DOUBLE DONKEY: A Twin Stepbrother Sports Romance (with BONUS book Twin Stepbrother Celebrity)
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“Time to get back to the dinner table,” laughed one. “Hungry still?”
“Always,” growled the other, looking at me suggestively.
And I staggered back to the dining room on the arms of both my brothers … with a feeling that I was the main course.
CHAPTER FIVE
Karlie
“Come on,” said Jenny. “It’ll be fun, we have to see.”
“Um, I don’t know Jen,” I said hesitantly. “It seems kinda seedy.”
We were standing outside a nightclub in New York City, the sidewalk chilly, the wind whipping through our hair. It’d been a long bus ride up, but Jenny had convinced me to come along and I’d agreed out of desperation more than anything else.
Because Colt and Cain have been ignoring me. After that first night, I was sure there’d be more, after all the encounter had been so steamy, so unexpected, that I stayed awake most nights replaying it in my head. And the twins felt the same, right?
But to my surprise and disappointment, it was like they’d completely forgotten about me.
“Hey,” said Colt absentmindedly when we crossed paths at school. I had a camera slung around my neck and was dressed in baggy black, the standard photographer’s uniform.
“Hey yourself,” I said, stopping to chat, hoping that he’d give some secret sign, some recognition of having once tongued my butt gently.
But I was cut off by two meatheads who high-fived my brother, their baseball hats backwards, wearing letter jackets with huge stenciled “XMs.”
“Yo bro, great move at practice the other day, you ready for Friday night?”
And Colt, ever the big man on campus, let out a dazzling smile.
“You know it, those fuckers gonna get pounded.”
And the trio strode down the hall, girls looking at them with admiring glances while scrawnier boys scrambled to get out of the way.
So yeah, my brothers barely acknowledge me now. It was almost like they’d never kissed me, my imagination playing tricks, leaving me to masturbate at night in my single bed, replaying that night over and over in my head.
So when Jenny had asked if I wanted to play hooky, I’d nodded vehemently. My life had become too pathetic, some excitement was desperately needed.
“We’ll go to this place called the Donkey Club,” she said. “I heard it’s fun, everyone goes there.”
“Really?” I asked. “I guess so, I could sneak out. What should we wear?”
I wasn’t great with the clothes department and could really use some guidance.
“Oh you know, club attire,” Jenny replied breezily. “Something sassy, something short, something fun.”
That night, I’d flipped through my closet for twenty minutes, frustration building in my head like a kettle about to shrill. I just didn’t have anything appropriate until my hand seized upon some purple fabric, the rip in back fastidiously repaired, still as scandalous as ever.
No. I couldn’t. Look at the trouble this dress had gotten me into in the past. But I was so sick of my life, of being unseen, that I’d squeezed into it, pulling down the hem, my boobs almost overflowing. Oh well. After all, I had nothing else and who knew? Maybe it’d be the juju for something exciting tonight.
And now, after a long bus ride up to New York City, I wondered if we’d made a mistake. There was no sign for the Donkey, just a shabby metal door, the paint already falling off, its hinges creaky.
“Doesn’t really look like our type of place,” I said doubtfully, yanking the tie of my trench tighter around my waist. “How did you find this place again?”
But Jenny wasn’t deterred.
“Come on, it’ll be fine,” she said, pulling on my elbow. Turning to the bouncer, a big Samoan guy with an earpiece, she chirped, “Two please,” flashing him a flirtatious smile.
The Samoan didn’t even react. I expected him to ask for our IDs, or even to turn us away. But after standing stock still listening to his Bluetooth, he suddenly whipped the door open and we found ourselves in the joint.
Blinking blindly, the darkness was overwhelming at first, almost overpowering. But then a spotlight of gold flicked on in the center of the room and I gasped.
Because a girl was dancing, totally nude. She was lithe and sinuous, wriggling her hips while prancing around, titties bouncing, cunny on full display for men to see. I watched, my mouth hanging open as she spread her legs, then coyly reached two fingers down to part her nether lips, letting men see straight up her channel.
