**Three days**
You lie on white sheets, dozing in the blue light of dusk, trying to recall the sensation of Ben’s cock, of Isobel’s tongue and fingers. They are still with you, distantly, those feelings. The memory is wrapped in cotton wool, lit with golden glow. Her dark head is on your shoulder, his leg across your middle. The warm sweet smell of sex lingers as does the stickyness on your bare, lithe, body.
**The first day**
It was a coffee that started it. Across from the Jefferson Arboretum was an alley to a little courtyard and a glass-fronted shop. It was raining, big drops spattering from a lead sky.
You go in to get out of the weather. The tables are old crates from Cameroon and Honduras. The seats are stuffed jute sacks. The walls are decorated with photographs of cloud forests and burros lugging baskets of red berries and a guy with a square jaw and a big smile and swept back dark hair hanging out with farmers. There is only one customer, a woman, a little younger than you. She is sitting in the corner, her drink resting beside her on the window ledge. She looks European in a way you can’t place. Maybe its the razor-sharp bob of her hair. Maybe the battered red hardback book. Maybe the double espresso.
‘What can I get you?’ The dude from the photos emerges from a stock room and stands behind the counter wearing a ‘Bean me up Scotty’ T-Shirt. He is tall, has a slender waist, a strong shoulders. There’s another photo of him you see. He’s at the bottom of a rock face, hands white with chalk, stretching up so the muscles in his strong back tighten and define.
‘Uh…’ you look at the list of complicated drinks, trying to get the picture of his bare body out of your mind. *What the heck is a frothochino?* you think. Or a Cafe Fantastico for that matter.
‘Let me do you something special, on the house’, he says. ‘An iced…’ he squints at you as if he’s trying to read your mind. ‘…iced toffee El Salvador.’
‘Sounds great, I guess,’ you say, laughing at the nuts names he gives the drinks.
‘I’ll bring it right over. Name’s Ben,’ he says, ‘by the way.’ sticking out a huge paw. You shake it and it envelops your hand.
You take a seat and wait. Ben wrestles with an Italian machine that hisses and chugs and puffs out clouds of steam. He grinds ice, mixes and stirs, brings it over to you. It doesn’t look fancy but it tastes…
‘…Holy crap,’ you say, and blush. ‘This is great thanks!’ It’s an iced coffee but with a touch of burned sugar, something else you can’t place, like nutmeg but spicier.
‘That’s my kind of review,’ says Ben, with a satisfied nod. He goes behind the counter and settles down with his iPad.
You sip your Coffee, check your phone. Dumb emails, dumber facebook posts.
Across the way the woman is still there, absorbed in her novel. You notice her outfit for the first time. She is wearing tennis gear, like she’s just stepped off the court. A white polo shirt, white pleated skirt, socks and Nikes. As you watch she uncrosses her legs. Her panties are bubblegum pink, neon pink, thrillseeker pink. You are transfixed, drink to your lips, eyes locked on. She leaves her knees apart and slowly, deliberately and looks up at you. You glance away, embarrassed, make all kinds of klinks with your cup. But eye contact has been made. A connection struck, a path set. The other woman stands up, pays Ben at the counter and leaves.
You try to play it cool, finish your drink, but you can’t get the colour out of your mind. It was only a few seconds but it was there, stored, locked in. The soft of her thighs, the electric of the material. Images: your fingers pushing against the softness; your hands at either side pulling them down; I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
You get hot. You shift in your seat. You kissed a few girls in college but that was for fun, and after five rounds of beer pong. This is something else. When you’re done you look to where she was sitting. The red book is left on the seat. Ben is out the back humming the bassline to Seven Nation Army. So you walk across, pick it up. It’s Alice through the Looking-Glass. You open the cover. Inside there’s a post-it: *Tomorrow*, it says. *Same time. Impress me – Isobel*. There’s no need for a decision. Your mind was made up the moment she spread her thighs.
**The second day**
The morning at work passed by in a daze. A co-worker stood in front of you and repeated the word donut for thirty seconds before they gave you up for a lost cause.
