Impact 03: of Yourself

I think if Claire's feet didn't give out we might have danced all night. But her heels are cutting her. As soon as I see the blood I call an end to the night.

"I've got work in the morning anyway," I soothe when she makes a face. "We both need to go home."

"No, I'll come with you," she states, not giving me a choice in the matter, "let's get a cab."

We make our way down the elevator, retrieve our things, and head out the doors. The street seems brighter than when we arrived, stark and silver light frosts the buildings across the street. Looking up I see there is an enormous full moon.

"Être dans la lune," Claire laughs. She is smiling at me. I am standing in the doorway, transfixed by Claire's smiling shining face, washed in moonlight.

"Clair de lune," I whisper, surprising her. I return her smile and step out onto the street.

The line is gone, but the same bouncer is still there. He makes a show of walking us to the curb and securing a cab that a couple had just vacated.

"Come again ladies," he tells us, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Claire is talking and laughing nonstop, about Sophie, about dancing, about New York, the whole time holding my hand in her lap possessively. Her other hand gently strokes my bare knee and thigh, I feel my body respond. I'm not sure how I would react if a guy were doing this, but I let her, enjoying it.

'It's just Claire,' I tell myself.

I am laughing and smiling but I also feel an anticipation building in me. The cab is alone in the deep, narrow canyon of buildings on my block when it drops us at my front door. I have to negotiate paying our fare single-handedly as Claire chatters on, still holding my other hand tight.

I had been so self-conscious to have Claire see my building and apartment the first time, but now I am feeling self-conscious for entirely different reasons. As we walk up the stairs, I think about our cab ride, her fingers pinching at the hem of my dress, edging it up my thigh.

'Just Claire being handsy,' I tell myself.

She babbles and laughs as we click over the filthy penny tile in the hall. Smiling, but afraid she'll wake my neighbors, I shush her under the too-dim bare bulbs lighting the stairs. As I climb ahead of her, I think about the cabbie adjusting his mirror to watch us, how I had spread my legs, wondering if he could see her hand pushing my dress up. I had put on a show. Is that what I am hoping for, that Claire will put on another show?

I am gripping the railing tight, using the strength of my arm to help my legs, which feel weak and rubbery. I want to blame the mescal, but I don't feel drunk.

I think again of watching Claire, the weight of her thigh on mine, the little movements it made as she came. My chest and stomach feel papery and hollow, my head feels light. Is this anxiety? Am I afraid? Am I scared she will again,?

'This isn't fear.'

My hands feel like they are shaking but looking down at them as I dig for my keys, they don't look like they are, they're just clumsy and uncoordinated.

My heart is beating hard and fast as I unlock my door. My face is hot and seems to pulse. The feeling of her leg touching mine, of the way it jerked and pressed down as she came is like a fire in my mind. I'm not afraid. This is anticipation. I'm getting myself turned on hoping she will again. I'mhoping to watch her, to spy on her. I need to stop. I stare at my shoes, my ruby red toe nails. I'm feeling ashamed as Claire brushes past me. She throws her wrap on the loveseat and marches into my bedroom wordlessly singing a song fragment from the club - blissfully unaware.

I lock the door behind us and follow her in and call her to the end of my bed. Remembering how she nursed me after I fell, I sit her down and kneel in front of her, carefully unstrapping her bloodied shoes.

"Always something with us," I mumble nervously. Claire is sitting on the very edge of the bed, crowding me a little, her long legs splayed carelessly. She's idly pinching the hem of her dress, pulling the fabric tight between her hands and raising it up her thighs, I can see her panties, they are pale and look damp with sweat. Is she doing it on purpose? When did she stop singing? The two of us are quiet as I struggle to keep my breathing normal. She shifts and her panties crease into the bulge of her lips. I do my best to focus on my hands slipping off her bloodied heels.

"Your poor toes," I whisper as I stand to get a warm washcloth. I take deep breaths as I turn on the taps, squeezing my hands hard under the scalding water, bracing myself to go back out and kneel at her feet. Now I really am scared. But while I'm at the sink she slips past behind me, stripping off her dress and shimmying out of her panties. I watch her in the mirror, naked, nymph-like, and smiling, her hands rising like a ballerina as she steps into the shower.

