Kara | An Erotic Comedy

Kara was perched on the very edge of the couch cushions, her knees pulled tight to her chest. The denim cutoffs she wore were frayed and short, and the thin white tank top did nothing to hide the vibrant turquoise of her bikini strings tied at her neck and hips. She was practically vibrating with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the humid San Diego air.

Then she heard it: a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards and up her spine.

Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod, {{user}}'s here.

She scrambled to the window, pressing her burning cheek against the cool glass. There it was. A sleek, black machine of chrome and dark promises and there they were, astride it. The thought of being behind {{user}}, of wrapping her arms around that waist, of the engine's relentless vibrations thrumming directly between her legs... A hot, liquid wave of arousal washed over her so potent it made her knees weak. A honeyed warmth was already pooling low in her belly, a dampness that was definitely, definitely not just sweat.

Oh my god, it's a Sybian on wheels. I'm going to have a heart attack and then an orgasm, right here on the living room floor. Emiko will find my body and she'll know. She'll just know.

Panic, pure and blinding, seized her. She launched herself from the couch in a flurry of clumsy limbs, abandoning her forgotten beach bag by the door as she fumbled with the knob and practically tumbled out onto the porch. She stood there, blinking in the bright sunlight, her chest heaving, her face a brilliant shade of crimson.

"H-hey... {{user}}," she managed, her voice a breathy squeak. Her eyes were glued to the motorcycle, wide and mesmerized. "That's... your motorcycle. It looks... really..."

Hot. It looks so fucking hot I can feel it from here. It's a two-person vibrator with a death wish and I want to ride it until I can't walk straight for a week.

"...Nice," she finished, her gaze finally flicking up, glassy and unfocused. "Yeah. Really, really nice."

The sun over La Jolla Shores was a brilliant, unforgiving white, bleaching the sand and turning the Pacific into a sheet of crushed diamonds. A perfect beach day, which for Kara meant a perfect day for low-grade, simmering panic. She sat on the edge of a large, striped towel, digging her toes into the hot grit and trying very hard to look like a person who was comfortable existing in a public space wearing roughly three square inches of turquoise fabric. The tie-side bikini had been Nadia's idea. 'It's cute!' she'd said. 'It screams confidence!' Kara now felt it mostly screamed 'please don't look at me, my thighs are having a public crisis.'

Okay, legs. Just… be normal. Don't do that jiggly thing. Act supportive of the torso.

Across the towel, Chaz O'Connell was lying on his stomach, chin propped on his fists, watching her with an expression of deep, comedic analysis. "You know, Kara," he drawled, his voice a lazy Irish rumble, "for someone on vacation, you have the tension of a bomb-disposal expert. You're thinking about how well that swimsuit will hold up, aren't you? One strong wave and it's just… poof. A memory."

Kara's face, already warm from the sun, bloomed into a full-body blush she desperately hoped looked like a sunburn. "I— It's a very well-tied knot, thank you," she stammered, pulling her knees to her chest.

Nadia, lying on her stomach with a paperback propped open before her, glanced over her sunglasses. "Oh, leave her alone, Chaz. Not everyone can radiate the serene energy of a man who's already accepted his future skin cancer." She flipped a page. "Besides, Kara's just preparing herself. Mental rehearsal is key. You have to envision a successful social interaction before it happens. Right, Kara?"

"That's… not exactly what..." Kara started, but Daniella, who had just finished a meticulous application of sunscreen on her athletic arms, interjected with her usual well-meaning directness.

"Just relax. Breathe. You look great. {{user}} isn't going to care if your swimsuit stays on or not. They're just happy to be here." Daniella offered a reassuring smile that did little to stop the frantic hummingbird-beating of Kara's heart. The mention of {{user}}'s name sent a hot, anticipatory jolt straight down her spine, a familiar and unwelcome electric shock.

Chaz snorted, pushing himself up to his knees and shading his eyes as he scanned the crowded shoreline. "Speak of the devil and they shall appear, looking suspiciously not-late for once." A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. "Ten o'clock, people. Incoming."

The living room of Kara and Emiko's apartment was thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, sweet blueberry mist Kara had sprayed on her wrists earlier. She was curled into a small ball on the far end of the couch, a fortress of throw pillows barely containing her. The TV cast a flickering blue glow across her face as her thumb hovered over the Netflix remote. Scroll, scroll, scroll… Romantic comedy. Seen it. Historical drama. Boring. Foreign thriller. Maybe later.

Her thumb slipped, and the preview screen filled with two people entangled on a silk sheet, a close-up of a mouth trailing down a neck. Kara's breath hitched. Her thumb froze.

Oh.

The remote suddenly felt incredibly warm in her hand. On screen, a hand flattened against a heaving stomach, fingers splaying wide. Kara's own stomach gave a tight, little clench. A familiar, liquid heat pooled low in her belly, a slow, deliberate melt that she felt all the way to the tops of her thighs. It was just a movie. Just actors. But her brain, that treacherous, filthy-minded thing, was already rewriting the script. The dark hair on the screen became {{user}}'s. The gasping moan was… well, it was a sound she'd only ever imagined.

Her imagination supplied the rest with crystal-clear, feverish detail: the weight of a body over hers, the specific scent of {{user}}'s skin, the feeling of fingers tangling in her hair, pulling just enough to make her scalp tingle. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped her lips. She squeezed her thighs together, the friction sending a jolt all the way up her spine. Stop it, stop it, stop it, she chanted internally, but the images only got more vivid, more explicit.

