Purple Panties
I wear them.
Under my jeans as I go about my errands, I wear them like a dirty little secret. They’re nothing special—no lace, no silk, no thong—just plain, everyday cotton bikinis. The kind I’ve always worn, the kind I’ll always wear. But they’re purple, and you know they’re purple, and that makes them sexy. Just the idea that you’ve thought about my panties makes it impossible for me to look at them, to touch them, to wear them without thinking about you.
Without thinking about sex.
I remember that day you guessed the color, out of the blue as if reading my thoughts. A case of psychic powers used for evil? Your grin was the grin of a cat with a mouthful of canary. You had to have known what your words would do to me.
At night I dream of you standing behind me, your chest pressed against my back and your arms encircling me. Your cock is like a hot, steel bar wedged in the crease of my bottom. I dream your hand sliding down my torso past the waistband of my jeans and under the thin, snug elastic of those purple panties. Between my folds, so slick and hot for you, your fingertips briefly tease my clit before they slip down my furrow and one thick finger pushes inside.
I dream your mouth on the tender spot where my neck and shoulder meet, first lips then tongue then teeth, the bristle of facial hair raising goose bumps all across my skin. The muscles of my belly are clenched tight. They ache with wanting you. They ache with the denial of my own need, put aside for so long, two years of casual flirting and meaningful glances having turned, unnoticed at first, into something less innocent. Something that culminates now in this single, heat-drenched moment.
My clit is hard as a pebble under the gentle pressure of your palm as your finger explores every groove and contour of my cunt. I want to turn and press my breasts against you, I want to drag my mouth over every inch of your skin. I want to climb up your body and mount myself on the cock I can feel pressing like a brand against my ass. But your arm clamped around my middle holds me still, your hand inside my panties holds me captive, your breath against my ear—hot and fast and beginning to rasp—holds me enthralled.
Your teeth bite down on my earlobe, the sting sending a knife of pleasure straight to the place where your fingers play. I’m so wet, my panties are soaked. My slickness will have stained the lavender cotton a deep, rich porphyry. I know this because it happens all the time. It happens when I think of you.
“What color are they?” you ask me, the question gusting against my ear like the air from a furnace.
I bite my lip as my cunt tingles and weeps nectar all over your questing fingers. “You know…”
Your chuckle vibrates against the pulse that flutters at the side of my neck. Your teeth sink in, a warning not to defy you, as your finger stabs further inside me. “Tell me.”
“Purple…” I hiss on an indrawn breath, angling my hips forward to take you deeper inside me. Your finger is thick and long and clever, but it isn’t enough. The muscles of my pussy grasp and tug at it, wanting more.
“Mmm, good girl…” you murmur against my neck as your whiskers scrape my skin. “You wore them just for me, didn’t you?”
“Yes…” God, I would wear nothing but purple panties for the rest of my life if it would get your cock inside me.
I slide my hand between our bodies, feel the hard length of you against my palm.
In response, you drag your hand from my panties and set me away from you. I stagger from the loss, almost wailing in frustration. I start to turn, needing contact, but you put one hand on my nape.
“You know that’s not allowed.”
I clench my fists against the urge to push my own hands between my legs and finish what you’ve started. My clit is screaming for your fingers, your mouth. My nipples are like little rocks poking against the chocolate brown silk of my bra. They tingle with each beat of my heart, as if they’re charged with electricity. My breath is coming so fast I’m dizzy from it.
“Take off your pants.” You don’t have a growly voice, but it growls at me now and I listen. My fingers are clumsy on my belt buckle, but I manage to undo it, and my button, and my zipper. The weight of your hand on my nape steadies me as I push my jeans down and step out of them.
“Your shirt.”
With trembling hands, I work the buttons loose and slide the black cotton down my arms. The chill in the room laps at me like cool water, when what I want is heat.
Your fingertips brush ever so lightly against the soft cotton covering my ass, then you hook one finger under the elastic at the waist and tug. I lean into the pull and suddenly your warm chest is back against my spine, your cock searing my bottom with one less layer of fabric between it and me.