Lunchtime. Grey, but no rain. You go to put on your outfit in the changing room at a clothes store. You are nervous, naturally, but excited. There’s a heat at the back of your neck, like you’ve spent too long in the sun. A warm caress that is inching its way down your vertebrae. The clothes: you go for a starter of classy with a side of so fucking punk. Little black dress, no shoulders, half arms. Stockings that top off about the height of the hem. You take mystery Isobel’s pink and raise her candy-cane stripe. And a pair of Vans, thick shoelaces all over the place, scuffed up, scruffed up, *oh yeah*. You put a few bobby pins in to keep your hair behind your ears, give it some space to dance. And you head back to Ben’s.
‘She’s back!’ He’s wearing an apron. It’s black with the slogan Grinding Beans in the style of the Breaking Bad titles. You glance around. Isobel isn’t there. The place is deserted.
‘What’s it today?’ He says.
You can’t answer. Where is she? You feel stupid, tricked. You wonder whether she does this to lots of people, *the bitch*. You wonder if you’ll have time to change out of the outfit. You start to think up an excuse but then…
‘Double espresso,’ says Isobel, appearing beside you.
‘And for you?’ Says Ben.
‘Um…’ You lose the power of speech with her so close. She is wearing a flowery summer dress, a wide-brimmed hat, round John Lennon sunglasses. She reaches out and her pinky finger brushes against yours. Its nothing but its electric. *Pow*. You ground her lightning and your knees seriously consider giving up.
‘Same again?’ You say.
‘You got it. Take a seat ladies, coming right up.’
You return to where you sat yesterday, across the small room from each other. Ben whizzes and whirrs, taking an age. Come on, you say under your breath. Come on. You want to show off, desperate to relieve the tension. He puts the drinks down and conveniently goes into the back room. Isobel sips demurely and looks at you, waiting. You swallow, your palms getting hot.
The moment comes. You put your hands either side of your hips and lean your shoulders back against the wall. You begin to part your knees, slowly, slowly. You feel the sunlight and air flow over your thighs, right up to where your leg meets your panties. The dress is tight and it rides up until it is almost bunched around your waist. You can’t believe you’re doing this, in public, with a stranger. You feel the flush coming round your neck, you feel yourself start to get wet.
Isobel smiles, a tiny smile. She copies your motion, lifts up her skirt and…you snort in a breath of air. Her pussy is on show, trimmed but not shaved, right there, eight feet away. She spreads her legs and when they’re wide she lifts one foot up to the seat, exposing herself even further. One of her hands, nails painted white, floats to her breast.
You have a sense of someone watching. Ben is back, muscular arms folded, watching from behind the counter; his expression: the cat that’s got the cream. You look to Isobel and she looks to you. There is a question in her raised eyebrows. Had they planned this all along? You wonder. Right now you don’t care. All you care about is the feeling of her eyes on you, his eyes on you, looking at you with lust. And it feels so fucking good, so intensely naughty. All in, you think.
You stand and face Ben. You lift your skirt again, let him look for a few seconds. Then you turn around and lean forward. You feel your panties stretch tight over your ass, you feel them hug you between your legs. *Please sir*, you think. *Please sir, I’ve been a bad, bad girl.* You feel his eyes on you, running up your toned calves, thighs. You can almost feel him pulling the red and white striped fabric to the side to…you gasp involuntarily. Your imagination gets the better of you.
Isobel comes over to you, stands you up. She puts her cheek against yours.
‘You’re perfect,’ she whispers. ‘Come to the Arboretum across the street tomorrow, same time again. Keep going. You’re doing just great.’ Her lips trail across the corner of your mouth. Her fingers press into the front of your thigh. Your heart is thumping like you’ve just stepped off the treadmill.
‘Yeah,’ you stammer, looking at Ben who gives you an small approving nod. ‘Yeah.’
You make it to the door and back out into the real world. Back in the car, all the way home, you can feel how wet you are, the heat in your underwear. But you don’t touch yourself, not yet. You won’t have to wait too long.
**The third day**
You can’t go into work. Your nerves are as bad as SAT day, Prom Night, and an interview for a job you really want rolled into one. God you want the job. You’re desperate for the position, any position. Little Isobel has you revving. You want her eyes and Ben’s eyes on you – and their hands and their…*focus, girl!*
None of the outfits you pick work. Everything looks frumpy, goofy. Your bedroom floor is a mess of discards, drifts of clothes all over the place. At the back of the closet you find a white leatherette miniskirt from high school. *No way – no fucking way*. You try it on. It just, just fits. It is tight and short. Really short. Obscenely short. Nothing left to the imagination short. Could be mistaken for a belt short. You look in the mirror. Even if you bend slightly forward it pops up over your ass. But it works, damn it works. You slip on a pair of heels, a halter-neck top without a bra. If you’re going to do this, you are going to rule it. Anything Isobel can do, you decide, you can do better. So you go without panties too.
