Not So Friendly Competition

Kylie called Maya and Aften over. Said she heard through the grapevine both of them want her. Faces dropped when each girl found out the other was feeling the same pull. Kylie shrugged, told them she liked what she saw in both, and since choosing one would break the tie, they might as well fight for her. They locked arms first—arm-wrestling on the kitchen table, veins popping, grunts filling the room. Dead even. Kylie smirked, shook her head, said they’d need something dirtier. Poems came next. Maya poured hers out slow, Aften came in hot, both pages heavy with want. Kylie couldn’t call it. So the real test: a lap dance duel. They changed in her bedroom, slipped into sheer black lace that barely covered anything, and one at a time straddled Kylie’s lap. Aften rolled her hips first, dragging her mouth across Kylie’s neck, then Maya climbed on, grinding slow and filthy, kissing her deep enough that their moans tangled. Heat climbed until every breath felt stolen. When the second song died, nobody waited. Lingerie hit the floor, tongues met skin, legs locked. Hands moved without asking. Kylie tasted both girls, back and forth, and every kiss tasted like the same decision nobody had to make alone. They fucked tangled on her couch until the only clear winner was the three of them staying right where they were.