Impact 01: of Collision

The "Impact" series began as a collaboration with ButteredCrumpet who posted our original versions* as "Impact of Collision" - I have edited and added to mine as I've worked to finish the series by myself.

When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together the story is in present tense.

Special thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for proof reading this chapter - repeatedly.

Impact of Collisions

"Ohmygodimsosorry! Ohmygod! I'm such a... let me!"

She's not wearing a bra. I've soaked her. She looks panicked.

"Please, I can fix this," I promise. She had been sitting next to me at the little bar, her facing her date, me facing mine. I'd been listening and admiring her first-date patter while I waited for my date to arrive... and as much as I could after he'd come. She is way more interesting than the finance bro I'd saddled myself with for the evening.

I had turned to stand up with my glass when our table was ready but hadn't expected her to be getting up at the same time. I doused her. We were facing each other, both looking at her dark nipples showing through the sheer silk of her shirt. The horror on her face mirrored my own. Thank god it was rosé.

"Trust me," I plead as I pull her towards me so my chest is blocking any view of hers.

"May I have some napkins and a pint of seltzer?" I ask the bartender, who is a lovely older blonde. She understands and snaps into action.

Seltzer in hand, we pushed past a girl waiting for the restroom.

"Hey!"

"We'll be quick," I lie.

I usher her into the little bathroom and get my first really good look at her.

'Jesus, she's

really

pretty,' I register with a jolt. I've gathered paper towels in my hand and am beginning to kneel. I have to force myself to stop, to merely dip my knees and stoop.

'What are you doing Sarah?' I wonder. We exchanged a look. 'Did she see what I'd almost done?'

I'm holding myself in this strange crouch, hoping she'll think that's what I meant to do all along. I feel myself blushing scarlet with shame and busy myself wetting the towels in the seltzer.

Her breasts are pear shaped and upturned, the perfect size - not too big.

I start by dabbing at the stain with the seltzer, but realize I need to be less tentative and more aggressive. Soaking a napkin I begin watering down the wine. The rosé is bright pink against the cream silk; the seltzer is making it all more see-through. Her nipples are oily-looking through the silk. She's watching me, she no longer looks mad - curious? Amused? My flush deepens.

"Disaster," I apologize, feeling self conscious as I push at her breasts with the wet towels. I'm soaking her tits.

She untucks and pulls her shirt away from her chest, allowing me to mop it with the napkin more easily. Again I fight the impulse to kneel.

'Stop it!' I tell myself.

Glancing up to see her looking down at me, that same curious look in her eye. Casting my eyes back at the mess I've made of her blouse I push down at a burst of guilt, mumbling another apology.

"You're Sarah?" she asks, making me look back up in surprise. "I heard you introduce yourself to your date, I'm Claire."

Her voice is gentle, friendly even, none of the anger I deserve.

"I know," I admit. "And you're a curator, which is the coolest thing ever!"

"Sounds like your date is as interesting as mine," she laughs. "But yes, I work in a gallery in Chelsea - 'curator' is inflating what I do. I'm more of an overblown gallery girl..."

"Well the artist you're working with sounds amazing," I tell her.

"Sophie," she says absently. She's looking over at her reflection.

If it weren't for her hazel eyes, which are warm and kind, I might describe Claire as an icy blonde. Her long thick mane is pulled back tight into a lovely loose bun, and her face is beautiful, perfectly made up. More makeup than I wear, but not too much. She looks elegant and mature in a way I can only dream of.

"I'm so sorry for wrecking your date," I tell her.

"Yeah, don't be, he sucks," she laughs. "We couldn't even get to our table and he was already talking about Ayn Rand."

"Mine too!" I blurt. "I mean, Bitcoin, but same thing right?"

She laughs, which makes me feel good. Her laugh is light and feminine. Like Audrey Hepburn.

Seriously

elegant.

"I mean I knew it was coming as soon as I set eyes on him," I blurt, "but what happened to romance? Warm a girl up with some compliments and small talk,

then

the capitalist monologue!"

I'm nervous and babbling, but whatever, I make Claire laugh. I'm a little surprised by how happy I am to hear it.

'Even her laugh is pretty,' I think, hating the way I snort and bray.

"Well I think your John Gault is better looking than mine," she tells me. I must look as clueless as I feel because she smiles and explains, "That's a character from one of Rand's books,

John Gault.