And customers were eating it up. The dudes in the front row whooped and yelled, pushing each other out of the way to take their turn looking up at that pink flesh, and these were not cultured, classy guys. Instead, they were practically farm boys, one guy in overalls, another with a huge ten-gallon hat that slid off his head as he clambered to get a look.
“Come on,” I hissed, alarmed, grabbing Jenny’s arm. “We’re in the wrong place, this isn’t a dance club, this is a strip club.”
“Oh I know,” she said breezily, resisting my pulls. “I meant for us to come.”
“What do you mean you meant for us to come?” I hissed right into her ear. “Come on, let’s go!” I tugged insistently.
But Jenny couldn’t be stopped. Instead of leaving, she actually undid her jacket, letting it pool to the floor. That’s when I realized something was up.
Because Jenny wasn’t dressed in club attire … or at least not dance club attire. She was wearing a teeny bikini, hot pink that let her assets hang out. And believe me, Jenny is not a small girl. Her boobs must have been H’s at least, the sides and bottoms on display under tiny triangles of fabric, a wisp of material at her waist covering her lips.
“Jenny!” I gasped, “What the hell?” She might as well be naked, there was nothing left to the imagination.
But I didn’t have a chance to ask more because suddenly the spotlight swung on us.
“Oh yeah,” sang an announcer’s voice. “It’s Amateur Night tonight and I see our girls have just shown. Let’s give it up for Jenny and Karlie!”
My mouth literally fell open. How did they know who we were? How had they known our names? Don’t people use fake names to get into clubs?
But my friend was like the Energizer bunny gone wild. She pranced up to the stage, waving and blowing kisses like Miss America, and goddamn if I didn’t see some male hands slapping her behind as she made her way there, wriggling her hips with every step.
When she got up there, she began dancing, twisting and turning like a pro, rubbing the pole between her breasts, between her legs, even licking it with her tongue suggestively.
I was scandalized but I could see bills starting to rain onto the floor. And my friend danced like an expert, prancing over to collect them, stash them into the string of her bikini while continuing to wriggle, letting guys enjoy her assets.
I was literally frozen stiff, my hands still on the tie of my trench coat when the spotlight swung on me again, the glare unnaturally warm, almost blinding me, before the announcer’s voice boomed.
“Come on Karlie! We know you want it! You can do it baby girl, win that thousand dollar prize!”
I was still wide-eyed and dazed, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, unable to move when suddenly I remembered my lack of a sex life. I wanted my steps so badly, and yet I was an ant to them. Less than an ant in fact, just a complete zero, and the realization drove me forward.
I wanted to be someone, I wanted to be noticed, for the world to see me as desirable, even if it was men whose names I’d never know, faces I’d never see again. In fact, that was ideal, given that I was about to take it all off.
Besides, I could see that it was literally starting to rain money on Jenny, and she looked like she was having a good time. So I’d wanted to break the mold, right? Boring old Karlie, photographer Karlie always behind the shutter. This would be my opportunity to get out, get wild, be someone else temporarily.
So I too, dropped my trench, and began shimmying.
Slowly, oh so slowly, I pulled the dress up, going inch by inch over my thighs until the bottom of my cunny was revealed. I pulled a little higher and the hem was lifted again, the fabric scrunching up around my midsection so that my whole pussy was on display, pink and quivering for the crowd to ogle.
Because I hadn’t worn underwear. That’s right, I’d wanted to be adventurous, take on a secret identity, and while I hadn’t expected to be stripping, what’s more wild than letting some wind blow between your thighs, enjoying the breeze in your hair … especially if it was your pubic hair?
So with sly smile, I began to dance, swaying my hips, unzipping the lavender dress until finally, I slipped it over my head, dressed in nothing but purple high heels.
