(0-0)
It first started on a sweltering summer afternoon. I was sprawled on a couch in the house of my father and his wife Jill, half-heartedly watching TV. On the couch across from me lay Lonnie, Jill's daughter.
Lonnie was only two years older than me, but she had always seemed to carry the air of someone five times that. My father and I had lived with her and her mother for three years, but she and I had never formed more than a rudimentary bond. We certainly weren't related by blood or mentality.
Still, I sometimes felt bad when I masturbated about her. She was theoretically my sister...but fuck it. She had a great face, a taut body and shapely tits. I often had to restrain myself from ogling when she was dressed to go out clubbing, or to the beach.
"Turn it up," she lazily commanded me, waving at the television. She had her hair in a ponytail, and the top buttons of her shirt were undone. She wore small, tight shorts.
"Fuck off, you do it," I graciously replied. She rolled her eyes at me.
"Listen, kid," she said, as though I was eight, not eighteen, "you're a guy and I'm a girl, and you'll do what I tell you and grovel for the opportunity."
I laughed at her and she smiled at me too-sweetly while she undid another of her shirt's buttons. It sagged open, revealing a slice of blue bikini top stretched over the inside curves of breasts.
"This shirt's too hot," she said, matter-of-factly. "Turn the TV up and I'll take it off."
I was stunned. Was she serious? No, I didn't think so. She was judging me with those deep chocolate eyes. If I did what she said she'd just call me a pervert (as she often did) and carry on watching TV. Anyway, it wasn't like I hadn't seen her in a bikini before. Still, those peeking, blue-clad curves were awfully attractive.
I wondered where the remote was. I quickly spotted it: on the edge of the coffee table closest to me. I considered whether I could reach it without getting up. Somehow I knew that I had to keep my defence of non-effort at all costs. If I seemed like I was interested I had lost.
Rolling and stretching I pawed for it with my left hand outstretched. I was still balanced on the edge of the couch. I stretched out full length with my fingers and just managed to knock the remote into reach. Grasping the prize I rolled back into my sweaty groove.
I looked at her and pointed the remote triumphantly. And turned the volume up one notch.
Her face was still for a moment, then she shook her head slightly and let out a genuinely laugh. Dispensing with the remaining buttons, she wriggled out of the shirt and let it crumple to the carpet beside her.
"Very clever," she said dryly. I forced myself to look at her face, only taking in the glorious vista of her breasts from the bottom of my vision.
"The shorts then," she continued, "if you turn it up to a reasonable volume."
I clicked it up several notches.
"Good boy! Now roll over," she cooed wryly. But she wriggled out of her shorts, tossing them aside. I watched from the corner of my eye with my pulse rising and my cock swelling. I rooted my unseeing eyes on the TV screen while itching for the view of my peripheral. She was wearing a thong.
I couldn't stand it for more than a few moments. I looked over to her, my eyes brushing her body on the way to her face. The day suddenly felt that much warmer. All the fabric on her body wouldn't cover much more area than my two hands. Just the thought of my hands and the fabric in the same sentence made my pulse rise again. This was high-class spank bank material.
"Better?" I asked her with false politeness.
"Much," she chirped. "You should try taking your shirt off sometime."
I had to think fast. She was still playing. If I didn't take the bait would she lose interest? Or would she lose stop if she succeeded in telling me what to do? Nothing even remotely like this had ever happened before.
"It is pretty hot," I said lamely, and cursed myself. My shirt was already undone, I just had to peel it off.
She nodded, and overtly ran her eyes all over my shoulders and abs, smiling as if at a personal joke. I refused to reciprocate. I turned back to the TV.
For the next half hour I studied her from the side of my view, fantasising about her tanned curves and smooth complexion. I never found out where her father was from, but he had given her a fantastic subtle tint to her skin.
At the end of the show she stood and picked up her clothes. I sat up and she walked over to stand in front of me.
She bent down. Her near-nude breasts hung in front of me, full and ripe. I refused to look at them. My pulse was rising.
She put her hand out and laid it against my chest. Then it began to go down.
"You think you're smart," she said softly. Her hand was on my abs and descending. "But I know who's in charge."
Her palm was on my navel, her fingertips just tucking into the waistband of my shorts. I forgot to breathe. Then she pulled her hand away and walked off. Internally screaming in frustration, I turned to watch her effectively nude ass as she sauntered out of the room.
I'd stumbled headlong into a game. I didn't know the rules, but I knew I was one-up.
(1-0)
The next two weeks were thick with oblique contests of double entedres, her not-quite harmless touches and pinches, and general guerrilla tactics. She was working a lot and I was busy with my final year of highscool, so we didn't happen to be alone and unoccupied again until the following Sunday.
