The great thing about shopping with Lita, Monica thought, was that they both had the same style. Lita didn’t know Mohommed, and sometimes she’d wear a shirt that showed off her belly, but for the most part, they had the same taste—stylish and conservative, but sexy. Her outfits were the only thing her dear Dr. Weston got, after all, she had to make it worthwhile.

They bought matching jumpsuits, Lita’s in burgundy, Monica’s in forest green. Monica loved being stylish and in the mall, with her gorgeous friend, the center of attention no matter where they went. All the little voices in her head said it wasn’t important, and she acknowledged that, but it was fun, so much fun.

They walked into Victoria’s Secret and it was as close to bad as Monica could get. She always protested when they did it, because Monica wasn’t allowed to have anything lurid, and so it was just for show. And, of course, for James, where the occasional negligee or boustier would make its appearance, shocking him, because he never thought she was that kind of girl.

Lita had an armful of sinfully small, tiny pieces of fabric. She hardly dated, Monica knew, but when she did she must have made them very, very happy. Monica had one bra that was allowed, and three that would never see her dresser, lest her mother put her in the convent. At the dressing room they found the same unhappy salesgirl who didn’t want to check in the back for Lita’s favorite in a 34C.

“There’s only one room open.” She said and then looked past them.

Monica smiled, “It’s okay, I can wait.”

“It’s gonna be a while.” ‘Anne’ offered no further explanation.

But Lita didn’t smile, and didn’t take the key, she only scowled at the salesgirl. “We’ll use the same room.”

Anne gave a look and a sigh, “You can’t do that, and besides, you’d have too many items together to do that.”

Monica’s heart was racing—the same changing room? She’d done it before with Lita, and it had been tiny and they’d been elbowing and bumping into each other the entire time. But that was at Nordstrom’s, trying on jeans. She was too distracted to hear Lita’s response, too distracted to notice that it was directed at her.

“Hey,” And this time Lita elbowed her, “Grab the key, let’s go.”

It was the first door in, slightly larger than Monica’s closet, which made it twice the size of the changing rooms at Nordstrom’s. She wondered, off-hand, if it was the handicapped dressing room, and thus bigger than the rest. That’s the way it worked in bathrooms, right?

Lita pulled her shirt off immediately, smooth bronzed skin, without a tan line or a blemish, supporting Ben’s title. Her bra was low cut, un-patterned and black. She looked over at Monica and laughed, “What?” When Monica just shook her head, she turned around and said across her shoulder, “Can you get this for me?”

“Um,” Monica backed up a little, “No? I’d kind of feel weird about it.”

Lita reached back quickly and unclasped the strap, letting it fall forward, down her arms. Then she turned toward Monica, smiling crookedly, tiny pink nipples standing up on perfect, little breasts. “Weird?! Come on, they’re tits! You’ve got them, I’ve got them, you should be comfortable with them. They’re not dangerous. Really.”

Monica smiled sheepishly, “I’ve only seen mine and my sister’s. And yours, now. And stuff on the Internet.”

“On the Internet,” Lita stepped closer to Monica, and whispered conspiratorially “You look at porn?”

“No!” Monica whispered back, “But you can’t be on the Internet and not see breasts. You know that.”

“Sure…” Lita nodded. “You want to touch ‘em?”

“No!” And then Monica recoiled, bumping into the mirror.

“Good, because these are reserved for serious customers!”

And when Lita laughed, Monica felt relief, but for what she couldn’t say. She wanted to go, to tell Lita that she’d wait for the next dressing room, that she was just a silly, Muslim girl who couldn’t get over her silly, Muslim girl ways. But she didn’t know how Lita would respond, and she sort of knew she’d be mad, and she might even lose her as a friend, so instead of saying anything, she pulled off her shirt.

“Oh my God,” Lita whispered, “They’re huge! You’re a porn star!”

Monica blushed, all the way from her cheeks to her chest, her dark skin taking a reddish tint. Finally she stammered, in even more of a whisper, “You know my size!” She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping to make it look like mock indignation when really she felt incredibly vulnerable.

