Boy Howdy Are We

When you enter her room, Pearl is seated on her bed, setting up a local multiplayer game of Rocket League. Usually whenever you’re in here with her she would be sprawled lazily across said bed, or draped across her spinning desk chair. Instead, she’s awkwardly perched on the corner of her mattress, as the chair, much of the floor, and ninety percent of the bed are covered in various piles of clothing. Looks like she’s cleaned out her entire closet. You didn’t even realize she had this much clothing. Given how much everything she wears (wore) looks (looked) almost exactly the same to you, you figured she had, like, five total outfits, max.

“Uh, sorry about the mess. Was planning on having most of this gone by the time you got here, but I kinda got carried away.” She stacks a couple piles on top of each other in an effort to make more space.

‘Mess’ is a bit of strong word; all the various pieces are in fact in neat, orderly groups (Pearl’s hardly a slob), but they do make the typically minimalist room a little tricky to navigate.

“Since some asshole decided to completely upend what I like to wear, I gotta reorganize my whole closet. This is just the aftermath. Stuff I’m gonna hold on to is on that side of the room, the rest I’ll give to charity or something.” You notice the ‘keep’ section is less than half the size of the ‘not-keep’ section.

She doesn’t sound like she’s all that actually put-off. More like she might be looking forward to it. Score one for the asshole, hopefully?

“Oops,” you offer.

Pearl psh-es. “Tell that to my bank account when I empty it tomorrow trying to find the skimpiest possible clothing I can legally wear outside.”

…Score two for the asshole. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Striding forward into Pearl’s room, you deign to set the pizza upon a pile of hoodies near the center of the bed, but before you can get there you slip on something soft and silky.

In an instant, the pizza and plates are airborne. Pearl shouts and rushes to catch them safely in her arms, rescuing them from an unfortunate fate of floordom.

The same cannot be said for yourself. With no cute girl to catch you, you immediately eat carpet.

Your recovery, if it can be called that, is less than graceful. Rubbing your head, you arise and stumble a little before collapsing into a pile of sweatpants near her pillow.

“Good to know you’ll prioritise your pizza over me. Thanks for that. What did I…?” you untangle whatever it is from your foot and hold it up to reveal a pair of feminine purple underwear.

You freeze. Your first reaction is to go into deer-in-the-headlights mode as you take in your friend’s crotch-cloth and the fact that it’s in your hand. Pearl seems far more nonchalant than you as she grabs it back.

“Shit, uh, sorry about that. Was wearing those earlier. Had to take them off. Long story.” She doesn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed about you suddenly holding her delicates, only that you almost knocked out a tooth tripping on them.

She hastily leans down to pick up something else on the floor holy mcjesus that is a lot of cleavage. Monumental, gorgeous tittalage. Staring right at you from your best friend’s chest.

The other thing on the floor turns out to be a bra to go with the panties, and find yourself thanking god she removed it, cause she certainly isn’t wearing one now, and it makes the sight all the sweeter. Her breasts hang unconstrained as she bends over, a valley of smooth skin between them. Two mounds of soft, unconstrained flesh, calling for your attention, drawing you in. Some feeble neuron in the back of your brain screams at you that as her friend and as someone hopefully vaguely resembling a gentlemen you should really be looking literally anywhere else right now, but you find it impossible to pry your eyes away. It's like staring at a horrific car crash. Except completely different. Because boobs.

Pearl seems conveniently oblivious to your lecherous gaze, and turns to stash the undergarments, giving you respite from the siren song of her mammaries. You take the moment to try and pull yourself together.

“So, uh, what, um, why are you- what’s with your- with the outfit?”

Nailed it.

Somehow, she must have seen through your meticulously crafted composedness, as she gives you a weird look in response to your perfectly stable speech.

“Well, you made it so whenever I hang in my room I’m only comfortable in the bare minimum, and this is the loosest outfit I could find that wouldn’t make Macy think I was trying to seduce you or something.”

Yeah, heaven forbid she manage to do that.

“I’m not even wearing anything underneath, look.” She slides her shorts down just far enough for you to behold her very bare hip.

You find yourself wishing you had worn sweatpants or something. These jeans are getting rather uncomfortable.

