It all started when my best friend, Anna, abruptly decided to stop being my best friend after I put my hand up her skirt. It wasn't my fault, and I still maintain that's she's deep in denial about her feelings about me in particular, if not other girls in general. We were both 18, in our last year of school. She begged me to cut the class we had together last period and go back with her to her house. Her parents were working, as usual, so we were all alone there. And of course she had this unbelievable pot that she cajoled me into smoking with her. After one hit of that stuff, I was tingling all over and could barely think straight. It was like I could feel the blood pumping through all my extremities, and could especially feel it coursing through my breasts, engorging my clit. I was turned on just being around Anna, pretty much all the time, but we got stoned together, it was all I could do to keep quiet about the way I was feeling, all hot and bothered, looking at the curve of her breasts and her cute little belly and the way her ass seemed like a big bubble someone was blowing.
When we were high, I would find myself just getting lost in her eyes. I'd be staring at her and I would just lose track of time altogether. I wouldn't know if I had been looking at her for a few seconds or a few minutes. Paranoia would start to overtake me and I would wonder if she knew what I was thinking, if she knew how wet my pussy was at thought of kissing those lips of hers, at touching her firm little breasts. She never said anything though, if anything she would just start giggling, which would make me laugh too, and soon we'd be in uncontrollable hysterics, hugging each other and laughing over each other's shoulder. It was heaven just to have my hands on her and I would be so overwhelmed with the warmth of the contact, it would be enough and I wouldn't dare try anything more.
She had on this tiny sweater that framed her breasts, so small you knew it could never ever button across her chest, and I always thought how I could never pull off something as sexy as that. I was too tall, too skinny, my breasts too small, maybe. Whenever I tried on what I thought were sexy clothes, short skirts and tight shirts, revealing things, I would stare at myself in the mirror and feel a bit disappointed. Everyone seems to think my face is pretty enough, but the boys only look at my face, I don't catch them wandering downward. And other girls, they hardly notice me at all; they must know I'm no competition for them. Anna always had a smile for me, though. We talked on the phone every day and we shared our secrets with each other. Except, that is, for my one big secret, how badly I wanted to taste her.
So there we were, before we knew it, all giggly in her bedroom, our shoes kicked off, beside each other on her bedspread, passing the joint back and forth. I was getting more and more lost in my thoughts and was having a hard time keeping track of what she was talking about, some boy or other that she was hoping would notice her or something. All I could notice were her legs and the short skirt she had worn to school even though it had turned so cold outside. She was wearing these heather-gray woolen tights and I get thinking to myself how itchy they must feel against her skin, and how badly she must want to take them off, and how much I love to see that, to see her sliding them off, rubbing her hands over herself while I watched.
Finally I just interrupted her and said, "Anna, what are those tights, wool? Isn't that uncomfortable?"
"What?" she said, totally confused. She had that beautiful dumbfounded look on her face that I loved so much, when she opened her eyes wide and let her mouth hang open a little. She was pretty preoccupied with her own thoughts, too, I guess.
"Your tights. They look like they'd be all scratchy on your legs."
"Oh," she said. "No, not at all. They're the best. They're so warm. And they don't scratch at all, you should feel them." When she spoke, it was like her face was in slow motion. I felt like I could see her tongue making all the letters, touching the tips of her lips as they move together and apart, traces of wetness bridging the gap between them. She pushed her blonde hair out of her face, an epic sweeping motion that seemed to last forever, and then she took my hand and put it on her thigh -- so you see it really wasn't my fault at all. She wanted to be touched by me.
At first I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to move my hand, but it felt like it was throbbing, just being against her thigh. "Yeah," I said, "That's soft." I looked at her face again, and our eyes locked, and it seemed to go on and on and on, and I kept waiting for her to make some sign that I should take my hand away, that this position we were in was peculiar and unnatural, but it never came. Instead she had this plaintive half smile on her face and a kind of faraway look in her eyes, like she was looking inside herself. I convinced myself that she had become fixated on how good my hand felt there, and how much better it would feel if I was moving it, massaging her a little bit.
