Seriously Sexy 3

by Miranda Forbes

  At that moment, I could look into our future and see Megan as a sixty-year-old, sexy as ever. And I welcomed the thought of waking up naked in bed with her at that – or any – age.

  Twenty-nine-year-old Megan was still speaking. “I think when I became a grown woman, my memories of Clarrie shaped themselves into a kind of unconscious sexual role model – my ideal of an attractive, self-actualized, sexually-alive female.”

  “Well, if that’s what you were going for, you’ve certainly lived up to your ideals!” I proclaimed. Megan was certainly my ideal of womanhood.

  She smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, sweetheart. So the panties … the panties, I suppose, really made me connect with what I thought was sexy about someone like Aunt Clarissa, and with my own sexuality, too.”

  This was fascinating. And it made me think about how much I wanted to connect, at that instant, with Megan’s sexuality – in the most literal, physical manner.

  “I was tremendously impressed by how special these panties made me feel,” she continued. “I’ve probably worn them half a dozen times since then.”

  “All by yourself?” I rasped.

  “Yes,” she replied. She paused a second, then spoke again. “Until now, that is.” And she stood, picked up Aunt Clarissa’s panties, and began to walk down the stairs. Right before she descended out of sight, she turned and blew me a kiss.

  Since I perceived an intermission in the developing drama, I took the opportunity to wash up. When I came out of the second-floor bathroom, I saw a light through the open door of the master bedroom. I walked in.

  “I’ll be out in a second!” Megan called from the walk-in closet, after she’d evidently heard me clomping around her room. I stripped down to my briefs – it seemed the thing to do – and then I sat on the bed to wait for her. I stroked the quilted texture of the comforter as I imagined what Megan would look like in Aunt Clarissa’s panties.

  I did not have to imagine for long.

  She was wearing the panties, and only the panties. Looking her over, I saw soft brown hair, luscious eyes with long, lazy lashes, milky shoulders, quiet, bare little breasts, and a dream of a petite, convex tummy. And I saw Aunt Clarissa’s panties – now so effectively occupied.

  Thank goodness these panties had not gone legging off to California. Though Megan always looked lovely, she looked lovely at this moment in a new, special way. The fancy pants covered her very tidily. Not a hint of bareness could be seen on her ass, her hips, or of course her more intimate areas. She was totally contained – but oh, how vividly. Her feminine shape and her female sensuality were emphasized rather than obscured by these snug-fitting, ruffle-embellished underpants. There was the subtle roundness of her bottom – tightly clothed. There was the place where her thighs ended, in a geography that could only be a woman’s – a geography covered enticingly in nylon vegetation. With giddy ruffles decorating her topography, she looked like a carnival, like a feast. I relished the prospect of fondling every bit of lace, of letting her feel my fingers through the soft interface of the alluring garment.

  She paraded in front of the bed, sweetly and shyly, with only a hint of exhibitionistic flair. She spun and shimmied, letting me enjoy the aerodynamic sizzle of the fluttering ruffles, which reminded me of the thin metal jingles on a tambourine. How I wanted to play Megan’s percussion!

  As if she had read my mind, Megan began to dance gracefully toward the bed in double-time, her hands on her knees and her sassy rear pointed my way. I gave her the gentle slap she was inviting – right on the ruffles – and she rewarded me with a sensuous “Ooh!” Then she turned around and sat in my lap.

  The feeling of her lace and nylon on my upper thighs was ticklishly delicious, and I felt every one of my leg hairs tingling. Meanwhile, the pressure of Megan’s firm ass cheeks against the bulge in my briefs was pushing me into high gear. With a compulsive enthusiasm, I began to caress her all over her sissy pants, stroking and petting and teasing her from hips to bottom to mound, passionately stimulating her panty-clad flesh.

  As she gave in to sensation, Megan quivered, melted, and leaned into me. At this angle, her delicate breasts pressed against my bare chest, and I knew it was time to honour them. I shaped and fondled them with reverence, pinching the nipples lightly in passing.

  By now, I was too big for my breeches, and Megan slid my briefs down and away. Below the waist, I saw that she was gyrating.

  “So,” I said between kisses to her neck. “What’s going on in Aunt Clarissa’s panties these days?”

  “Mmm … something nice,” Megan replied.

  I reached a hand between her thighs, to stroke the nylon right where it most counted. I felt her softness, her delicacy. The contact made me sigh. “You always feel so very female when I touch you there,” I commented.

