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I’ve never told anyone about the two guys who lived two floors above me. Not properly. Not the way it actually was, the slow-building heat that started in my belly and sank lower until it lived permanently between my legs, the constant low-level ache that never quite went away, the way my cunt would start to puff and dampen every time I caught even a glimpse of them in the stairwell or outside the building on those cool evenings when the air smelled of cigarette smoke and damp leaves and possibility.

Matt and Luke moved in two years ago. Both single. Both straight. Flatmates, nothing more. I found that out the first week when I took a homemade chocolate cake up to welcome them to the building. Matt opened the door, tall, dark hair still a little messy from whatever he’d been doing, easy smile that showed good teeth, the kind of sharp jaw that made me want to run my tongue along the edge of it and then sink my teeth in just hard enough to leave a mark that would last. Luke appeared behind him a second later, blond, broader in the shoulders, thick arms under a plain white T-shirt that stretched across his chest and the solid planes of his stomach, eyes that lingered a fraction too long when he said thanks and took the plate from my hands. Their fingers brushed. A tiny spark that travelled straight down my arm and settled low in my belly. They weren’t together. Just two mates sharing rent to keep costs down in a city that ate money. That detail stuck with me harder than it should have. Two straight men. Two sets of strong, capable hands. Two cocks that I immediately started imagining in filthy, explicit detail, the weight of them, the heat, the way they would stretch me open. The thought alone made me squeeze my thighs together on the walk back down the stairs, feeling the soft outer lips of my pussy already beginning to plump and the first slick trickle of arousal coating the thin cotton of my knickers until the fabric stuck to me.

Over the next few months we kept bumping into each other with a frequency that felt almost deliberate. In the stairwell when I was carrying shopping bags and they offered to help, their hands brushing my arms as they took the weight. At the post-boxes on Saturday mornings when I was still in my pyjamas and they were in running gear, sweat darkening their shirts and clinging to the lines of their chests and stomachs. Outside the building on smoky evenings when one or both of them were having a cigarette and I’d stop for a quick chat that somehow always lasted longer than it needed to, the three of us standing close enough that I could smell their skin and the smoke and the faint scent of whatever soap they used. Sometimes just one of them. Sometimes both. Every single time, that same low heat would start under my skin, spreading outward until my nipples tightened into hard little peaks against whatever top I was wearing and my pussy felt heavy and full, the inner lips growing plump and wet, the little bud of my clit beginning to swell and press against my knickers. The way they looked at me, open, appreciative, unhurried, like they were already peeling the clothes from my body in their heads and deciding who would get to stretch my cunt first and who would take my mouth while the other watched. I started dressing a little sharper on days I thought I might run into them. Shorter skirts that rode up when I climbed the stairs, flashing the soft undersides of my thighs and the edge of whatever lace I was wearing that day. Lower tops that showed the soft swell of my tits when I bent to pick up post or to set down a bag, the kind of tops that made it obvious when my nipples tightened in the cool air. Nothing obvious enough to be called out. Just enough to make their eyes drop and stay there a beat longer than polite. Sometimes I’d catch Matt’s gaze locked on the curve of my arse as I walked away, the way the skirt clung. Sometimes Luke’s eyes would linger on the way my nipples pressed against my top when the evening air turned cool, and I’d feel a answering pulse between my legs that lasted for hours. I liked knowing they were looking. I liked the power of it. And I liked the way it made my cunt throb so insistently that by the time I got home I’d have to lock the door, strip off my knickers, sit on the edge of my bed with my legs spread wide, and work two fingers deep into myself while I pictured them both standing over me, hard and ready, telling me to open wider.

Then came the Christmas text.

Matt: “Christmas morning. Just the three of us. Come up whenever you’re ready. We’ve got food and booze sorted.”

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