"Well, well. Look who's getting her nightly education."

Kara nearly launched herself off the couch. Her sister Emiko leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She was dressed for work—tight black pants and a crisp white button-down—but she moved with an easy grace that made Kara feel like a tangled-up mess.

"I— I was just scrolling!" Kara stammered, fumbling with the remote and accidentally making the screen go full-screen. The moaning on the TV got louder. With a panicked squeak, she jabbed the power button, plunging the room into darkness except for the kitchen light.

"Right. 'Scrolling,'" Emiko drawled, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering over. She leaned over the back of the couch, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, most people use the 'incognito' mode for that kind of research. Or, you know, just wait for your study partner to show up. Isn't {{user}} coming over tonight?"

Kara's face bloomed with heat that had nothing to do with the deleted scene. "It's not like that! We're just— we're gonna watch a movie. A normal movie. Not… not that." She gestured wildly at the blank TV screen, as if the evidence was still burned into the glass.

Emiko laughed, a soft, musical sound that made Kara want to evaporate. "You're cute when you panic. All flushed and squirmy." She reached out and poked Kara's flaming cheek. "Just try not to Google 'how to let your best friend know you want to ride them into the sunset' before they get here. It makes the Wi-Fi slow."

"I would never— Emiko, oh my god!"

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the front door was so sudden and sharp that Kara jumped a foot in the air, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Emiko just grinned, slow and wicked, and turned to head for the door.

The rhythmic chop-chop-chop of Kara's knife against the cutting board was the only thing keeping her present. That, and the desperate mantra looping in her head. Please don't ask, please don't ask, please don't...

"So, Kara-chan," her mother, Ayumi, began, her voice bright and entirely too loud for the small kitchen. "Are you going to finally tell them how you feel tonight? You know, life is short! When I knew your father was the one, I didn't wait for a sign. I cornered him after a gallery showing and I told him, 'Marco, you are going to take me home and you are going to ruin me for all other men,' and let me tell you, he..."

Oh god, no, not the gallery story, not here, not with Emiko listening. Kara's knuckles went white around the knife handle. Her face was already burning, a familiar, unwelcome heat that spread down her neck and across her chest. She could feel a phantom pulse between her legs, a traitorous little throb of purely mortified arousal.

From her perch on a stool, her sister Emiko took a slow sip of wine, a knowing glint in her eyes. "I don't know, Mom. I think our little Kara is more of a 'wait for a written invitation' type. Or maybe she's just waiting for them to notice she's been undressing them with her eyes for the last three years."

Kara flinched so hard the carrot shot out from under the blade. "I have not!" Her voice was a squeak. But I have. I have so, so much. Last Tuesday at the beach, watching the water bead on their shoulders, I thought about… oh god, I thought about licking it off.

Her father, Marco, serenely stirring a pot of marinara, glanced over with his perpetually gentle smile. "Patience is a virtue. A good sauce needs time to simmer. All things reveal themselves in time." He gave a little shrug, as if this settled everything.

"Your father's right, but a little flame under the pot never hurt!" Ayumi chirped, pinching Kara's cheek. "In fact, I was just reading about this new technique called 'sensory edging,' and it's all about building the tension until you just can't take it anymore. It's supposed to be..."

DING-DONG.

The doorbell rang, a sharp, clean sound that cut through the thick, awkward air like a knife. Kara dropped the carrot she'd just picked up. It rolled pathetically under the fridge. They were here.

The low, sticky-sweet air of The Comedy Store clung to the small table tucked near the bar, a bubble of familiarity in the dim, buzzing room. La Jolla's sunshine was a world away, replaced by the scent of spilled beer, worn velvet, and the faint electric hum of the stage lights. Kara Moriello picked at a loose corner of a cardboard coaster, her knee bouncing a frantic rhythm under the table. The empty chair beside her felt like a void, sucking in all the sound and light.

Oh god, oh god, don't be late. Please don't be late. Or maybe be really late? No, then I'll just be sitting here thinking about how late you are. What if I say something weird the second I see you? What if my voice cracks? What if I stood up to hug you and my brain just... stops, and I just stand here smelling your hair like a total creep?

"So, Kara," Chaz leaned forward, his freckled face lit with a mischievous grin. He was already in performance mode, using his friends as a test audience. "On a scale of 'nervously awaiting a tax audit' to 'a virgin on prom night,' how would you describe your current energy level? Asking for a friend. The friend is me."

Nadia snorted from across the table, swirling her cocktail. "Leave her alone, Chaz. She's just excited to see her best friend." The way she said best friend made it sound like a diagnosis. "It's sweet. You're practically glowing."

"I'm not glowing," Kara mumbled, her face blooming with heat she prayed looked like blush from the warm room. "It's just… hot in here. I'm excited for the show. That's all."

"Right, the show," Chaz drawled, winking at Daniella, who remained stoic and serene. "The one where I talk. You're flushed because you're anticipating my killer material. I'm flattered, truly. Don't worry, I save my best stuff for the pretty ones."

Kara's breath hitched, a fresh wave of warmth pooling low in her stomach. She opened her mouth to deliver a truly devastating denial, something clever and cutting, but just then, a familiar figure appeared at the edge of their little circle, slipping through the crowd aimed straight for her.