Sabrina and I were perched on the cracked concrete steps of Kylie’s backyard, surrounded by empty bottles and stubbed out cigarettes, our usual tension simmering beneath the surface. We weren’t friends—never had been—but we weren’t enemies either. Just two people who happened to orbit the same social circle, always one wrong word away from a fight.
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Kylie had stormed off after yet another argument between us, her parting shot hanging in the air like a dare. “You two should just kiss and get it over with.” The others followed her inside, leaving Sabrina and me alone in the dim glow of the porch light. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, until she turned to me, her lips curling into a smirk.
“I’m drunk enough,” she said, her voice low and careless. Before I could respond, her hand was on the back of my neck, pulling me in. Her lips crashed against mine, hot and insistent, and just like that, the tension snapped. My hands moved on their own, sliding up her sides, gripping her waist, pulling her closer. She tasted like cigarettes and coconut rum, her tongue tangling with mine in a way that made my head spin.
We didn’t stop. Not when the music from inside grew louder, not when someone walked past and whistled. We were a mess of hands and mouths, stumbling against the side of the house, her back pressed to the rough brick as I kissed her harder. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, her hips grinding against mine, and I could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her outfit.
“Upstairs,” she whispered against my lips, her breath warm and uneven. I nodded, too drunk and too desperate to think straight. We stumbled into the house, her hand in mine, her laughter ringing in my ears. She stopped at the bathroom, pushing me back with a playful shove. “Give me a minute,” she said, her eyes dark with promise. I leaned against the wall, my heart pounding, my cock already hard and straining against my jeans.
When she reappeared, she didn’t say a word. She just grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stairs. My palm slid down to cup her ass, feeling the curve of her through her dress as we climbed. We were almost at the top when Paul appeared, his grin wide and knowing. He stepped aside to let us pass, but as Sabrina walked into the bedroom, he slipped in behind her, shutting the door with a soft click.
I stood there, frozen, my hand still outstretched. From inside, I heard Sabrina’s voice, confused but not alarmed. “Where’d he go?”
Paul’s reply was casual, almost mocking. “He went back downstairs.”
“His loss,” she said, and then there was silence. A beat later, the sound of lips meeting, soft at first, then hungrier. My stomach twisted, but I couldn’t move. I listened as their breathing quickened, as the bed creaked under their weight. Sabrina’s laugh was low and throaty, followed by a sharp gasp. “Get your trousers off,” she demanded, her voice thick with need.
The sound of a zipper being pulled down was unmistakable. Paul groaned, his voice rough. “Your hand feels so good.” And then it started—the rhythmic creak of the bed, the muffled moans, the wet slap of skin against skin. My cock throbbed painfully in my jeans, my hand instinctively moving to adjust myself. I should have walked away. I should have gone downstairs, anything but stand there and listen. But I couldn’t.
Sabrina’s moans grew louder, more urgent, her voice breaking on Paul’s name. “Fuck,” she gasped, the word drawn out and trembling. Paul grunted in response, the bed slamming against the wall with every thrust. I could picture it—her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back, her head thrown back in ecstasy. The image burned itself into my mind, my hand moving faster over my cock as I listened to them fall apart.
It didn’t last long. Fifteen minutes, maybe less. The door opened suddenly, and Paul stepped out, his shirt untucked, his hair messy. He saw me standing there and laughed, shaking his head as he walked past. “Enjoy the show?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
When I stepped into the bedroom, Sabrina was lying on the stripped bed, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. She was still wearing her bra, her skirt pushed up around her waist, a used condom lying on the mattress beside her. She looked at me, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Pass me my thong,” she said, her voice calm and detached.
I retrieved it from the floor and handed it to her without a word, watching as she slipped it on and adjusted her skirt. She eventually stood, smoothing her hair with one hand, and glanced at me. “Why’d you disappear?”
I told her what happened, my voice flat and distant. She shrugged, her expression unreadable. “Oh well,” she said, brushing past me as she left the room. I stood there for a moment, my mind racing, before I noticed the condom still on the bed. For some reason, I felt compelled to clean it up. I picked it up, tied a knot in it, and carried it downstairs to throw it in the bin. It didn't even cross my mind who may see me holding this used condom as I walked through the house.
The party was winding down by then, the music quieter, the crowd thinner. I didn’t speak to Sabrina again that night. We never talked about what happened—not then, not ever. Within weeks, we were back to our usual bickering, as if that night had never happened. But I couldn’t forget it. The sound of her moans, the way Paul had smirked at me when he left the bedroom and how she looked, freshly fucked spread out on the bed… it stayed with me for a long time.