It’s wrong on every level.
And I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
Oh God, where do I even begin with the basement? It's not just a place anymore. It's my personal hell and heaven twisted into one sweaty, filthy knot.
Every third Friday, when Dad's poker buddies roll up, I feel that pull like a magnet. The anticipation starts hours before, my skin tingling, I'm already wet. I tell myself this time I'll skip it, play it safe, but by the time the first car pulls into the driveway, I'm downstairs, heart slamming against my ribs, waiting like a junkie for her fix.
The basement smells like old cardboard and the sharp tang of Dad's forgotten gym equipment in the corner. The concrete floor is cold under my bare feet, the single bare bulb overhead casting harsh shadows that make every
