Dares from My Best Friend

Simone sat cross-legged on the unmade bed in her one-bedroom apartment, laptop balanced on a stack of library books she still hadn’t returned, the glow of the screen the only real light in the room. She was twenty-two, barely a month out of college, and the job at the archive left her pale and tired and smaller than she already was. Five-two in socks. Thin wrists. Skin that never held a tan. She had stopped pretending she was going to change any of that.

Colette’s face filled the window on the call, twenty-four and already settled three time zones away in a city that had hired her the week after graduation. Same dark hair she used to braid on Simone’s couch. Same mouth that got them both in trouble at parties. The distance made the nightly calls feel necessary, and Simone had started looking forward to them the way other people looked forward to dinner.

“You look like a ghost,” Colette said, chin in her hand. “Turn a lamp on. I want to see you.”

Simone reached for the bedside lamp. Warm light hit her collarbones, the thin cotton of an old tank, the pale stretch of her thighs where her shorts had ridden up. She watched Colette’s eyes move and felt a stupid flutter low in her stomach.

“Better,” Colette said. “God, you’re tiny. I forget until I see you.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s not an insult.” Colette leaned closer to her own camera. Her voice dropped, the way it did when she was about to say something she shouldn’t. “Take your clothes off. I want to see all of you.”

Simone’s breath caught. The apartment was quiet. No roommate. No one in the hall. Just Colette’s face and the open line between them.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. We’ve been talking every night like nothing changed. Something changed. I miss looking at you. Strip for me. Slow. And don’t hide.”

Heat climbed Simone’s throat. She had never done this. Not for anyone. Her fingers found the hem of the tank anyway. She pulled it over her head and let it fall. Her breasts were small, pale, nipples already tight in the cool air. She watched Colette’s mouth part.

“Shorts,” Colette said. “And the panties. Stand up so I can see.”

Simone stood. The laptop camera caught her from the waist up until she angled it. She pushed the shorts down her narrow hips, then the plain cotton panties, and stepped out of both. Naked in her own bedroom, short and thin and white under the lamp, she felt the air on every inch of her. Her pulse hammered between her legs.

“Turn,” Colette said. “Slow. Hands at your sides. I want the whole picture.”

Simone turned. Shoulder blades. The shallow dip of her spine. The small curve of her ass. When she faced the camera again her cheeks were burning and her thighs had pressed together without permission.

“You’re wet already,” Colette said, almost wondering. “I can see it shining. You like being looked at.”

“I didn’t know I would.”

“Now you do.” Colette’s smile was sharp and fond at once. “Leave the camera on while you get in bed. Don’t touch yourself unless I say. Just let me look. That’s the dare. That’s how we start.”

Simone lay back on the sheets, legs a little open because closing them felt like cheating, and listened to Colette tell her what she saw: the flush across her chest, the way her nipples stayed hard, the slick at the seam of her cunt. By the time they said goodnight Simone was aching and obedient and wide awake, one hand fisted in the blanket so she wouldn’t break the rule.

The texts started the next afternoon.

Window. Lights on. Curtains open. Ten minutes. I want you naked against the glass.

Simone read it twice in the archive break room, phone hidden under the table, heat flooding her so fast she had to cross her legs. She typed back that she would. She meant it.

That night she killed every light except the one by the window and stood where anyone on the street could have looked up and seen a small pale woman with her palms on the glass. The street was quiet. A car passed. She didn’t move. Colette was on the phone, voice low in her ear.

“Press your tits to it. I want your nipples cold. Spread your feet. Let me hear you.”

Simone did. The glass was shockingly cold against her breasts. Her breath fogged a small circle. Between her legs she was already swollen, the ache from the night before unfinished and worse. She described it because Colette told her to: how the cold made her nipples ache, how her cunt clenched on nothing, how she wanted to rub herself against the window frame and didn’t, because she hadn’t been given permission.

“Good girl,” Colette said. “Stay like that until I hang up. If someone looks, you don’t cover. You let them.”

No one looked. The possibility was enough. When the call ended Simone sank to the floor with her back to the glass, shaking, soaked through, and didn’t touch herself. Colette hadn’t said she could.

The stairwell dare came two nights later, after a day of texts that kept Simone wet through her work pants. Colette wanted her out of the apartment. Down two flights. The landing between floors where the light was harsh and the door to the street sometimes opened if someone came home late.

Simone wore a coat and nothing under it. She checked the hall, heart slamming, and slipped out barefoot. The concrete was cold. On the landing she set the phone on the step, camera angled up, and let the coat fall open.

“Off,” Colette said from the speaker, quiet so it wouldn’t echo. “All the way. Hands on the rail. Bend.”

Simone shrugged the coat off her shoulders and let it pool. Naked under the fluorescent buzz, pale skin almost blue-white, she gripped the rail and bent the way she was told. The position opened her. Cool stairwell air licked her cunt. She heard her own breathing bounce off the walls.

