Alice is popular, boys love her, and even girls love her. And so does her best friend, Irene.
....friends to lovers angst with the pressure from overbearing parents to self discovery
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They sleep in until 3:00 pm. They eat cereal in Irene's kitchen and watch a movie with Irene's parents. Irene drives Alice home at 7 and they part ways. Irene's heart is so incredibly loud, it's been warm and fuzzy all day. Beating and pounding inside her ears.
They did things, things that neither of them is ever going to forget. How drunk was Alice? She didn't seem that drunk.
Irene thinks about it when she lays down for the night, in her bed, alone. It's the first in two days. Those two days felt like forever ago at this point. All she's thinking about is Alice. Alice's hands, Alice's neck, Alice's thigh, Alice underneath her, Alice's hips, everything.
They were drunk.
But Irene's not drunk anymore.
So she really shouldn't be reaching her hand under her sweatpants, and palming herself to the thought of it.
That's not something sober people do.
But she can't sleep.
She's intoxicated with the feeling of Alice on top of her, hips square on her lap. She's always here now. In Irene's mind. Alice and her stupid hair and stupid skin and stupid piercing. Everything about her is stupid. And it's stupidly hot.
Irene has all her own power to not do this right now. But her hand's moving on its own and she's pleasuring herself to her best friend. Can she catch a break?
Her mind is fuzzy when she imagines Alice's hands, crawling over her bare chest, her bones, her nipples, her collarbone, her neck, her lips.
Irene imagines tasting them, so far down her tongue. It's like a gun. And Irene falls further into her blissful state. Grabbing a pillow from next to her and covering her face, moaning into it.
She imagines Alice moving on top of her, adjusting herself and sitting against Irene's propped-up knees. She grips her thighs, Irene bites down onto soft cotton, and her other hand grasps at her sheet.
This is so dumb, it's so stupid. And yet it's working.
Irene's never been one to masturbate. Often dismissive and has looked at porn only a handful of times. One of which was with Alice. Irene's arm quivers at the thought. They never did any of it together. But Irene remembers pleasuring herself to a female model. She tried so hard to forget it. She was so embarrassed, she is embarrassed. This is embarrassing.
She thinks about Alice pulling her hair, gripping her waist, skimming over her chest. And her back arches off her bed, her breath quickens, her whimpers pause, and it's over.
Irene's breath catches up to her and it all calms down. Her fingers are sticky and she feels disgusting. But she only hopes Alice did the same.
She makes her way out of bed, and to her bathroom. Her feet float down the hall and she shuts the door behind her. The sudden light change makes her almost unable to open her eyes.