"

"Oh. I've never actually read her books," I admit. "I just know what I learn from awful dates."

Claire narrows her eyes at me, sizing me up.

"I

like

you, Sarah."

I feel myself blushing again, but this time with something like pride. I look away, back down at my work, and am pleasantly surprised by how well I've done getting rid of the pink.

"May I?" I ask before pushing my left hand up into her shirt, palm out. There is a stack of cottony white paper towels on the counter, and I begin drying the shirt using my hand as a backer.

"This was a pretty elaborate ruse to get into my shirt," Claire quips.

"Yeah, uh, well, uhh," I stammer, "this is as far as I've gone with anyone on a date in a long time!"

"Me too!" she says, as we share a nervous laugh.

I finish drying it as much as I can before pulling my hand out, the back of my hand accidentally brushing against her nipple.

"Oh gosh! I'm so sorry!" I blurt out.

The shirt falls back against Claire's breasts, it's no longer transparent, but her nipples are tenting the damp silk, and they're... stiff.

"Looks like the girls are awake," she says, looking down at herself. "I can't go out like this."

'This is all my fault,' I think. I look away, seeing myself in the mirror. I'm so flush I look wind-burned.

"Do you want to tell me more about the show you're working on?" I ask doubtfully. "I mean until they uh... go down?"

I am looking at us in the mirror, we are both looking at her nipples. I'm beet red. Claire is unfazed. What she does next is decidedly un-Audrey Hepburn. She blows a long rubbery raspberry of resignation with her lips.

I bark a laugh, but instantly clamp a stifling hand over my mouth. She gives me a little quick side eye and smirks as she begins tucking her blouse back in.

"No... What do you think?" she asks, looking at herself in the mirror. "Would you fuck me?"

Her shirt is still a little bit damp, and her dark nipples are hard and long. Her expression is brazen and fierce. I wonder if I've ever looked that sexy, if I've ever looked half that sexy.

"I'd totally fuck you," I deadpan.

"It's decided, I'll give them all a show," she says to her reflection. "Sarah, I'm guessing you're the highlight of my evening. Thanks so much for taking care of me."

"Oh but-"

"No really. You're a gem." She gives me a quick peck on each cheek as she leaves.

I just stand there with a stupid grin on my face, watching her stride through the crowd - high beams on. I notice my date, he's standing near the hostess, looking annoyed.

'Disaster.'

I went through the motions until my dinner ended abruptly. I looked around as I walked out but Claire and her date had already gone.

I took the subway back uptown and went over my evening in my mind. My John Gault had shown up late, yet he was annoyed at me for rushing to the bathroom to help Claire. Stranger still, he'd seemed a bit evasive when talking about himself - humility isn't a common finance bro attribute - all he would talk about was work - admittedly, WAY too common.

'You were my highlight too, Claire,' I thought.

My "John Gault" was in his mid thirties, which already had me on guard, but even before the entrees arrived my "wife-alert" alarm bells had started ringing.

A month or so after Danny left, I'd started seeing a guy named William who I'd liked. He was handsome in a nerdy way, funny, and had lots of interesting ideas, but something wasn't right. He was always messaged about catching up mid-week, and had only wanted to come to my place but would never stay the night. He was never free on weekends and didn't want to talk on the phone. Not only was his social media almost non-existent, but he also freaked out the one time I said something about posting a picture of us.

It all fell into place when I saw him on a date with another woman. As it turned out, it was his wife. I was sitting with a group of friends close enough to them to see her ring and overhear them tell the waiter they were celebrating their second anniversary. I'd imagine walking up to his table, dumping wine down his front. Telling his wife he's a cheating piece of shit. But instead, I'd excused myself, fled the restaurant, and sobbed uncontrollably all the way home in the backseat of a cab. The driver must have thought I was a madwoman.

Tonight's "John Gault" had me thinking of William - something was off. So when the waiter placed the check on the table and Mr. Gault started to pat down his pockets, pretending to search for his wallet, I was braced.

"Do you mind getting this?" he asked. "I must have accidentally left my wallet at work in my rush."

I told him he could PayPal or Venmo me, but the young Master of The Universe said he didn't use internet banking at all. Neither did William. Funny thing.

