24. Claire
24
CLAIRE
C laire’s diary, September 8th, 2015.
Is there something between friend and boyfriend?
Friends who fall asleep talking on the phone?
Friends who think about each other all day?
Friends who sometimes kiss?
Claire’s diary, September 12th, 2015.
I had a dream last night.
In my dream, I’m riding Calypso in full dressage. Tight slacks, button up shirt, blazer on top. I’m performing for the Summer Fair. Calypso and I ride around the track, performing for a faceless crowd. They never once clap or cheer. They just watch as I perform endless tricks, unable to stop.
Suddenly, Ransom is there. He appears in the saddle behind me, his body tight against mine.
“Don’t worry about them,” he says in my ear. “Just listen to my voice.”
I close my eyes. I can feel his breath on my back of my neck.
With the two of us in the saddle, I’m forced forward in the seat. I’m trapped between him and the saddle horn. The thick, leather knob fits itself between my legs. Every time Calypso trots, the horn rubs devilishly against my pussy.
I squirm, dropping my heels, trying to get away from it. But Ransom’s body closes in tighter, pressing me harder against it.
I moan. The erotic friction is too much.
“That’s it, princess.” His breath hits my ear. “You’re doing so good.”
“There are people watching,” I whisper.
“Then show them how perfect you are.”
I’m burning hot. My dressage outfit feels like a corset holding me together. Ransom’s hands open my blazer. He grabs my shirt and rips the buttons off. My breasts fall free, naked and bouncing in the saddle. And I…
I like being on display.
His prize. His princess. His perfect, good girl to ruin.
I’m wet. So wet as I mash my cunt against the horn, openly rutting on the saddle now, not caring who is watching.
This feels too good. I’m dizzy with the pleasure of it, a slave to my own desire. My thighs quiver and everything in me focuses in on that horn. I grip his thigh. I dig my nails in. It’s too good, and when I realize I’m close I panic and tell him, “Please, I can’t take any more…”
He growls in my ear. “Yes. You can. Show everyone you’re mine.”
His strong hands grip my thighs, holding them apart. Now, I can’t escape. I’m forced to enjoy this erotic friction, to unravel…in front of an audience.
My head falls back against his shoulder. I cry out, bucking against the horn. Pleasure rushes through my body, red-hot waves of it. Ransom murmurs in my ear, coaxing me through it.
I woke up covered in sweat. I found myself on my belly, sheets twisted underneath me, grinding out the last pulses of my orgasm into my mattress.
It was hard to focus the rest of the day. It kept playing in my mind. When Ransom called later that day, I found myself fumbling at the sound of his voice.
He could tell something was up. So, face in my hands, I confessed my filthy little dream to him.
He went quiet for a second and I thought I was going to die of embarrassment.
Me: “Heeeello?”
Him: “Yep. I’m still here.”
Me: “It’s weird. I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Him: “No…no. That ain’t it. I’ve just got two hours left in my shift and I don’t think I’m gonna survive it.”
Me: “So…take a break.”
He did. He asked me to tell him the dream again, in more detail. This time, when I told it to him, I got back in bed, took off my pants, and touched myself.
I listened to his breathing change to something faster, tighter. I heard the light clicking of his belt buckle.
I’ve discovered my new favorite sound. Ransom moans.
I have a new title for us.
Friends who sometimes get off on the phone together.
Claire’s diary, September 14th, 2015.
Anne Roseberry is this year’s Belleflower Queen. I know it’s my duty as a Promise Sister to guide her through her coronation day (get her dressed in her gown, serve her from her goblet, fit her crown over her head, attend the parade, giggle and prance around with the other Sisters like little girls) but I couldn’t do it. I called Arris, sniffling, and made up some story about being sick.
I’m afraid if I go, I might smash her stupid face in with the stupid crown.
I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.
Why her? Why not me?
I’ve been too distracted on you-know-who.
My not boyfriend.
This is stupid. I am stupid.
Next year is going to be my year. It has to be. Otherwise, what the fuck am I doing?