"I'm going to use your toothbrush!" she announces, leaving no room for debate; reaching across me she grabs it from its glass, jamming it in her mouth.

She stares at me defiantly and smiles as I hand her the toothpaste and turn to fetch her a towel.

'You are being foolish Sarah Beth,' I scold myself. Claire is oblivious to me, her mood is light and silly and I'm being a fucking weirdo. I need to stop.

She steps out of the shower to meet me on my return, laughing and recounting some bit of gossip, but I'm distracted by her nakedness, trying not to look at her dark nipples. Looking down instead at the beauty of her flat stomach, her narrow waist, and points of her flaring hips. Her neatly trimmed blonde bush.

'Almost nothing at all,' I think, blushing and turning away, suddenly feeling ashamed and foolish about shaving my pussy.

'What were you thinking?' I berate myself as Claire, still drying off, marches into my bedroom, babbling the whole time.

I listen to her, laughing at her own silliness, but my hands are shaking while I rummage for something for her to sleep in. This time choosing an oversized t-shirt.

"Here, put this on," I say, passing her the t-shirt without looking up.

"Pah!" she exclaims, pushing past me, dripping wet, dropping her towel, and crawling into bed.

"Why do I even bother?" I mutter, trying to focus on the discarded towel, but my attempt is half-hearted at best. I can't help but look up at her stretching long on my bed.

She pushes the covers down and lays on her side, facing away from me. Her bare back stretching and twisting, hands in her hair. She has a lovely round bottom. She is quiet, her breathing is slow and even.

"Already passed out," I think. Part of me feels relief, but also disappointment. I think of watching her cum, the feeling of our legs touching.

I look out my windows at the few lights across the street. I wonder if anyone is looking; if they can see Claire.

'Are you hoping she'll givethem a show?' I wonder, impatient with myself.

'She was drunk and thought I was asleep,' I remind myself, grabbing her almost unused towel off the floor. I hesitate as I reach for the light switch. I find myself considering leaving the lights on, letting any unseen watchers see her.

'Shame on you, Sarah Beth.'

I turn out the lights and duck into the bathroom to undress instead.

I'm in and out of the shower in almost no time. Standing at the mirror I look down at myself as I dry off, my puffy nipples and my shaved pussy. I'm breathing hard like I've been running.

'What was I thinking?' I wonder, even as I touch myself, the smooth skin. 'What am I thinking?'

My nightie isn't on its hook. I look at my panties on the floor next to Claire's, prodding them with my toe. They both are darkened in the crotch. Pushing my toe into the gusset of Claire's panties, I see the sheen of something more than sweat, wet mucus pearlecence, slippery against my toe. I turn out the lights and step into the bedroom.

"You have such an amazing figure, Sarah."

Her voice startles me, making me jump a little.

"I'm sorry," she husks, sounding sleepy. "Did I scare you?"

"I thought you were asleep," I whisper.

Claire is twisting over to look at me, and beautifully lit by the moonlight from my windows; it's bright and silvery. Why had I left the towel? I'm naked, my head spinning a little. I realize I've been standing in the moonlight the whole time, illuminated just like Claire. But despite thinking Claire was asleep, I have been unconsciously using my hands to cover my breasts and the smooth skin of my pussy. Still, I take a nervous look out the windows as I step towards the bed and into shadow. I move slowly, as bright and white as the moonlight is, the shadows are pitch black.

"You have the body I always wanted," she tells me. Her skin looks like it is made from pale stone. Her hair is ivory.

"I'd kill to have your body," I whisper back, trying not to look at her. Instead of admiring her body, I keep my gaze lowered, looking for my nightie amongst the shadows on the floor. "You can wear anything," I mumble.

"Come here," she beckons warmly. Turning back away from me and lifting up her arm - expecting me to spoon her.

"My nightie-"

"Pssht," she sprays in impatience. "You don't need clothes for bed... Now Sarah! Tout suite!"

I hesitate, a little taken aback by her tone, but also confused. This isn't what I expected. I struggle to gather my wits.

"Sarah!" she snaps.

I jump to obey, sliding into bed behind her. I curl one arm under my head and put my other hand on her hip but I leave a gap between us.