I told him I didn't take Bitcoin and told the waiter to go ahead and put half on my card. He looked on uncomfortably as John Gault suddenly remembered a billfold he had in his pocket. He paid and left without so much as a goodbye.

'Why is it so hard?' I wondered miserably. I didn't sob uncontrollably, but I cried on the fucking subway while everyone around me studiously looked away and pretended tears weren't streaming down my cheeks.

"God almighty, I'm

that

girl!" I thought with a burst of shame.

When I'd gotten out of the hole I'd had a voicemail waiting for me. Without checking I knew it was my mom. It's always my mom. I pocketed my phone. It'd been too late to call her back, but I'd promised myself I'd listen to it before I go to bed.

I walked downtown before heading west - avoiding the crowds of Times Square. Instead I walked crosstown well south of the strange attractor that is the bus terminal, with its madmen, creeps, and grifters. The last thing I'd needed was for one of them to see my ruined makeup.

My ancient and funky tenement waited for me. It was strangely comforting, squeezed into an otherwise dense block of century old commercial buildings facing each other across a narrow one way street.

'Home,' I thought sarcastically, as I climbed the steps and listened to people arguing and playing music behind the closed doors I passed. It wasn't even nine o'clock and I was already home for the night.

"Another big Friday out on the town,' I chided myself as I made my way slowly to the fifth floor. The stairwell smelled of the spicy dinners my neighbors had cooked. I was relieved to make it into my apartment without being seen by any of them.

As I undressed I thought about how young I was when I'd started dating Danny. We were high school sweethearts. He'd been two years older, good-looking, tall and fit, captain of the hockey team, and an actual choir boy - everything my parents wanted, but everything I had thought I wanted too. I had loved him, but I had been just a girl. When I told him I was applying to schools out of state he'd been so angry, so sure I was breaking up with him. My parents had sided with him.

"What do you need to go away for?" my father had demanded. "UB is a great school."

I looked at myself in the mirror, standing there in just my bra and panties. I pulled my hair back so I could see myself, the black eyeliner tears streaking my cheeks. I looked like a Goth raccoon. I felt so dumb.

"

Almost

a blonde,

almost

a redhead," Danny used to say. He always seemed doubly disappointed, not only in the fact that I wasn't a sexy hot-head, but also that I wasn't a slutty airhead. I couldn't help it that I'm not a more demonstrative lover, but I proved once and for all that I wasn't dumb when I got my full ride at Brown.

They couldn't stop me from leaving, not my parents, not even Danny, but I promised them all I'd be true to him. And I had been. Four years of being long-distance. My friends at school had said I was crazy. I told them that they didn't know Danny, and they didn't. It was hardly their fault, Danny didn't want to know them. He still hung out with his old teammates, was well-liked at work and church, but besides me, he hadn't had any truly close friends. He always seemed lonely to me, especially after he graduated, but when I tried to introduce him to my friends, he had made it very clear he wasn't interested in being friends with "college kids".

I looked at my boobs, wishing they were smaller. Danny had loved them, had been so proud of them, but also would get angry if anyone looked. I had to hide them to avoid fights and arguments. I thought of Claire's breasts, her dark nipples, how boldly she displayed them. They were the perfect size; a nice handful.

"You are a little frisky tonight," I told my reflection. 'Way more than a handful,' I thought to myself as I reached behind to undo the clasp of my bra. Looking at my breasts, they aren't super perky, but they aren't saggy either. I wished they were smaller, but they are a nice shape, long, domed by puffy nipples. My areolas, a soft rose pink against my pale complexion.

"Strawberries and cream," my mother would say.

'A nice mouthful' I thought as I touched the soft swollen flesh of my nipples with my fingers, but I was picturing Claire's lips. I shook my head, surprised by the image.

I grabbed my nightie from the hook on the door. A sheer pink thing I got for myself not long after Danny left. I'd chosen it because I thought it looked like something Mary Tyler Moore would have put on for Dick Van Dyke. It showed off my breasts and nipples, flared, and came down just below my ass, it made me feel prettier than Danny ever had.

I looked at my bedroom with pride. Besides the massive Shakespeare In The Park poster covering one wall - "Wherefore Rejoice? O You Hard Hearts, You Cruel Men Of Rome," it read, massive fist raised defiantly - the shelves full of books were my only real decoration. The queen-sized bed, my only luxury.

Everyone - my family, our congregation, Danny and his friends - had expected me to fail; to move back home with my tail between my legs.

