breathless, that control cracking at the edges.
"Share your buttholes. Let them taste everything."
You don't hesitate. You've been waiting for this, for the command, for the permission to be completely used.
You lift yourself slightly from Matty's mouth, reach back, spread yourself open with both hands. You feel his stubble against your rim, his tongue tentative and then desperate, licking in circles, pressing inside, making you gasp and clench around the intrusion.
Your cute balloon knot mussed and poked.
Kat's doing the same—you can hear her, the shock in her voice giving way to pleasure, to the sheer love of being butt-licked.
"Oh god," she's saying, "oh god, oh god. Uhh! Uhh!" and Deion's muffled groan tells you he's eating her ass with the same intent Matty's showing you, the same absolute happy boy abandon.
Prisha's the loudest, always Prisha, her gold piercings catching the light as she grinds down on Shaq, her hands pinching her own nipples, her head thrown back.
"All of it," she's saying, "take all of it, every hole, every—fuck— yes! Deeper. Uhh! Ahh!"
You feel Matty's fingers join his tongue, pressing inside you, stretching you, preparing you for what's coming.
You know what this is building to, what Prisha's orchestrating, and you want it, you want all of it, you want to be filled and used and buggered until you can't remember your own name.
The pool room fades to nothing but sensation: the felt of the table against your knees when you move to join Kat, to kiss her while the guys watch, to taste Deion on her mouth while Matty's fingers still work inside you.
Prisha's hand finds your breast, pinches your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, and then she's guiding you, positioning you, her commands coming in gasps now as Shaq's tongue works her own ass.
"On the table," she manages.
"All of us. They take turns. Every hole. No stopping."
You climb onto the pool table, the felt against your knees, your back, your spread thighs. Kat's beside you, her platinum hair fanned out, her blue eyes glazed with want. Prisha's already there, her slim body arched, her gold piercings the only colour against her darker skin.
Matty's the first to mount the table, his normal cock suddenly exactly what you need, sliding into your pussy while his thumb presses against your ass, still wet from his mouth.
You cry out, arch up, and feel Kat's hand find yours, her fingers interlacing, holding on as Shaq takes her, as Deion rims Prisha.
"Share," Prisha gasps, and she's being filled too, Shaq's brother taking her while she reaches for Kat's breast, for your thigh, for anything to anchor herself.
"Share everything. Don't stop. Don't— Oof! Uhh! My God! Aahh! Aahh!"
You don't stop. You can't. The pool room becomes a single organism of fucking, of taking, of being taken.
You love the constriction and the tightness as your arse is ram-raided.
Matty finishes inside you with a cry that sounds like relief and despair, and then Deion's there; his bigger cock takes a turn in churned cream left by Matty; stretching you differently, his hands broader, his mouth finding yours with the taste of Kat still on his tongue.
You lose track of orgasms—yours, theirs, the way Kat screams when she comes around Shaq, the way Prisha's whole body shakes with her own climax, her gold piercings catching the light like stars.
Shaq ransacks your tushy somewhere in the swapped mayhem.
You only know the rhythm of it, the endless cycle of filling and being filled, of mouths and hands and cocks, of the command that echoes through the room: share, share, share.
When Prisha finally calls an end to it, when the dudes are spent and dripping and the pool table's ruined, you're tangled together—three girls, three guys, a knot of sweat and cum and satisfaction that none of you wants to untangle.
Matty's head rests on your thigh, his breathing still ragged, and you can feel him smiling against your skin, his insecurity forgotten, his place like a drink in a six-pack assured.
Prisha sums it up: "Half a dozen, endless variations; we just need a place without oldies tomorrow. " Whose place is available?"
You close your eyes, feel the weight of bodies around you, and know she's right.
"Mine," you say.
The cul-de-sac isn't empty anymore. It's alive, its craving, and you are finally, completely, exactly where you want to be.