The hand on my nape slides forward, circling my throat. I raise my chin and swallow against the subtle pressure of your fingers, nervous and on fire at the same time. Your other hand slides one of my bra straps off my shoulder. I lean my head back against your shoulder as you bare my breast. Your breath fans my cheek as you lean forward and watch the movements of your hand. One finger finds my nipple, flicks it hard.
I bite my lip on a cry, reaching behind me to grip your hips. I know to do no more than that—I won’t court your disapproval again. I can smell my own musk on the fingers that tease my nipple, and between my legs I feel another surge of wetness hit the damp cotton of my panties.
You’re going too slow for me. In impatience, I squeeze my thighs together and push my ass back against your cock, desperate for more contact. Your arm comes around me, pulling me hard against you. It’s like we were made for each other, my every curve fitting perfectly into your hollows, the strength of your embrace precisely as firm as I need it to be. This is the first time you have ever touched me, and it’s as if you know exactly how I want to be touched.
Your hand leaves my neck, slides down the length of my spine to hook under the top of my panties and nudge them down an inch. Your teeth bite into my shoulder, just hard enough to hurt. There will be a mark there in the morning but I can’t bring myself to care. Thick, strong fingers push along the crease of my ass, past my puckered opening and into the flood of wetness you’ve created.
I want to touch you so bad, to skim my hands over the muscles of your chest and stomach, to press my lips and tongue to you and taste the salt kiss of your sweat. I want to drop to my knees in front of you and wrap my lips around your cock and suck you until you explode against the back of my throat. I place my feet wider apart, angle my hips backward so your fingers can ply my clit, and turn my head.
And you kiss me.
Your mouth is wide open, devouring mine like a ripe peach, your tongue pushing deep. My head falls back under the onslaught and I open to you, let you scour and probe and plunder until I’m breathless and dizzy. I can barely feel your hand working at the fly of your jeans, but then your cock is blessedly free, hot and hard against me, a bead of your fluid smearing the skin of my lower back. You take one of my hands from your hip and press a paper square into it, and pull back from the kiss long enough to growl a curt order.
“Open it.”
I stare down at the packet for a moment, uncomprehending. Then my fingers find the divot and tear. I pull out the condom and let out a burst of choking laughter as I see that it’s purple.
You chuckle in reply, your fingers deftly retrieving the latex disc. Cool air hits my back as you pull away long enough to slide it onto your cock.
“Get on the bed.”
You arrange me the way you wish, on my knees, my face pressed against the comforter and my ass up in the air. In the light from the hallway, I wonder if you can tell the exact shade of my lavender panties, or see the dark patch of moisture where my lust has soaked the cotton.
A flick of your fingers unfastens my bra and my heavy breasts fall free to press against the bed. The mattress shifts as you settle yourself behind me and nudge my knees further apart. I wait, shivering, the chill of the room clashing with my heat, raising follicles all over my body. My cunt is an aching emptiness, the muscles grasping at nothing, needing to be filled.
Your hands grab my cheeks, kneading the soft flesh, your thumbs venturing oh so close to my smaller opening. My whole sex is tingling in anticipation, the tissues swollen and full of pressure. I’m shuddering in my impatience, but you act like you have all the time in the world.
One finger slips under the crotch of my panties and prods around the opening of my cunt. “God, you’re so fucking wet,” you hiss, bending to nip and kiss my cheek through the purple cotton of my panties.
I’ve been wet for days, just imagining this. But I don’t have to tell you that—you know it already.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” you whisper, your breath hot against my lower back.
“Your cock,” I answer without preamble, too shameless in my need to dissemble anymore. “God, fuck me, please, just fuck me…”
You pull the crotch of my panties aside and enter me in one smooth thrust.
I can’t help the string of unintelligible nonsense that tumbles from my lips as you fill me up, all the way to my womb.