“Tell me how exposed you are.”

“Completely,” Simone whispered. “If the downstairs door opens they’ll see my ass and my pussy. I’m dripping on the step. I can feel it.”

“Reach back. Two fingers. Show me how wet. Don’t come.”

Simone slid two fingers through her folds and held them up to the camera, shining. Her clit throbbed. A door somewhere below clicked and her whole body went rigid, fingers still slick, coat on the floor, nowhere to hide if footsteps started up. They didn’t. The click was only the building settling, or someone leaving. She stayed bent until her arms shook and Colette finally let her pull the coat on and run back upstairs, thighs sticky, pulse so loud she could taste it.

She came in the shower afterward with two fingers buried and Colette’s voice still in her head, and it wasn’t enough. She wanted the next order before she’d even dried off.

The park was worse, which meant it was better.

Colette sent the pin at nine. A path Simone knew, the one that cut behind the community garden and dead-ended at a bench half-swallowed by shrubs. After dark. No coat this time. A dress she could pull off in one motion. Phone on video, volume low, earbud in.

Simone walked the path in flat shoes, the cotton dress brushing her bare ass, no panties because the text had forbidden them. The garden was empty. Streetlights didn’t reach the bench. She stopped where Colette had told her to stop and peeled the dress over her head.

Night air on all of her. Grass under her feet. She was twenty-two and naked in a public park because her best friend had asked, and the want in her was so loud she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning at nothing.

“On the bench,” Colette said. “Knees apart. I want the camera between your thighs so I can watch your cunt while you talk to me.”

Simone sat. The wood was rough. She spread her knees wide and angled the phone, and the little screen showed her exactly as Colette would see her: pale inner thighs, a small dark-pink cunt already open and wet, clit peeking, her stomach rising and falling too fast.

“Touch it. Light. Just the outside. Tell me what you’d do if someone came down that path.”

“I’d stay open,” Simone said, and her voice cracked. She dragged two fingers along her slit, not pushing in, just spreading the wetness so it caught what little light there was. “I’d let them see how soaked I am. I’d ask you if I was allowed to cover up, and if you said no I wouldn’t.”

“You’re learning.” Colette sounded pleased, almost proud, and the praise went straight to Simone’s clit. “Circle it. Slow. I want you desperate and not finished. When you can’t sit still anymore, put the dress on and walk home with your fingers wet. No orgasm. Not tonight.”

Simone circled until her hips were jerking and a thin sound kept escaping her throat. Her pale skin was flushed from chest to cheeks. She stopped when Colette said stop, pulled the dress on over a body that didn’t feel like it belonged to her anymore, and walked home with her hand shining and her cunt pulsing at every step. In the apartment she stood in the dark and shook and didn’t come, because the rule was the point, and the point was making her ache until she would do anything Colette named.

By the end of the week she was answering texts before she finished reading them. Yes. Where. How long. How naked. Her body had started preparing for the calls the way it prepared for weather: nipples tight by eight, panties ruined by nine, a restless throb that only Colette’s voice could aim.

The overlook dare arrived on a Friday, late, while Simone was still in the dress from work and nothing else, waiting.

Drive. The pull-off past the old radio tower. Park facing the drop. Leave the headlights off. Strip outside the car. I want you on video the whole time, speaker on, and I want you to make yourself come where anyone driving that road could see you if they looked. Edge until I say. Then I want you ruined.

Simone read it on the bed with her thighs already pressed together. She typed I’m going, grabbed her keys, and didn’t bother with panties or a bra. The drive took twenty minutes. The road narrowed. The tower’s dark shape rose and fell behind her. The pull-off was empty, a gravel crescent and a low rail and the city glitter far below, moonlight enough to see her own hands on the wheel.

She parked. Killed the engine. Set the phone on the dash first so Colette could watch her get out, then carried it with her when she stepped into the night.

“I’m here,” she said.

“Show me.”

Simone propped the phone on the hood, camera high enough to catch her from the thighs up, and pulled the dress off over her head. It landed on the gravel. She stood naked beside the car, short and thin and shockingly pale in the moonlight, small breasts tipped hard, the neat patch of hair between her legs already damp. A breeze came up off the drop and she shivered, but not from cold.

“Legs apart,” Colette said through the speaker, clear in the open air. “Hands behind your head. Let me look before you touch.”

Simone laced her fingers behind her neck. The pose lifted her chest and opened her stance. Her cunt lips parted with the spread of her feet. She could feel how wet she was, a slow slide toward her thigh. If headlights came over the rise they would catch a naked woman displayed on the hood line of her own car, hiding nothing.

“You’re obscene,” Colette said, warm and filthy. “Look at that little pussy. It’s shining. Pinch your nipples. Hard. I want them red.”

