Whose Panties by Alison Tyler
Marco is a musician and a model. He has long, straight black hair and dark blue eyes that always remind me of the color “blue violet” in a crayon box. He’s sinewy rather than slender, with corded muscles on his arms, a strong back, and a flat stomach that the Baywatch dudes would kill for.
We met near Santa Monica pier. I was on my morning run and he was taking his surf board off the roof of his car. I had just panted my way up a hill, and was cruising toward my slowdown when I saw the bumper stickers all over his car: 106 Ghouls. One of my friends had dated a member of that band, and I stopped to ask if he knew the musicians.
He nodded, smiling at me until I asked the next appropriate question: “Are you one of them?”
It turned out that he was the one who had dated my friend, years before, when both were new to the Hollywood rock and roll scene. I’d been piqued by her stories about him, her tales of his sexual prowess. Now, with him standing directly in front of me and giving me such an evil smirk, I felt drawn to find out for myself. I made the first move, inviting him over for breakfast when he was finished surfing. I pointed out my apartment building, gave him the number, and jogged off, feeling his eyes on me as I sprinted to the corner.
I’d gotten cleaned up by the time he arrived, and he, still in his wet suit, asked if he could shower while I finished getting breakfast ready. I heard him singing over the sound of the water, recognized his voice from tapes I’d heard at Kimberly’s house. He sings for a hard rock band, but he can conjure a soothing, lullaby sound when he wants to. I could tell he was serenading me, and I wondered what he would wear when he got out of the shower. Would he put his wetsuit back on? Or wear a towel?
I was pouring orange juice into glasses to make mimosas when he strode into my living room, surprising me. That’s what Kimmie had said about him, Marco was always full of surprises. He wasn’t wearing a towel. He wasn’t wearing his wet suit. He wasn’t wearing the robe from the back of the bathroom door. He was wearing my black lace panties and a pair of my stockings. Both had been hanging up in the shower–I’d forgotten. I didn’t know what to say or do. I’d known, from Kimberly, that he was wild. It’s what had attracted me to him. I’ve spent too many nights being bored by lovers in bed. Marco was definitely not boring….
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, moving toward me, that evil-seductive grin still on his face.
I shook my head. “No, knock yourself out.” I wondered what he would do next, and I suddenly realized that I was wet from wondering.
“I couldn’t resist,” he said, sitting on the edge of my couch and staring at me. My apartment is small, with the dining room and living room together, separated only by the sofa. My hand was still on the forgotten orange juice container, my entire body was frozen in place.
I watched as he ran his fingertips along one of the stockings. His legs looked good, sexy, his body was very pale against the black silk. I took a step toward him, thinking that I wanted to take the place of his hands, I wanted to run my fingertips along his legs.
“There’s something erotic…” he started to say, looking at his reflection in the mirrored panels around my fireplace, “…something sexy about lingerie.”
I got up my nerve to walk all the way to his side and once there I settled myself next to him on the couch. His cock was positively protruding against the silk panties, and I could see the full outline of it pressing to be free. I reached out and stroked him through the silky material and he leaned back against the couch and sighed.
I couldn’t believe how turned on I was at seeing this man in my underwear. I was dying to kiss him through the silk, to run my tongue along the seam at the back of the stockings, to kiss his cock and balls and ass through the panties. Rather than analyze these desires, I acted on them, having Marco spread out on the rug and then setting myself free to do what I wanted. I started with his toes, licking them through the silk stockings, then moved up his legs.
My stockings were the garter-less kind that stay on by themselves. Marco has legs that many women would be jealous of, and he looked so fucking hot in the lingerie that I couldn’t control myself. I bit at him through the silk, not caring about any runs I might make. When I made my way up to his cock, the head of it was poking out of the waistband.
“Naughty boy,” I said, mouthing it before moving back, knowing exactly what I wanted to do next. “Get over my lap.” I sat up on the sofa and let Marco drape his slim body over my knees. His throbbing cock pressed against my thighs and I could feel more of the sticky pre-come on the head of it. I ran my hand over his silk-clad ass and then spanked him, thrilled by the feeling of power and pleasure and pain. My hand stung from the blows, but I didn’t go too hard, just enough to make him squirm and rub his cock against me.
I slipped the panties down to see his reddened ass and then I pushed him off my lap, back onto the rug, and started kissing him, parting his ass cheeks and diving my tongue into his asshole. I was ravenous, crazed, and I fucked him like that until he rolled over and grabbed me, standing and pushing me over the sofa, thrusting his cock into me from behind.
It was divine, feeling the stiffness of him inside me and the silkiness of his stocking-clad legs against my naked thighs. The way I came was almost unreal, shuddering and screaming his name. I caught a glimpse of us, of our reflection, in the mirror around my fireplace, and we looked transported, unearthly.
After coming, we collapsed together on the sofa. I leaned my head against his chest and confessed to knowing about him, knowing that he liked things in the extreme. Confessed my curiosity. He smiled that devil smile and stroked my hair away from my eyes. Then he kissed me and cradled my head in his hands and said, “I was curious about you, too…” and I suddenly knew that Kimmie had told him about my track-record, and that maybe, just maybe, he’d parked on top of that hill on purpose.
Because, I’ve heard it said that in L.A. there simply are no coincidences.
About the author:
Alison Tyler is undeniably a naughty girl. Perhaps this is why she has such fun editing the series Naughty Stories from A to Z 1 & 2, and Bondage on a Budget 1 & 2 (all Pretty Things Press). Her short stories have appeared in anthologies including Sweet Life 1 & 2, Best Women’s Erotica 2002 & 2003, and Erotic Travel Tales 1 & 2 (all published by Cleis), and Wicked Words 4, 5, 6 & 8 (Black Lace).