“You like that?” Your voice is self-satisfied, but there’s a hint of urgency under the smugness as you pull out, then shove back in.
“Jesus,” I groan into the comforter, my fingers fisted in the blanket.
One hand digging into the flesh of my ass, your other snakes around beneath my torso to seek out my clit as you pound into me. The roughness of your calluses chafe the bundle of nerve endings, the sensation bordering on pain. I’m so close I can taste my orgasm as it claws its way from my clit to my womb, then up my torso and into my throat. It emerges as a rasping cry, hardly loud enough to be heard, but my inner muscles go wild around your shaft as my body stiffens and shudders. You growl low in your throat in response, slamming harder and faster until your own climax finds you and forces you under.
Your mouth blazes a trail of kisses up my back to my shoulder as your hips jerk once, twice more. Then we both collapse onto the bed and try to catch our breath.
Your hand dives into my hair and you pull my face around for your kiss, your whiskers tickling my nose. One stroke of your palm down my body and then you’re pushing to your feet. Your eyes never leave mine as you roll the condom off your softened cock and throw it in the wastebasket by the nightstand, then refasten your jeans and tug your t-shirt straight.
“Wear the black ones tomorrow,” is all you say before you leave me there, alone on the rumpled blankets. I listen to the rustle of fabric as you pull on your coat and shoes and let yourself out.
I wake alone in bed with the taste of the dream still on my lips. I’m on fire. My nipples ache, my clit burns with gathered blood and pressure. A glance at the clock tells me the alarm will go off any minute. I close my eyes and put one hand between my legs, feel the moisture that’s soaked into the crotch-band of my panties. Just a few strokes of my fingers is enough to bring me off. I come in one long, shuddering orgasm, stifling my cries despite the fact that there is no one to hear me. By the time I can see again, the alarm is going off.
My morning is filled with kids and breakfast and school lunches. I can hardly wait to get them out the door. As soon as they’re gone, I get in the shower. A lather-filled loofa washes away the slickness between my legs, but it isn’t long before my traitorous thoughts replace it. My body is primed, a coiled spring, despite all attempts to push the dream from my mind. Giving in at last, I lean back against the wall and give myself what I need.
I dry off, comb my hair, brush my teeth. Wrapped in a robe, I open my lingerie drawer. A sea of white, purple, pale pink and blue. I rifle through the contents, searching, then remember there’s a load of darks still in the dryer. I fish out a pair of black panties and slip them on.
My eyes hunt for your car as I drive about my errands—post office, bank, drug store. Every time I see a red Chevy coupe my stomach muscles clench and my cunt tingles, but it’s never you behind the wheel. In the produce section of the grocery store, I stare at the grapes without really seeing them. I’m any other mom, baggy jeans, worn tank top, sneakers, no make-up. But under my sexless clothes I’m wearing the panties you told me to wear, and I’m stuck in a state of arousal that won’t go away. Do the other shoppers know what I’m thinking? Can they tell what’s behind the flush that rides my cheeks, the embarrassment that keeps me from holding anyone’s gaze for more than a second or two before I’m forced to look away? What would they think if they knew I was obsessed with the color of my panties?
Shaking myself, I grab a bunch of grapes without even inspecting them and put them in my basket. I’m about to turn, to hurry out of the store and home so I can bring myself off again. But your sudden, cool voice next to me halts me, and all the blood rushes from my head straight to my cunt.
“They’re black, aren’t they?”
Holy fuck Jesus, I almost come right there, standing in the produce section in front of half the town. I don’t move, don’t turn—I don’t dare, because I have no idea what will happen if I do. I can see you in my peripheral vision, lifting bunches of bananas and looking them over, casual as anything. I have to swallow three times before I can even speak.
“Yes.”
My eyes stare straight ahead as I try to keep myself from pressing my mound against the counter to ease the ache.
“Wear the pink ones tomorrow.”
As you walk away, bananas in hand, I think about my pink panties. I wonder what they’ll look like when they’re wet. I know I’ll find out.