The Four-Day Weekend: Part I

It was the coolest thing I could have asked for: my mom was leaving on a business trip and leaving me totally in charge of the house for four whole days. What’s more, she had made arrangements with my best friend’s parents to have her stay with me. Minda and I had been best friends since we were little, and were always staying over at each others’ houses, but never for this long. And that was the year I turned sixteen, and she was leaving me the car for us to use.
“I don’t want anyone in this house other than you and Minda, do you understand me, Amy? And I don’t care what time you go to bed, but I want you both inside and the door locked behind you at ten sharp. And I’ll be calling to check that you’ve done just that, okay?”
These were the conditions my mom had laid out. Other than the curfew and personnel restrictions, we were free to do as we pleased.
These were the conditions under which I discovered my sexuality.
Some coworkers came to pick Mom up at about one on Friday afternoon. I hugged her goodbye and waved as they all drove off. I watched them until they turned out of sight, and then shut the door, leaned back against it, and grinned.
The house was mine.
The first thing I did was call up Minda. “She’s gone,” I said when she picked up the phone.
“Sweet. Let’s hit the mall!”
I drove over to her house to pick her and her stuff for the weekend. We said our goodbyes to her parents and little brother, and then we were off.
“Woo!” she cried, stretching her arms out the open window. “Feedom!”
I grinned at her. “A whole four days of just you and me. It’s gonna be awesome!”
Minda’s mom was from Spain, and had given heavily to her daughter in the genetics department. She had dark skin and long hair, and her large, slightly slanted eyes were a deep brown. She was a little shorter than me, but very skinny. Her breasts were smaller than average, so she usually wore clothes that showed off her well-rounded butt. Today, that was a tight pair of jeans and an orange spaghetti-strap top that showed a lot of midriff. I could see the top of her underwear peeking out in the back.
I was a pretty typical suburban white girl. I have blue eyes and brown hair, though it’s a much lighter shade than Minda’s. It was summertime and I’d been lying out in the backyard recently, so I’d developed a decent tan. I was a little more curvy than Minda; my bra size was in the large B range at the time, I think, and I have wide hips to match. I was wearing khaki shorts and a peasant blouse.
We spent several hours at the mall, running in and out of shops, trying stuff on and buying way more than we should have. We saw some of our friends from school there, chatted with them a while, grabbed a bite at the food court, and headed home.
It was probably about eight or nine by the time we arrived, dragging a dozen shopping bags in with us. We hauled them upstairs to my room, dropped them on the floor, and flopped onto the bed, spent.
After a few minutes Minda sat up. “So what’re we going to do this weekend? Party?”
I shook my head. “Mom says nobody in the house but you and me.” And I was going to stick to that. Mom trusted me, and I wasn’t going to ruin that by breaking one of the only two rules she’d set for this trip. Besides, if I came through this weekend with the house still intact, she might let this sort of thing happen again.
She nodded, understanding. She knew my dad had run out on us when I was still a baby, and so my mom and I were pretty tight. Besides, she treated Minda almost like a second daughter.
“Well,” she said, scooting off the bed and unzipping her pants, “I’m going to try on that skirt with that white shirt.”
This was our favorite hobby: trying on and modeling clothes in the full-length mirror I had hanging from my closet door. We’d done it for as long as either of us could remember, and were more than comfortable in various stages of undress in front of each other. And with the shopping trip, we had all kinds of outfits to combine and try.
“Try it with the black slacks, too,” I said, standing up too. “Those looked really good on you.”
She smacked her ass, now clad only in a black thong. “Damn right they did.”
We laughed and dug in. We tried on clothes and made suggestions to each other and switched for what must have been an hour.
Somewhere in there, I found myself trying one of my new skirts with an older red-and-white-striped tank top and frowning at the results. “I don’t remember this shirt being this tight,” I said.
“It’s ‘cause your boobs are bigger,” Minda replied. She was back in her jeans, but had left them undone, and a form-fitting maroon shirt.
I huffed a sigh. “I don’t need them to get any bigger!” I cried. “They’re big enough as it is!”
I tried to shift the tank top around to make it more comfortable, but it didn’t work. In time I noticed that Minda had been staring at me.
“What?”
Minda didn’t answer right away. “Can I ask you something, Amy?”
I gave her a look. She was being awfully serious. “Of course.”
She bit her lower lip, then said, “What’s it like having breasts that big?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not as great as everyone seems to think it is,” I said. “My back gets sore sometimes, and it hurts to run, and boys are always staring at me.”
Minda didn’t say anything for a while, long enough for me to start to wonder about her. She was never like this. “Are you okay?” I finally asked.
“Can I…” she swallowed, and tried again, “Can I… touch them?”
My head reared back.