Simone brought her hands down and pinched. The sting went straight to her clit. She rolled the stiff peaks between her fingers until they ached and her breath came out in little hits. Colette watched, silent for a stretch, then told her to turn, bend over the hood, and reach back to spread herself.

The metal was warm from the drive. Simone folded over it, cheek near the phone, ass up, and used both hands to pull her cheeks apart. Cool air hit her cunt and the tight furl of her ass. She was so exposed she made a broken sound.

“That’s it. Stay open. Tell me what you feel.”

“Empty,” Simone said. “Soaked. My clit is throbbing and I’m bent over my car where the road can see me and I don’t want to stop. I want your orders. I want to be your slut out here until I can’t stand.”

“Then earn it. Two fingers. Fuck yourself. Slow. Don’t come.”

She reached under and pushed two fingers into her cunt. The stretch was immediate, hot, slick enough that they sank to the knuckle with almost no resistance. She fucked herself in long strokes, the wet sound loud in the quiet, her small tits swaying against the hood. Every thrust rocked her. Her clit dragged nothing and suffered for it.

“Deeper. Curl. Tell me.”

“I’m—God—I’m dripping down my wrist. I can hear it. If a car comes they’ll see my ass and my fingers in my pussy and they won’t be able to miss how much I like it.” She curled and her knees nearly buckled. “Colette, please.”

“Not yet. Out. Rub your clit. Light. Count to thirty out loud. If you speed up I start you over.”

Simone pulled her fingers free, strings of wetness catching the moonlight, and set two fingertips on her swollen clit. She counted. One. Two. The circles were cruel and perfect. By twelve her hips were chasing her hand. By twenty she was panting numbers. At thirty Colette made her stop, made her slap her own cunt once, sharp, and bend over again.

“From behind. Three fingers if you can take them. I want to hear you struggle.”

Three was a stretch. Simone worked them in, moaning, the heel of her hand grinding her clit by accident until she adjusted because she hadn’t been told she could have that. She fucked herself bent over the hood, pale ass flexing, thighs shaking, the phone catching every obscene inch. A pair of headlights swept the rise and didn’t turn in. For three seconds she was lit—naked, stuffed full of her own fingers, mouth open—and then the dark came back and she was wetter than before.

“You liked that,” Colette said. “You clenched. I heard it. Edge again. Clit only. Don’t you dare finish.”

Simone straightened, legs spread wide on the gravel, and rubbed. Fast, then slow when Colette snapped at her to slow down. Her nipples stung when she pinched them with her free hand. She described every sensation because she had been ordered to: the pulse in her clit, the emptiness of her cunt, the way her pale thighs were slick to the knees, the fear and the want braided so tight she couldn’t tell them apart. Twice she got close enough that her voice broke into a whine and Colette said stop, and she stopped, shaking, cunt fluttering on nothing, obedient and furious and grateful.

“On the hood. On your back. Knees up and open. I want the camera between them. Finger your pussy and your clit together, and when I say come, you come like the filthy little exhibitionist you are. Loud. I don’t care who hears.”

Simone climbed onto the warm hood, phone propped between her spread knees, and the angle was pornographic: her small pale body, breasts heaving, cunt spread and shining, clit swollen and bare. She pushed two fingers back inside and set her other hand on her clit and fucked herself in earnest, the wet slap of it carrying in the night.

“Now,” Colette said. “Come. Squirt if you can. Show me what a desperate slut does when she’s told.”

Simone broke. Her fingers plunged deep and her clit burned under frantic circles and the orgasm hit so hard her back arched off the metal. She cried out, loud, shameless, the sound bouncing off the rail and the dark. Her cunt clamped and then gushed, a hot rush over her fingers and onto the hood, pale thighs suddenly drenched, another spurt when she didn’t stop rubbing because Colette was still talking, still praising the mess, still telling her to keep going, don’t you hide it, let it pour. She squirted again, sobbing through it, vision whiting out, body jerking, the exhibition of it making the climax meaner and longer. She rode it until her arms gave and she was sprawled open on the hood, cunt still twitching, release cooling on her skin, moonlight on every filthy inch.

She shuddered through the last waves, thighs glistening, breath wrecked. On the screen Colette’s face was bright with satisfaction.

Simone didn’t blow a kiss. She spread her ruined cunt wider with two sticky fingers so the camera couldn’t miss the mess and said, voice hoarse, “Tomorrow I’ll do whatever public dare you send, riskier than this, because nothing has ever made me feel more like your filthy little show-off.”

Colette’s answer was a low laugh. “Then keep that pussy open until I hang up. Let it drip on the hood. I want the last thing I see to be how wrecked and ready you are.”

Simone held herself open under the moon, wet and shining and still pulsing, and the last thing she gave the call was the slick, obscene sound of two fingers pushing back into her soaked cunt while she moaned, “I’m your public slut, Colette—tell me where to strip and come tomorrow and I’ll flood the ground for you.”