The Sleepover Where I Crossed the Line with My Friend

My name is Camila, and it’s been a while since I felt like telling anything here. Today I want to talk about what happened one night with Renata, my best friend since college. Months went by and my head still spins every time I remember it.

Renata and I have known each other for five years, almost six. We shared the last classes of our degree, ended up living on the same block, and over time we see each other almost every day. If I had to describe her, I’d say she’s tall, with pronounced curves, white skin with tiny freckles on her shoulders, and, back then, hair dyed a blazing red. She has that kind of beauty that doesn’t need makeup to get attention.

I’m the opposite: short, slim, with blonde hair down to my shoulders and sharp features. A defined waist, round hips, and small breasts, the kind that stand up on their own. When we go out together, people stare; we have fun knowing we turn heads and mocking the guys who come up with tired pickup lines.

What few people knew is that our friendship had an ambiguous zone neither of us ever quite named. We kissed at parties, yes, but those kisses lasted a second too long. We sat one on top of the other, I’d run my hand over her thighs when we talked, and she’d tuck my hair behind my ear with a slowness that was anything but innocent.

We talked about everything, especially sex. About how long it had been since we’d gotten laid, the guys we were into, the ones who had disappointed us. We sent each other photos to ask whether that thong suited us, whether the new bra fit right, or whether our tits looked the way we wanted. We even read erotic stories together, lying on her bed, laughing at first and then falling silent.

That Saturday we threw together a sleepover like so many others. We went downtown to browse shops, had lunch at a cheap Japanese place, and came back to my house loaded with bags of snacks, ice cream, and a bottle of vodka. My parents had gone to my aunt’s country house, so I had the place to myself.

***

When it started getting dark, we arranged cushions in the living room and dimmed the lights. I put on a pink spaghetti-strap top and a striped cotton short; she wore a loose white T-shirt and black shorts that showed everything. No bras, both of us.

I poured the first vodka with grapefruit juice and suggested we play truth or dare. The first rounds were tame: gossip, texts to exes, a photo posted to our stories. We were laughing like two high school girls, but the alcohol was doing its thing and the questions got more intimate. Renata confessed she’d slept with a coworker. I told her I’d been sexting with a friend of my brother’s.

We were three drinks in when Renata settled in front of me, crossed her legs, and looked at me with that half-smile I know far too well.

“Have you ever masturbated thinking about me?” she asked, like she was asking the time.

I felt the heat rising up my neck. I laughed, trying to cover it up.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A direct one. I want to know if I’ve ever turned you on with what I tell you or with the photos I send you.”

While she talked, she put her hand on my knee. She left it there, unmoving, looking me in the eyes. I swallowed hard.

“A few times,” I admitted quietly. “When you sent me the one in the black bra. And when we read that taxi story.”

“I touch myself thinking about you a lot,” she said, as if it were nothing. “For a long time. You’ve always turned me on, Cami.”

I didn’t know what to answer.

I’m not sure who moved first. I know I kissed her. Or she kissed me. Her mouth tasted like grapefruit and vodka, and the kiss wasn’t timid or exploratory: it was long, hungry, with her tongue entering slowly and her hands holding the back of my neck. Like no guy had ever kissed me.

We pulled apart for a second, breathing hard, forehead to forehead.

“Do you want to see something?” she murmured. “Something for us to watch together.”

I nodded without thinking.

I turned off the TV and picked up my phone. She settled beside me, shoulders pressed together, legs touching. First she put on a gay video, I’m not really sure why, maybe to test the waters. We watched a couple of minutes in silence. I took the phone from her and, without overthinking it, typed “lesbians” into the search bar. I chose the first one, hit play, and left the phone propped against a book in front of us both.

Neither of us said a word. We were both looking at the screen, but it wasn’t the video that mattered; it was knowing the other one was watching it too. I felt my panties get soaked in a way that had never happened so fast before. I glanced at her and saw she had lowered her hand and was rubbing herself slowly over her shorts. I did the same. It took me a moment to realize I was pressing my thigh against hers.