Lita laughed again and turned around, picking up the turquoise gel bra. She slipped it on and turned back to Monica, whispering, as she did, “Even with this, I’m still not your size!”

Monica forced a laugh as she reached behind her, unhooking her bra. It fell off, and she quickly picked up the most plain of the bras she’d picked out, a white sports bra with black piping, pulling it on in one, fluid motion.

“Your nipples,” Lita said, watching her, “Are so big. It’s not fair!”

With that she began to unbutton her pants, revealing the top of her panties, which matched the now discarded bra. She turned away from Monica, who smiled to herself, because she didn’t expect Lita to suddenly get shy on her. The pants fell down around her ankles and she stepped out of them. No tan lines, the same bronzed color all across her body, made more obvious by the tiny triangle of black fabric that made up the top of the thong.

Monica blushed further and then Lita did something she was entirely unprepared for. Still turned away from her, she stuck her thumbs in the band of her thong and pulled it down, slowly, legs straight, bending forward until Monica was looking right at everything that men wanted. She gasped.

“What are you doing!?!” She whispered, and hoped she sounded like her mother.

Lita turned around, planting her legs apart and putting her hands on her hips in a look of pure defiance. No tan lines, anywhere. There, Monica saw, running up from—it—was a perfect line of close-cropped blonde hair, the length and width her forefinger. She stood transfixed, staring at that precision-trimmed field of quarter-inch long hair.

“I want to see if this matches,” Monica didn’t even notice that Lita wasn’t holding or referring to anything. “And I’m not going to wear it over—”

Lita’s voice trailed off, and both girls looked toward the dressing room door, there were voices outside—male voices. Saying something, getting a response from the salesgirl.

“Great.” Lita said, “Now there’s a bunch of pervs out there.” She was about to continue but when she saw the look on Monica’s face, she forgot what she was going to say, instead whispering, “What’s wrong?”

The silly little Muslim girl was doomed. She was in the changing room of a lingerie store, with a half-naked girl, when she was supposed to be at school, and fifteen feet away stood destruction.

“It’s my brother.” The words were barely audible. “And his friends.”

“What?!” Lita was whispering, too. They were both facing the door, now, Lita’s hands on Monica’s shoulders. Her lips right against Monica’s ear, hot, saying, “What are they doing here?”

Monica wanted to shrug Lita away from her but she was frozen, she listened to the voices speak some Arabic, and then whispered back, “They’re looking for something for Dubai’s girlfriend.”

Dubai’s real name was Raif Ali Ab-Zerid, but everyone called him Dubai, the city that his father owned half of. The father that provided him with his many toys. Monica didn’t like Riki spending time with him, didn’t want him to think that money was so important, but Dubai was a rock star among the Arabs at school.

“It’s okay,” Lita said, this time her lips brushed against Monica’s ears, and goosebumps ran down her body—she was glad she had the sports bra on. “We’ll just stay in here until they go.”

“You don’t understand, if my brother realizes I’m in here…”

“Well then you’d better be quiet!” Lita whispered. “Don’t worry, though, if it comes down to it, I’ll run out with no pants on, and you can sneak off when they chase after me. You can count on your Lita!”

Monica smiled and felt a little less worried. She listened to the boys, who’d made their way to the back of the store, near the dressing room. They were speaking Arabic, laced with cursing, expecting no one to understand them. It made her angry to listen, but she did.

“Any girl who rolls with Dubai knows the rules:  She rides in my Benz, she rides on my cock.  She eats my food, she eats my cum.”

“Oh man, you’re filthy!” It was her brother, and she couldn’t help but think, way to go, Riki! Way to stand up for being decent!

“Yeah, I’m filthy, every fucking night. And you wish you could be, too.”

“Hey!” This time it was Hakeem, who Monica had yet to see demonstrate one redeemable trait. “You guys aren’t going to believe this, but there two girls in that dressing room. Man, don’t look! Be sly. I saw their feet.”

Monica recoiled, pushing up against Lita, who wrapped her arms around her stomach, as if she was catching her.

“What is it?” Lita asked, slowly, right next to her, again creating gooseflesh all over Monica’s body.

