Want

Sitting in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, applying a coat of lipgloss, my eyes should, ideally, be focused on my own face. Instead, they follow her. She stands behind me, examining her five-foot-nine, perfect size ten figure clad in nonchalantly uncoordinated underwear. She spins on the balls of her feet, turning herself to reach the dress she spilled her glass of coke down earlier. Of course she knows I'm still looking when she replaces the floral tea dress with the brown stain on the chest, but she loves an audience - whoever it may comprise of. She leaves the buttons undone so that her small, pert breasts peek out from the thin layer of material. Smiling at me in the mirror, she bends down and states, "I need lipgloss," before pulling my face round to hers and brushing her pale pink mouth against mine.

"Now, stop staring at my tits and get ready - I wanna go out."

I stood up beside her then, ignoring the beginning of her sentence. At an average five-six, with my buxom chest and unruly maine of dirty-blonde hair, I pale in comparison to her. She always looks sexy. Effortlessly so - with her olive skin, dark hair, eyes darker still, she barely ever wore make-up yet maintained the title of 'best looking girl' wherever we went.

"C'mon then, slut," I smiled, grabbing her soft hand. God, I need a boyfriend.