Dad and Jill were out somewhere for the morning. I was taking a shower when I heard the door click open.
There was no lock on the bathroom, but the shower could clearly be heard from outside. And you always knocked on the closed door by rule.
"I'm in here," I called, for want of anything better.
"I know," Lonnie's voice came back. "I'm just doing my teeth, don't mind me."
I continued to rinse myself off. It definitely felt strange to be naked in the same room as her, even if a shower curtain stood between us. Before I could think too much, and probably get an erection, I decided to meet her gambit.
"I'm almost done," I said. I heard her spit.
"Congratulations!" She called back. She wasn't going to leave. Well, that was her problem, wasn't it?
I turned off the taps and gave her a moment to pull out if she chose. Then, pulling aside the curtains, I stepped boldly into the steamy bathroom.
Lonnie wore a short satin singlet top (the twin imprints of her nipples attesting her lack of bra) and a purple thong. She was holding her loose hair back with one hand and brushing her teeth with the other.
As if it was of no consequence she glanced up and down my naked body. I felt obliged to reciprocate, noting the way her breasts swayed with the action of her brushing.
I turned from her to grab my towel and give myself a quick wipe. I heard her spit again behind me and rinse her mouth with water. I was tying the towel about my hips when she came past me toward the door.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world she reached up and pulled me down into a quick french kiss.
"Does it seem 'powerfully fresh' to you?" She asked. Without waiting for an answer she laughed and walked out.
It was pretty fresh actually. I stood there, wondering if I was dreaming. My towel was developing a bulge.
(1-1)
It was after that incident that I decided I couldn't stay on the defensive forever. I couldn't do anything so audacious as what she had (there seemed a powerful unwritten law about that) but for the next week the day-to-day games evened out. I instigated half the borderline dirty-talk, and playfully slapped her ass as she walked by. Her eyes became bright and sharp whenever I did, and she'd call me a creep or sick. But the next hour her breasts would accidentally brush past me, or her hand accidentally meet mine.
Three weeks passed in this war of attrition. There were no opportunities for a full-scale battle, so we had settled into our trenches. Then, at breakfast one morning, Dad declared D-Day.
"Kids," he said out of the blue, "your mother and I are going away this weekend. You know the rules."
We did. They effectively boiled down to "No Parties!". I didn't even risk a sideways look at Lonnie.
"No problem," I replied. She said something similar. Breakfast continued.
For the rest of the week I was in a kind of blissful terror. Two days. Thoughts of what might happen rolled around the back of my head constantly. I even considered that she might do nothing at all, just to screw with my head. Our daily jabs escalated to the point where it was in danger of losing all sense of subtlety.
And so, Friday evening at seven o'clock, we sat at the table, on opposite sides of a pizza box. The house was empty and silent. After finishing my half of the pizza I took a slice from hers.
"Hey, brat! That's mine!" She said. I shrugged.
"I take what I want."
She raised an eyebrow and me and we continued to eat in silence. We finished the last of it and I felt a slight hint of nerves. Would it start immediately. Would it never start?
"I'll be back in a moment," she said, and disappeared. To stop myself from thinking, I cleared up the table and rinsed the plates. I heard her return and dried my hands. I faced her.
She was sitting at the table with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. I didn't know what to think, except that the night was going to be very interesting indeed.
I sat myself across from her. I hadn't noticed before, but she also had a deck of cards. She'd put on some exotic perfume. She'd come prepared.
As I watched she sorted the cards into two piles: ten and above, nine and below. She pushed the later aside and shuffled the former.
"Ten or Jack means Twenty Questions, loser shots. Queen and we both do a shot. Kings and you can ask one question. Ace and you have to do a dare."
As she finished laying out the rules she put the pile on the middle of the table. Then she screwed the cap off the bottle and poured us each a shot. She lifted hers and looked me in the eye.
"Good luck," she said wryly and knocked it back. I followed suit, shotting the vodka neatly and barely tasting it. I felt its spreading heat, though, tingling all through me.
She turned a card. Ace, straight up. She snorted a laugh.
"Okay then," she challenged. "What do you dare me to do?"
Suddenly I was walking the tightrope. The dare was a two-sided sword. Too benign was as bad as too extreme. I called my course.
"Take your top off," I said. She looked at me critically.
"Fucking pervert," she muttered, but peeled her top over her head and dropped it. Her bra was purple satin and left nothing whatsoever to the imagination.
"Go on then," she said, her tone snappy but her eyes amused.
I flipped the next card. It was a ten, but she guessed "Vodka" by fifteen and I had another shot.