***

Her hand went first. She grabbed one of my breasts over the top, without asking permission, and that was when whatever doubt was left got cut off. I turned and kissed her again, this time without holding back. I pushed her a little until she was against the backrest and sat on top of her, one leg on each side of her waist.

She yanked my top off. She stayed looking at me for a moment, like she wanted to memorize every detail.

“They’re prettier in person,” she said, and lowered her head.

She sucked one nipple while her other hand squeezed the second breast. She bit gently, then harder, alternating between the two. I grabbed onto her red hair and slowly moved her head, dictating the rhythm. I was surprised by how much she knew: where to press, when to let go, when to lick slowly to make me moan louder.

Then it was her turn. I pulled off her shirt and found myself staring at those pink nipples I’d seen so many times in her photos. They were even better in person. I touched them first with my fingers, pinched them a little to see how she’d react. She threw her head back and let out a long sigh. I got bolder and lowered my mouth. Tasting another woman for the first time was strange and perfect at once: finer skin, a different smell, a different heat.

While I was sucking on her breasts, she had slipped her hand under my shorts. She moved her fingers slowly over my panties, not going inside yet, feeling how badly I was waiting for her.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered in my ear.

“Your fault,” I shot back, and got off the couch.

I took off my shorts in one motion and stepped back. I wanted her to look at me, to want me even more than she already did. Renata bit her lip and crooked a finger at me to come back.

***

She sat me on the couch, opened my legs with her hands, and knelt between them. She pushed my pink panties aside, without taking them off, and ran her index finger from top to bottom, tracing everything. Slowly, like she had all the time in the world.

“Do you like it here?” she asked, pressing lightly on my clit.

I could only nod.

Her finger slid in slowly. I felt the acrylic nail parting the way and a shiver climbed up my spine. She moved it inside while looking me in the eyes, not blinking, with that same half-smile of hers but now charged with something else.

“Please,” I begged her. “Eat me already.”

She obeyed. She lowered her head and ran her tongue all over my pussy, from bottom to top, with her tongue flat. Then in circles over my clit, without touching anything else. She slipped one finger in again, then two, curling them to find the exact spot. Every so often she’d pull away for a second, lift her eyes, and tell me how delicious I was, how good I tasted, and I almost came just from hearing her.

I gripped her red hair with both hands and moved her head without thinking. I moaned, panted, whispered her name and then almost shouted it. Luckily the house was empty, because I didn’t recognize myself. I’d imagined a thousand times what would happen if we ever worked up the nerve, but I never thought it would be like this, in my living room, with a video playing that nobody was watching anymore and a pair of shorts tossed beside the sofa.

Her fingers found the exact spot and her tongue never stopped drawing circles. I felt the tide rising from my feet. I squeezed her head harder, arched my back, and came like I never had before. In spurts, all over the couch, all over her face, all over both of us. I stayed like that for a long while, unable to close my legs, while she laughed softly and wiped herself with the back of her hand.

“You made a mess of me,” she said, without complaint.

She went to get napkins from the kitchen and came back. We cleaned the couch together without talking much, laughing now and then, still breathing hard. She handed me back my top with a smile I hadn’t seen on her before. A mix of pride and something softer, as if she knew that night was changing something between us forever.

We put our clothes back on and moved to the big sofa. We put on a movie neither of us watched and stayed cuddled up, her behind me, her hand resting on my stomach, her nose buried in my neck. Before I fell asleep, she told me she’d loved it, that I tasted delicious, that we had to do it again. I told her yes, yes, without opening my eyes.

The next day, when we went downstairs for breakfast, we pretended nothing had happened. We talked about the movie, the plans for the afternoon, a message that had come through on her phone. But our fingers brushed when we passed the coffee, and I knew, without needing to say it, that the next sleepover wouldn’t take long.