The roar from the crowd was thunderous, music to my ears. Men were whooping and hollering, stomping their feet, yelling things like “Get em, little lady!” Okay, so it was a little country, but whatevs. The attention felt so good, like liquid warmth bathing my skin, exactly what I needed after Colt and Cain’s cold shoulder.
But I imagined them in my head as I danced. I felt their lips caress my ass as I leaned over, pulling my butt cheeks apart so that my pussy was revealed. I felt their breath on my clit as I held myself open, stretching my little labia so that my hole could get some air, my warm, moist insides hot pink and dying for male attention.
And I moaned “Colt, Cain” as I slipped a finger into that wet tunnel, fingering myself for customers to see, stirring my female juices, feeling up my g-spot from deep inside.
It was too much. I rubbed, rubbed and rubbed some more, stimulating my secret space within full view of Donkey patrons, starting to cream, my cunt clenching down on my finger, pussy juice running like goo from the pleasure, dripping down my thighs, coating my hand in honey.
And the crowd loved it. Guys had their dicks out, beating them hard, sperm jetting into the air as they sat back in their chairs and released, their eyes glued to my twat, their baby batter the ultimate sign of validation. But even more, money was raining all around me, dollar bills landing in my hair, fluttering across my back like butterfly kisses, snowing on me in a blizzard.
And I loved it. I loved every second of it, the green making me feel appreciated, wanted, desirable … and yes, even loved.
CHAPTER SIX
Cain
Jerry and Karla are in love and taking it to the extreme, unable to keep their hands off one another. It’s crazy, the way our parents make-out, and it’s even grosser when we catch them having sex. Oh yeah, Colt and I caught Jerry and Karla doing the dirty in the den the other day, fifty year old Jerry going at it, rutting like a pig between his fiancee’s legs, her high heels pointed to the ceiing as she shrieked, “Go Big Boy!” As you can imagine, we beat feet immediately. It was a sight I wanted to erase from my memory, purge from my brain with liquid detergent and then triple rinse, thank you very much.
But our stepsister is a different issue. We haven’t touched Karlie since she moved in, out of respect believe it or not. She’s smart and funny and nice, whereas my brother and I, we’re horndogs, big men on campus, easily netting girls right and left. It doesn’t seem right to do a repeat of our first night, to subject Karlie to our depravities.
So Colt and I hold back, not touching our new sister, although we’re still bringing girls home for the double-drill regularly. It’s a weekly occurrence and we have an itch that has to be scratched … all the time.
Besides, it’s not exactly a secret that Colt and I share. We’ve banged most of the sluts in town, and most of the good girls too, truth be told. If she’s hot, then we’ve hit it from both sides, our dicks going in and out like a well-oiled machine.
And that’s the thing. It’s a twofer with us, and the women don’t say no. Yeah that’s right, we’ve never gotten a no before. Instead, most of the chicks we drill get that special look in their eye when they realize what’s coming, almost like “Holy shit, this is going to be the best night of my life,” and you know what? Colt and I deliver.
Plus, our crew is the bottom of the barrel and no way someone as sweet as Karlie should get mixed up with them. Take Jack, for instance. He thinks it’s fun to watch porn in public. Oh yeah, he goes to the public library and surfs to his heart’s content all the while shocked passerby avert their eyes. And the dude just laughs and enjoys himself, clicking on whatever, Indian porn, black girls, shower sex. At least he picks a computer in the back … usually.
Or Burt. This dude, he is one dirty motherfucker. Every STD, he’s gotten it. More than once he’s been the laughingstock of the locker room, groaning and grunting as he stands in front of a urinal moaning “It hurts, it hurts, fuck it’s the clap again.” He’s probably banged every working girl in a twenty mile radius, bar none.
So you can see why we avoid Karlie, nodding when we see her in the halls but nothing else. She’s pristine, clean, a sweet girl, and we’re a bunch of dirtbags, guys who wrote the book on seduction. But yeah, I still let my mind wander sometimes during sex, pretending it’s Karlie I’m kissing again as I tongue another woman, imagining my step’s hot, sweet smell of spice.