“It’s—They know there’re two of us.”

Monica could feel Lita smile against her ear, “Do they know it’s us?” Monica only shook her head.

“And they’re right out there…” Lita’s voice, soft and liquid, had taken on a different tone, “Then you’d better not make a sound.”

Monica noticed that Lita’s hands were moving, around her stomach, her hips. What was she doing?! She wanted to scream but she knew that her brother would see her with no shirt, Lita wearing even less, and how would she explain it? Lita’s hand crept upward, until she felt its back against the bottom of the breast. She could feel Lita’s knuckle and thumb pressing through the fabric.

“Lita, don’t!” She whispered, furtively, “I don’t—”

“Quiet, quiet or they’ll know,” Lita said back, as if for emphasis, she licked Monica’s ear, her tongue, like her hands—like all of Lita—strong, sensual. “Trust me, Monica, you’ll want this.”

Monica stood rigid, Lita’s right hand on her right hip, slowly massaging, grasping. The fingers of her left reached under Monica’s bra and slowly, teasingly, pulled it up. She felt the fingertips against the smooth flesh of her chest, and the fear of staying in the room or leaving it, and Lita’s tongue, her lips and hot breath against her ear.

The tension of it all culminated in the tight, dark mounds of flesh that tipped each of Monica’s breasts—a tension Lita’s fingertips showed no signs of reducing. Monica heard her say something, but there was too much breath, and it came out like a low growl, and when as she said it her whole body shuddered and she pressed Monica against her. Lita felt like a furnace.

“I’ve always wanted to do this.” Lita whispered as Monica tried to concentrate on the voices, outside, but couldn’t, then she felt a hand on her zipper, “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

Lita’s hand reached down, against the bushy hair of Monica’s crotch, and it felt so warm as to be unreal. It was hot, it was fire, she was burning her. She reached down, under the hair, her other hand squeezing her breast, now her nipple, now carressing her face, the crooks of her elbows pressing against her chest and hip.

The hand touched her special spot, first under the lips, then pushing them apart and rubbing it directly. Lita’s hand still felt so hot, and Monica thought she’d have to know she wasn’t wet, didn’t want this. And then she must have realized, because the hand pulled away.

And Monica began to think about what had just happened, whether she and Lita could still be friends, when she heard that voice in her ear say, “Don’t be scared, I’ll make you feel so good.” And then Monica felt Lita’s lips open, felt Lita put her fingers in her mouth, felt Lita lick them, all of it against Monica’s ear.

And the hand went back, and the other resumed its exploration of Monica’s chest and neck. Lita pulled a little away from Monica’s ear, concentrating more as she rubbed her spot, as she furtively touched Monica inside and around. She wasn’t quite in the right position, Monica realized, but Lita seemed as frozen in her spot as Monica was.

She tried to concentrate on the Arabic, on Dubai’s filthy voice saying, “ Besides, why should I respect these girls, they don’t even fucking respect themselves.”

“American girls, fine. But if you ever did that with my sister… It’s good bye, Dubai.”

Their friends laughed, but Dubai was silent.

“Your sister,” He laughed, “I’ll have to wait until that black guy is done with her.”

Riki’s voice grew low, “They’re just friends.”

Lita’s nail pinched her, she jerked back and Lita grabbed her butt and pressed it into her hand. She was getting wet now, and swollen, and it did feel good, but she didn’t want to think about it.

“Friends? Little, innocent Monica. She doesn’t talk to guys. I guess she was saving up—for a big, black stud. When he’s done with her…”

“Watch it, man.”

The warmth.

“Don’t tell me to watch it, when you don’t even know what your own sister is up to.”

The weight.

“They’re just—”

“Tell me,” Dubai said, “Where is she right now?”

“In class. Where you’re supposed to be.”

The waves.

“No she’s not,” Smugness, “She almost made it to class, I saw it with my own eyes, but somebody called her. Somebody important, because she just turned around and walked off.”


“Settle down, what’s the worst that could happen? They’re just—Riki. Goddammit!” The voice was fading, but then it yelled out, in smoothly-accented English, “Goodbye ladies!”

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