You honestly can’t tell if this girl is being a masterful, supremely unfair tease, or if she’s just utterly oblivious. Is this her attempt to act normal? Is this what Pearl thinks friends do? Go, ‘look how little I’m wearing lol’ and practically flash them? Is this meant to be platonic behaviour? You did kind of completely redefine her relationship with privacy and propriety, so maybe she honestly believes this to be your dynamic now.

“Hell, earlier I was wearing that and nothing else.” She points a thumb at a baggy graphic tee lying on top of the ‘keep’ pile.

And now you can’t scrub your brain clean of the image of Pearl wrapped in just a loose shirt, the hem billowing around her waist as it’s pushed outward around her full, freely floating breasts, her bare ass peeking out every time it rides up, the entirety of her thighs on display goddamnit this isn’t fair.

You steel yourself and will your head to think only unsexy thoughts. Slugs. Haggis. That time Sully accidentally squirted frog guts directly into your mouth during a ninth grade bio lab.

That last one may have been a little much. But you owe it to your best friend to not be a horndog for one night. You pick up a controller.

“Let’s play.”

A couple of hours later and you’re knee-deep in the most vigorous gaming tournament you have yet to experience in your short life. Pearl even broke out a bottle of Mountain Dew and a couple of glasses so as to be extra on-the-nose. Not that it’s done you any good.

Three matches of Rocket League turned into six rounds of Mortal Kombat 7, which turned into twenty minutes of some obscure hell-themed rhythm game, which turned into some very aggressive Mario Kart. At this point, it’s safe to say you’re not holding your own.

It’s true that you were never quite as adept at general gaming as Pearl, but your efforts tonight have actually been kind of pathetic. Channeling your sexual frustration into your controller has done you no favours. In your defense, though, you’ve got the world’s most damning distraction seated right next to you.

Pearl has only gotten more pumped as the night has bled on, and while many men might find the object of their apparent affection passionately shouting at a screen and insulting their livelihoods in increasingly creative and joyous ways to be a turnoff, to you it only serves as a reminder for just how Pearl she still is and just how drawn to her you remain. It doesn’t help that you could swear she was using that to her advantage.

Whenever you’ve gained a leg up, she inches oh-so-closer to you, until her crossed knee is basically resting against your groin. Whenever she pulls off an easy win, Pearl shoves you playfully and mockingly, her touch lingering longer and longer each time. At one point, your kart manages an early lead, but Pearl decides the moment is ripe to just completely flop down across your lap, all while maintaining eye contact with the screen. But there’s now a girl lying on you, and there are boobs right in front your face, and they’re moving, and your kart has veered off the track into space.

Luck is on your side, though, finally, because you somehow manage to gain the upset while simultaneously willing your dick to remain still, despite it being snug against her back (seriously, how is she not feeling that?). A well timed green shell allows to you pull ahead in the final lap, and your Princess Peach passes her King Boo just before crossing the finish line. Your victory cry is cut short by Pearl tossing her controller to the side and tackling you in friendly frustration.

“You- utter- asshat- I can’t believe you’d- compromise- our- friendship- like that!” Pinning you against her bed, she punches your shoulders into the mattress in time with her reprimands.

Finally, she collapses onto her elbows, her body resting against yours, her hips settling between your legs. Pearl’s face, still etched in playful anger, glares at you a few inches from your own. You can feel her exerted breath against your lips.

Having won its battle against your mental fortitude and lost to ardent woman on top of you, your shaft presses hard against her pelvis. There’s no way she doesn’t feel it this time. Through two layers of fabric, you can feel the stiffened buds at the ends of her breasts as they squish against your ribcage, implying she does indeed, and maybe all your efforts to conceal were unneeded.

Feeling tentative but enabled, you slowly reach one of your hands to softly cup her ample backside. Her eyes widen a smidge.

Your other hand ghosts along the top of her thigh, and you know that if you were to move your fingers up under her shorts they would meet nothing but wet, soft folds, eager for your touch. For filling à la the pole pressing against her. Her breath catches visibly in her throat.

“I don’t think it’s me who’s compromising the friendship right now,” you manage weakly.