"Viens ici."

"Huh?"

Claire takes my wrist in her hand, wrapping my arm around her, pulling me closer. My hand holds her smooth belly, my breasts press against the lean muscles of her back. My face is burning hot, my nipples must feel like stones. She shimmies her ass into my lap.

"Better," she says happily. She is looking over her shoulder at me and smiling with a girlish triumph.

'The cat who got the cream."

I can't help but laugh but she is still looking at me, her expression softening, warming. She brushes my arm with her fingers.

"I mean it, your body is amazing," she whispered admiringly.

This is so different from the night I watched Claire. We had been so drunk, but we aren't now; we burned the alcohol dancing. I am a little light headed, but not drunk, my body feels good. I feel myself. The world, however, feels very small, very simple. Just the two of us in bed, naked and unashamed. No city, no boss or work, no mother or church, no Danny. Just us, Claire and me, our bodies pressing together here under the silver light of the full moon.

"I've always hated how big my boobs are," I admit. I'm squeezing her soft abs, kneading the flesh. Her skin feels moist and clean. I make myself stop.

"My mom... she rode me so hard because of them," I tell her. "I could never wear anything I wanted. She made me... I was too embarrassed to play sports."

"Ah, but that's not fair," Claire tells me, a slight lisp to her voice. "I'm glad you weren't embarrassed tonight. I'm also glad she wasn't here, that you can do whatever you want."

"Me too," I murmur in her ear.

"I like seeing the girls on display. They're not too big you know, just right," she tells me. "I enjoy seeing others admiring your body the way I do."

Imagining that; imagining us being watched as we danced at the club, as she touched my thigh in the cab, as we lay together here in my bed. My breath is short, my insides shake and tremble.

"I liked it too," I tell her, my voice sounding small and girlish. "I was self conscious, but you make me feel brave. I forgot to be ashamed."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," she says, running her fingers up my arm, she twists to follow it up to my cheek and to my hair. "You looked a treat tonight. That green dress beautifully compliments your complexion."

"I'm so glad you like it, I almost didn't wear it," I whisper, rubbing my cheek into her hand, so her fingers tangle and pull at my hair. "I almost chickened out."

"Really?" she asks, twisting all the way around so she's facing me, sliding her left hand between my arm and my cheek, cradling my face. Her right hand pushes through my hair to my shoulder and strokes my arm. It feels like such a motherly gesture; her expression is so warm. I feel comforted and at ease curled up facing her; our knees touching, I move my hand to rest on my rib cage, my elbow folded behind me. My other arm is curled and supporting my head, under her hand. I'm displaying myself to her, showing her my breasts. Letting her see my swollen nipples.

"You looked so bold," she tells me earnestly, "you should always wear that dress."

I smile, imagining picking up groceries in the dress that so thoroughly scandalized Danny. I picture myself going to work in it, what Keith and Ben and the other staff at the office would make of that.

"Your breasts are magnifique," she murmurs, interrupting my fantasy. She's staring at them in the harsh light from the moon. And then, after a long pause, she looks up at me, her eyes liquid and soft. Claire asks, "May I touch them Sarah?"

This isn't all what I'd hoped/feared might happen. It's all going too far. I should be shocked, but I think of her fingertips cupping my breast in the coffee shop, my passivity, letting her touch and admire me; the thrill of her squeezing my breast as we escaped the bachelorette.

Again, I have no urge to stop her, perhaps because her request was delivered with such a child-like innocence, or perhaps because I've been hoping she would touch me. I should feel self-conscious stretching out in bed naked next to her, my shades open, her hands touching my body, but instead I feel more beautiful than I can ever remember feeling - brazen even. I feel a rush as I nod, as if my whole body is speeding ahead. Claire's fingers trail down to my breasts, running over the fragile skin of my nipples.

"I wish I had breasts like these," she whispers, cupping mine, the pad of her thumb rolling my nipple. "They are softer than mine..."

For a long time we're silent. Just the sound of our breathing, mine hitching as Claire touches me. My breasts ache, they seem to swell in her hand.

"I've never felt up another girl," she admits.