The desperation must have gotten to me because when the football team proposed an outing, I was ready. These “outings” are pretty much the same. A man-sized steak and then a strip club where the dollars rain. It’s an Eagles superstition slash tradition. You make it rain at a strip club for good luck, and then Friday night? The opposition is toast.
So yeah, I was pumped on the bus ride into the city. Fantasizing about my step had me on edge, and fuck, Colt and I hadn’t done a chick in a week or so. My libido was rarin’ to go, I was already planning my night ahead … steak, stripper, stripper, stripper, in that order. Yeah, three girls sounded about right.
And when we stepped into the Donkey, I could tell it was going to be a good night again. The Donkey’s my favorite club in the city. Low lights, low class, and hot girls. There are peanut shells on the floor, spilled whiskey from last night still sticky on the bar, a crew of sleazy looking dudes already getting down, whooping and hollering, stomping their feet as a new girl came on stage.
The redhead was okay, looking a little worse for the wear but whatever. This was the Donkey, we weren’t expecting high class escorts. The dancer was dirty in spirit though, the kind who’ll do anything. She pranced around, shedding clothes left and right, tossing her thigh highs to some really gross dude while grinding her cunt against another. I thought I saw the second man insert a finger into her pussy while the girl squealed with pleasure, his big digit massaging her insides. Like I said, no holds barred.
As her set ended, the club went dark and a tell-tale blue light came on. Oh shit. Oh yeah, this was what we were waiting for. The entire football team was there, some guys with their dicks out already, getting ready for a stroker. Because that’s what the blue light means – pure sex.
It’s a thing with the Donkey, they take “no holds barred” to a different level. Instead of having back rooms where strippers get it on with clients, the blue light signals that the coast is clear. It’s more than topless, bottomless, all that bullshit. It means cunny is ready to get drilled, however many times the girl wants, however she wants it, with however many guys. And the Saratoga Eagles? We were here to partake.
The lights dimmed and then came on again, the spotlight homing in on a cardboard box in the corner of the bar, big enough to fit a person. Yeah, that seemed about right. No woman jumping out of a cake here, this was a low-rent place, if some chick popped out of a homeless person’s cardboard box I wouldn’t be surprised.
And slowly, the top opened, one flap after another, a shapely arm winding its way
out, pushing the box open. It was followed by a shoulder, a glint of blonde hair, and finally a woman in a mask, her boobies bouncing free as she kicked the box apart, stepping out, elegantly in the nude.
Hmmm, I liked it, but the mask was new. Usually these chicks are completely bare, maybe some high heels but that’s it. There are no thongs, no pasties, none of that shit. These girls let it all hang out, so what was up with the disguise?
And this wasn’t some kind of masquerade ball prop either, feathers and glittery sequins. It was a lot simpler, like a sheer stocking pulled over her face with a hole for the mouth, you could see the outline of her features but no details. I could make out a pert nose and tiny chin, with lush, kissable lips, but nothing else.
But the woman was a pro. She threw that blonde hair right and left, swishing it like a mare’s tail, all the while making lewd gestures with her mouth, working that “O” like she was kissing cock, tonguing it, dipping her head suggestively, the red lips pure suck force. God, it looked powerful, like she’d be able to vacuum at 10 Gs, make any guy blow with a just a couple pulls.
And her body, it was beautiful, pure seduction. Giant double Ds swung left and right, the nipples a deep pink against creamy skin. Her nips were tight and long, stretched and pointy. She had a tiny waist that flared into generous hips and that ass. It bounced this way and that in time to the music, the girl jiggling and giggling all the while making obscene gestures with her mouth and hand, like she was blowing someone’s dick, mouthing enjoyment.
But it got even better. Again, the Donkey isn’t a place that leaves things to the imagination, this was just an appetizer. The girl bent over slowly, gripping her ankles and spread her legs in a vee, running her hands up and down those silky calves. But what opened was even more gorgeous. Her lips were on display, deep pink, moist and juicy, pulsating with power.