"When you come back..." had seemed synonymous with, "when you come to your senses..."

But I never went back. Instead, I'd graduated and started my own studio, then got the job with the Times and moved to New York. I'd asked Danny to join me and he'd lasted three months before moving back home.

Laying in the dark, listening to the roar of a garbage truck endlessly loading and compacting industrial trash from one of the nearby buildings, I forced myself to check my mother's voicemail.

"I'm just wondering how your date went. Please call when you get home, I don't mind if it's late. I love you, Sarah Beth."

"Hi, mom."

"Sarah Beth!" she sounded drowsy. "Did you have a nice night? Was he a gentleman?"

"Perfect," I told her, but I'd imagined Claire's wry smile, her lips, her dark nipples.

"I had a really nice time," I lied.

"Oh good," she said. "Not too good a time I hope."

"Mom..."

"I was single once, Sarah Beth, I remember."

"It was just dinner, nothing happened."

"Have you called Father Mike at St Joseph's?"

'Forgive me father for I have sinned...' I think despite myself.

"Mom, it's late, I'm going to bed."

"I was just asking."

"I know mom, good night."

"Good night Sarah Beth, I love you."

"I love you too mom."

In the darkness, I watched lights from passing trucks and cabs crawl across my ceiling. I pictured Claire's nipples.

I didn't get a look at her date, but I found myself imagining she had taken him home. I pictured her undressing in front of him until she was entirely naked. It was easy to imagine what Claire would look like naked. She had the figure I always wished I had; long lithe form, smooth tan skin. I thought of the look in her eyes when she told me she was going to "give them all a show."

Claire had probably been with lots of men. I imagined her, still in her heels, pulling the fronts of her panties down, showing him her pussy... thought of how long and wonderfully lean she was, tried to picture her, hips thrust forward, unashamed... proud even.

'I bet she shaves,' I thought, picturing her panties coming down, how excited he would be to see her shaved pussy... her

cunt

- just thinking the word gives me a thrill. I imagine her touching the smooth bare skin of her sex before pushing her panties off entirely, letting them drop to the floor with a swish of her hips and stepping neatly out of them. It was exciting to imagine her, so bold and unafraid, so different from anything I could ever do.

Her shadowy date was harder to imagine. I wanted him to be beautiful for her, tall and fit and impeccably groomed, like Christian Bale in American Psycho - in my imagination he was still fully dressed in his suit pants and dress shirt. Not as bold as Claire, who I pictured reclining on a large white sofa, her arms spread like wings across its back, tits pointing at the ceiling.

I pushed my hand into my panties as I imagined the front of his pants tented by a huge erection. But with a gesture Claire stopped him as he reached for his fly. Instead of taking out his cock, he meekly knelt in front of her, almost worshipful, the shiny black toes of his shoes pushing into the carpet as he kneels between her spread legs.

I imagined her date hesitating before his first taste, rearing back with a look of revulsion the way Danny had, but in my fantasy Claire had him by the hair and pulled him back, holding his mouth in place until he put his tongue back out and began to lick.

Something about that image stung me. My breath was shallow and short. I was already soaked, dripping down the crack of my ass, tickling my asshole. I could tell I was already soaking the back of my nice date night panties. I stopped fingering myself long enough to lift my ass and quickly pulled them down and off, kicking my feet like a swimmer until I was free and could pull my feet up to my ass and splay my knees obscenely. I fingered my little bush, grabbed it tight in my fist - the fine hairs were humid and soft like cornsilk. I pulled it hard.

"MnnN!"

The mewling cry is hardly a whimper, but still I'm afraid the neighbors might hear and stifle it by biting hard on my free hand.

My cunt was hot, soaking my fingers as I pushed them deep, imagining him eating her shaved pussy. His wet lips slid over hers, his tongue licking her hairless

cunt.

Pictured her watching him labor and smiling, amused at his subservience, but then losing herself in pleasure; her eyes hooded.

"Huh huh huh..."

I was huffing and gasping for breath. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this excited, this turned on

I stroked and fingered myself frantically, imagining the sounds she would make; listening to her moan in ecstasy. Felt an orgasm rising through me as I fantasized about the smooth feel of her skin against my tongue, her fingers in my hair, the tangy taste of her pussy as she bucked her hips against my face...