The walk to the Arboretum from the car is interesting. Its sunny now, summer proper, beating down. People are wearing less, but no one else is rocking a hyper-micro-mini skirt. You get a lot of attention. Contractors, as usual, but guys in business suits and some women too. Heads turn. A lawyer doesn’t look where he’s going and walks into a newsstand and spills his Starbucks down his shirt.
It’s cool under the trees. Quiet. Despite the sunshine people are spending their lunch breaks at their desks. You wander down the paths, between the pines and the oaks and the redwoods, looking for Ben and Isobel. You find a clearing near the centre of the space, a circle of trees. There, on the far side. They’re dressed in convincing tourist get up – caps and jean shorts and fanny packs. The only thing that looks a bit off is the huge long-lensed camera Isobel carries. She lifts it and snaps a couple of pictures of you.
You were turned on before and this makes you hotter. Not just that they’re watching you but that they have pictures, that they might put on the web so others might look, so strangers might touch themselves over you. You walk into the middle of the little clearing, on the perfectly cut lawn. There, you lift your skirt. The camera clicks away. You wonder if it can see the glistening of your wetness. God you want to touch yourself. Then without warning they meld into the trees in the direction of the shop. You are there alone, taking deep breaths. Naked from the waist down apart from heels. Anyone could see you. You want more, you need more.
There is no one inside the shop. There is a takeaway cup in the middle of the floor though, with something written on it. *Lock the door*, it says. *Then come upstairs*. This is it. You follow the instructions, find the way up, acutely aware of your near nudity, at the slickness between your thighs. At the top of the flight is a door that you go through.
The room is white – white walls, soft cream carpet, a floor-bed with white sheets and pillows and a duvet. Isobel and Ben are there. They each take one of your hands, walk you to the foot of the bed. She undoes the skirt as he releases the bow on the halter and the tie at the small of your back. You are naked, exposed.
They come forward together. Ben leans in to take one breast in his mouth the other in his hand, sucking the nipple, engulfing you, squeezing you. Your arm goes round his neck, onto his back, where you feel muscle ripple under the soft t-shirt. You feel Isobel’s hands on your thighs. She has knelt down out of sight, blocked by Ben. Her fingers push your legs apart. You comply. Her mouth envelops your pussy and you moan, almost collapse but Ben puts an arm behind your back holding you upright. Her tongue spreads your wetness, her lips stroke your clit.
The sensation of both of them is impossible, an Escher drawing of water flowing uphill, of stairs that go up and down at the same time. Beautiful, mesmerising, overwhelming. It draws you into a deeper pleasure, sensations within you, without you, boundaries breaking, dissolving. They are going to make you cum. They want to. It is their pleasure, your pleasure. Isobel’s finger strokes along your slit, finds your hole, sinks in as she sucks sharper. Your head goes back, you trust Ben can hold you up. She adds a second finger and starts to move them, in, out, come hither come hither. Your grip on Ben tightens. Your other hand finds Isobel’s hair, shiny, sleek, soft and you pull her onto you.
‘Oh, baby,’ the words, unbidden.
The shiver starts in your forehead, an ice cream headache, glitter fireworks. They can both feel it coming. He sucks, kisses you under your exposed jaw, returns to your breast. She goes faster. The orgasm latches onto your spine, takes the express elevator down, fills your hips and abs and thighs with coiled spring.
‘Oh fuuuuck.’ You come hard, on Isobel’s face, her fingers, squeeze her between your legs and shake and shudder. Ben lies you gently down on the bed.
Your sight is not working properly. Everything is in washed color, lens flare. Time and space realign.
Ben pulls off his shirt, Isobel strips to a black thong with lace trim that matches the colour of her hair. She is slight, five foot and not much more, pale. You wonder if she is a natural redhead. You lift yourself on your elbows as she kneels down and unbuttons the front of Ben’s shorts, lets them fall, hooks his briefs over his hard-on.
