After the door is firmly closed on her voyeurism, Rachel reminisces about her friendship with Emily. The teasing suggestions, the electricity between them, the unspoken mutual arousal. As Rachel replays the tantalizing scenes she’s just seen, she has to take matters into her own hands.
We’d spoken about it before, me and Emily, on long nights driven by boxed white wine and weed. We’d lean into each other, laughing at the surreality of the situation, what her boyfriend Josh would say, how we’d face each other the next day. How ludicrous the thought was. Our eyes would meet, hold just a touch too long, then I’d break away, blushing and refilling her glass. The conversation would move on, but I’d see her. Looking. If it was so weird, why did I always find myself alone in my room later that night rubbing myself senseless and reaching a climax fueled by guilty yearning?
It had been just us for a couple of years, sharing an apartment and bumbling through life. When we first met at work, I desperately wanted to be her friend. She was so fun and spontaneous – and, of course, just wildly hot. It wasn’t until I bumped into her at a gig that we realized how much we have in common; we didn’t just share a music taste, we follow the same team, have identical political beliefs and really relish a big night out.
We moved in together pretty quickly, after my last relationship broke down and her lease was up. Our place was the go-to for pre-drinks and after-parties, with a revolving door of men and women in and out of our living room, kitchen and bedrooms. Nothing serious. Then Josh came along. It’s not that I don’t like him, I really do. He’s smart and funny and amiable. But what was once Emily and Rachel is now Emily and Josh. And Rachel.
She still teased me, though, during these wild nights. Whispering about how she’d love to fuck him while I watched, knowing that the thought made me an odd mix of uncomfortable and horny. And I kept on masturbating to the scenario. She knew. She must have known.
Then came the sober day. Weeks – maybe months – after she first brought it up, she caught me at the kitchen table. Told me she’d spoken to Josh and he was up for it. At first, I genuinely didn’t know what she was talking about, and panicked thinking she was going to move him in or something. She smirked at my blank face and whispered one word: ‘Voyeur.’
So, we laid it on the table, all three of us. Set basic boundaries and got consent. By this time, I knew Josh pretty well. Not to mention I’d come alongside him through the apartment’s thin walls as I masturbated, only slightly shamefully, to the sound of them fucking. He knows what he’s doing; Emily has told me often enough.
Tonight, though, I watch. I watch as she strokes his head and states, ‘I want you to go down on me.’ It’s neither a question nor a demand. It’s a fact. I watch as he eats her pussy like he’s kissing it. I watch her bite her lips and moan, telling him what she wants him to do, and I watch as they laugh together.
When they masturbate for each other, I do too, through the smooth silk of my panties, and when she catches my eye, it makes my blood run full and hot straight to my clit.
Back in my room, I don’t need to open any favorited videos or flick through my most-read stories; everything I need to get off just played out in front of me. My pussy throbs as I slide under the covers onto my front, relishing the juxtaposition of the silky fabric and my warm fingertips between my legs. Moving my hips gently in rhythm with my hand, I trace circles around my clit, pinch my outer lips and rub up tantalizingly against my whole palm until I give in, slip my panties off and turn over onto my back. I lick one finger, then two, even though I don’t need to, and let them shift inside of me until I hit what I’m looking for. Deliberately, I glide in and out, Emily’s ass on my mind; the way he grabbed it while she sucked him long and hard. I imagine his cock nudging into me, opening my legs to let him thrust to the hilt and keeping him there, tensing and relaxing my pelvic floor in that way that makes guys vibrate with lust.
My thumb moves in dizzying clockwork circles on my clit and my hips strain upwards as I replay the two of them curled on the floor in a 69: the symbol of Gemini, the twins, an impulsive, unreliable, unpredictable pair. Alone in my bed, I’m more like a Sagittarius: impatient and curious. Turned on and pissed off to be left to my own devices again. I take my two fingers, now dripping wet, and use them to stroke my clit reassuringly, squeezing it between them while I refocus my mind. I don’t want to pityfuck myself.
Emily’s mouth. The way her lips fit around his dick, how far she can take it into her throat, wishing she’d push a little further and gag, saliva pooling on his head before trickling the length of his shaft. How she uses her hand and her mouth in tandem to fit more in, how it must feel to Josh like being swallowed all the way down. Hearing the pure lasciviousness of him devouring her pussy, the slurps and the sucking, and just knowing his face is wet with her juice. Knowing she is so close to climax, knowing she feels the hot surge of orgasm building leisurely from her cunt to her toes, her fingertips, the base of her spine, the nape of her neck.
I want to be the one making her come; I want to be him. I wonder what it is to have strength between my legs. To mash my face into her cunt and taste her most vulnerable spots. How does it feel to drive myself into her and feel her warmth surround me, snug and wet? And to pull out unexpectedly and spray jizz all over her face, making her squeal and giggle.
Fumbling for my bedside drawer, I keep two fingers on my clit before moving them aside while I slip my vibrator inside – the one I use when I need to squirt. It only takes a couple of seconds before its buzzes are hitting my G-spot and my fingers are massaging my clit, and I’m absolutely going to come. I don’t quiet my moans, because I want them both to hear me and know they inspired this orgasm. The wave of pleasure and pressure and hunger is slow-moving and delicious. I reach the peak a couple of times, delighting in that feeling before everything crumbles away, but hold back just enough to keep riding, keep my hips flowing, keep my moans unstifled.
Being in control of my orgasm makes me fizz with power. I don’t want relief yet, not until I’m certain I’ve cemented those scenes fully in my memory. The image of their mutual oral is what keeps me going: alternating between wishing I was Emily taking his thick cock in her mouth, all salt and musk, and wishing I was Josh tasting her on the brink of climax.
I remember, again, the look she gave when she caught my eye right at the moment she came.
I can’t even scream, I can only sigh – a long, deep sigh like the first stretch of the morning, and my muscles sing, my nerves fill with thunder and I lean into it. Shuddering, bucking, explosive – I come like a punch to the gut. I can barely breathe.
Later, I try to sleep, but my adrenaline is rushing. My eyes won’t stay shut, darting around the rooms and taking in everything that makes me feel joy, not least the corkboard of photos I keep in view of my bed. In the middle, a photo of me and Emily in matching denim shirts, bright teeth flashed, cheeks touching. I know she has a copy tacked to her bedroom wall. It’s from the party we threw to celebrate being roommates for a year. We were drunk on knock-off vodka and jello shots, well before she ever met Josh. As I start to drift off, I know she’s looking at it too, thrilled about the past; curious about the future.
Meet the author...
Despite being a writer, Kirstyn Smith still isn’t very good at amusing bios. She works freelance as an editor + writer, and she’s also founder of Marbles – an independent magazine that explores mental illness with irreverence, rawness and humour. In her free time, she likes to nap, eat chips, run and consume all things spooky. But mainly the chips thing.