"I've never been felt up by another girl," I whisper back, my breath shallow, my voice still high and girlish. I am thoroughly enjoying her wide-eyed wonder.

"Is it nice?"

"It is! I'm so excited, like a teenage boy..." she admits, sounding delighted, her voice shaking a little. Both her hands are cupping my breasts now, squeezing me softly and delicately pinching my nipples between her thumbs and index fingers. Her smiling face is close to mine, the smell of mescal is strong on her breath.

"Your fingers are trembling," I whisper, enjoying her touch, her admiration. "It feels nice."

"Your skin is so soft, c'est très jolie, ma chérie," she whispers.

Claire's compliments are like a drug, like dancing with her, I don't feel ashamed, instead, I feel proud. I stretch for her. My body is deliciously tired from dancing, my muscles ache, but I am wonderfully relaxed. I want her to see my ribs, my flat stomach, the points of my hips. I want her to admire my breasts; my nipples, puffy and pink.

Claire says something, but says it so quietly, I don't understand - it's hardly a lisp.

"What?' I ask, my voice breathy, the full import of what's happening suddenly bearing down on me.

"I want..." she whispers, taking a moment to lick her lips. "Take care of yourself."

I stare at her, confused; hesitating. Does she mean the exhibition? What have I missed?

"It has been such a lovely night," she whispers, her voice husky and thick, her tongue so wet she was almost drooling. "I don't want it to end."

My heart is pounding. She must be able to feel it, her hands squeezing my breasts. I feel like my eyes must be as wide as saucers. I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, Claire stops me, gently moving her hand back to my face, cupping my cheek in her palm. Her fingertips gently pull at my skin, rolling my nipple.

"I'm not ready to sleep..." she hushes, letting go of my breast. "I want..." she pauses. "Together... I want you to take care of yourself, Sarah. I want to watch you... to do it for me."

Our faces are almost touching, she is still cradling my cheek in her left hand but her right shoulder begins to move in little circles. I let out a long deep breath.

'How long have I been holding my breath?' I wonder.

"Please Sarah," she begs. "Do this for me."

I could feel myself flushing, her hand cradling my cheek pulling our faces even closer. There is no ambiguity, no misunderstanding. I know exactly what she wants.

Does she know I watched her? Did she watch me? Did she see me cum? I can't help but remember my fantasy. My breath catches as I imagine spreading my legs for her, pushing my fingers against my lips, parting the wet flesh. I picture Claire staring as I rub and finger myself. Again, I imagine kneeling over her face, of looking down at her as she watches me rubbing and fingering myself. Will she want to touch me as well? I imagine a drop of cum falling.

The images are all so obscene... so shocking, so absurdly beyond the pale - my mind rebels. My face is burning hot. I'm sure it must be scarlet. I'm beginning to shake.

"Je t'en supplie," she whines, her voice high and soft with need. Her hand below my cheek pulsing softly. She's begging me, "please."

But my fingers are already between my legs, touching my smooth hairless mons, my lips. Sliding into myself, I'm wet.

Like on the dance floor, her body leads and mine follows. Her hand under my cheek is moving with the rhythmic swaying of her body, keeping time with the tiny circles her shoulder is making.

I remember the excitement of her leg touching mine in the dark while she masturbated in my bed and reach out to take hold of her rolling shoulder with my free hand, squeezing it tight, the tiny motions telegraphing down my arm.

Our lips are so close, sharing breath back and forth. She stares into my eyes, biting her lip. The room is silent except for the tiny wet sounds of us touching ourselves, our little moans, and soft cries. She slides a knee between mine, drawing us even closer. The back of my hand moving against the back of hers. I feel the changing pressure as her hips start rolling, pushing her hand harder against mine, my fingers pushing deeper into my wet pussy. My hips follow her lead, grinding my knuckles against hers. Our breaths become shallow, panting, interjected by rapid little moans.

Our breasts are touching as I feel her begin to cum. She says my name, our lips touching. There is a tangle of limbs, her holding me tight, me holding her. My orgasm shakes me, makes me cry out.

"CLAIRE!"

*For those of you rereading these stories this is for you: on 04/06/23 I uploaded my final edit version of this story for moderation. It's about thirteen hundred words longer than the original chapter.