You stop to admire his body briefly, his strong chest, his thick cock which as you watch disappears into Isobel’s mouth. You crawl over to get a better look from close up. On hands and knees you add some sway to your hips. It does not go unmissed. Ben bites his lip. Isobel shows her skills. Bob, bob, bob and half way down his eight inches.
Isobel’s hand finds yours, lifts it to Ben’s balls. You cup him in your hand, squeeze ever so gently. He moans, puts a hand on your cheek, runs his thumb to your mouth. You take it in, flick it with your tongue, suck it hard, look up at him as you do with big *my pussy is yours eyes*. You lean in and kiss the lines of his ‘v’; you can’t help yourself. Your naked upper arm and shoulder presses against Isobel, skin on skin. You trail kisses down until your lips are on the side of his cock.
The next time Isobel deep throats Ben your lips touch and you slide back up the thick cock with her until it frees from her mouth. You follow the wet trail and kiss her deeply, your tongues touching. You can taste him, you can taste you, you can taste her, all together. Your bodies press, breasts, shoulders, sides and when you stop kissing you push her and she falls on her back to the bed.
You move over her, kiss her again on the mouth, then her chin and her neck. Her clavicle and her breast. Her belly and the elastic at the top of her panties. You glance over your shoulder and Ben is sitting on the floor, propped with one arm, his cock in his fist, touching himself, watching the show.
You go between her legs, she bends a knee. You pull the panties aside and bury your face. She is sweet, musky, sharp. Your tongue probes her hungrily, her swollen lips, the wetness of her opening. She sighs, moans delicately. You feel yourself dripping down your legs. You do what she did to you, one finger then two. Isobel arches her back, grips the sheet.
Ben is back on the bed, lying next to Isobel, kissing her as you eat her pussy, and stroke his cock with your other hand. The sight is too much – their hunger for each other interrupted by sounds of pleasure as you touch them, both gasping as you use your mouth, your fingers.
‘I need more,’ says Isobel. You can tell she is getting close.
You pull back and roll to the side as she gets up on her knees and straddles Ben. She knows what she wants. She angles his thick cock up and lowers herself down onto it. He begins to fuck her, slow, long strokes. She cries out and he takes it as a sign to speed up. She leans on his chest, cheeks red, eyes shut, mouth open in soundless ecstasy as she comes, bucking her hips pushing down, taking it deep in her. She collapses onto him then beside you and you kiss her, stroke her, feel her shudder.
It’s not over yet.
Ben takes you by the waist, flips you onto your back. He holds your legs apart, reaches down to touch you, rub you.
‘Please,’ you say, looking into his eyes, betraying how urgently you need it. ‘Please.’
You feel the tip of his cock against you, teasing your clit. You lift up towards him but he makes you wait. Agonising seconds pass. Then he presses against you, the thick head sliding in, his girth spreading you open, filling you. You cry out. He starts to thrust and you are lost. He gives you his full length and you are wet enough and ready enough for it. His big hands are behind your knees, lifting you, letting him get deeper, making you feel tiny. Making you feel pinned, taken. You want him to have you, to fuck you. And you want to make him come.
‘Harder,’ you say and he has no trouble complying. The sensation of fullness is complete, of capture, of connection, of submission, of furious lust.
Isobel is by your side, watching him slide in and out. She made you wild when she showed you her pink, when she looked at your panties. And now you’re much more exposed than that. You can feel his stare, his pleasure at making you his. And you can feel Isobel’s stare, the stare of a woman who knows exactly what it feels like to be held and penetrated and filled. He hits a sweet spot and you moan. It makes him harden, thrust deeper. So you moan again.
Fuck, I’m going to…’ Isobel throws herself onto the bed next to you.
Ben pulls back. The first spurt of warm cum spatters across your chest. Ben moves forward and the second scores both of your faces. He squeezes the last drops onto Isobel’s tongue. Then he collapses on your other side, puts his hands above his head and closes his eyes, a look of utter bliss on his face.
Isobel kisses you, your sticky faces touching. You giggle. The sunlight bathes your naked bodies in the white room. As you doze off to sleep you feel Isobel’s hand creep between your legs.
You smile and smile and smile and dream in shades of crimson.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/4l49dq/isobels_pink_panties