  “What can I say,” she answered breathlessly. “It’s a girl thing.”

  Her wit sent my arousal soaring even further. Delirious, I stroked her again, and this time she moaned and clutched my shoulders.

  “Wow, I’m wet,” she whispered a moment later. “I’m sliding all over these now.”

  She stood up and hooked her fingers into the waist of Aunt Clarissa’s panties. Artistically she removed them, by means of a series of sinuous wiggles. Then she turned to me, nude and poised, the glint of her eyes matching the glistening of her pussy. “I think we both agree that those are very special panties,” she said dramatically. “But the time for panties has passed, my friend.”

  As I fell backwards onto the mattress and grabbed Megan’s cheerful, bare bottom, I wondered what else Aunt Clarrie might have had in her collection. And as Megan descended onto my precious arousal with the cavity of her moist luxury – and as she began to hump me toward her first frantic climax – my mind reeled with visions of soft black lace on quivering womanly flesh. And as I released into her and her feminine muscles spasmed with joy, I thought I heard the jingling of a hundred pretty tambourines echoing through the house.

  It was one of life’s marvellous little coincidences that Clarissa’s letter arrived the very next day:

  Dearest Megan,

  Well, it’s been another week of gorgeous California weather. I hope you’re keeping warm where you are!

  There’s a little thing I keep meaning to mention, but I always seem to run out of time (or stationery!) before I get to it. So on this occasion, I vowed that I would begin with it…

  Now that your mother’s house is all yours, you might keep your eyes open for something that once belonged to me. An article of underwear, if you can believe it! Specifically, my dear niece, I refer to a pair of black rhumba panties. I’m sure you have no idea what those are, and even if you did you would probably just laugh at them. But I hope you’ll at least accept the fact that they are NOT a figment of your aunt’s imagination. In fact, though I shudder to think that the undies that I wore (it seems) just yesterday are now classified as “vintage,” I understand that this style has become quite “collectible”, as they say.

  If you happen to come across them, you should know that I left them there – accidentally at first, but then intentionally – many years ago. I’m not sure I should really be telling you this whole story … but you’re my favourite person to tell stories to, and it wouldn’t seem fair to hold out on you, darling. You see, these panties went missing when I was a young woman, around the time I paid a visit to your parents – who were then newlyweds. I soon forgot all about my rhumba panties … until another visit some ten years later, during which your mother confessed over afternoon coffee that she’d found them within a week of my losing them, but that she’d been so fascinated by them she had found herself unable to send them on to me! Don’t you dare tell her I told you this, but she even admitted that she had tried them on. I was surprised but rather delighted (this was a side of Suburban Big Sister I’d never seen before), and I told her she could keep them, with my blessing.

  I have acquired many articles of sexy underwear in my time (most recently
last weekend, when my beau Gary and I went shopping together!), and the rhumba panties are not regretted. For all I know, your mother eventually discarded them. In any event, I doubt she made a point of hauling them off to Florida with her, because at this point they (ahem) probably wouldn’t fit her so well. But in case they ever turn up in your house, I just wanted you to know that you can get some nice cash for them from a vintage-clothing dealer – consider it extra birthday money from me! Actually, it would please me very much if you liked the panties enough to keep them – YOU they would fit, my dear – but this is merely the wishful thinking of an ageing auntie. All I can say is, I personally had some very good times in those panties. (So don’t knock ’em if you haven’t tried ’em, kiddo.)

  Gary and I are going up to Vancouver next week …

  Sweets

  by Elizabeth Cage

  “I haven’t seen that thong before.”

  “Yes, you have. At least twice.”

  “Oh.”

  And so began our lovemaking. On a sore note, I have to say. I had bought a red lacy thong because he said red underwear turned him on. Perhaps he was colour blind. Can you be colour blind about red? Sometimes, I wondered how much Carl really noticed me; he never devoured me sexually, never made me feel that he was hungry for me. Sometimes I just wished he would rip all my clothes off.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not being critical. Well, I suppose I am. But I like to try new things, experiment. Suck it and see is my favourite catchphrase. The problem we had was the way we each thought about sex. I wanted a gourmet meal whereas Carl was content with a plate of egg and chips.

  Thinking back, I can recall at least a couple of occasions when I experienced a sensual pleasure that didn’t include actual sex. Like the heavenly banana and chocolate cake I consumed at the a gorgeous upmarket café in Hampstead, and the time that my beloved black cat, Vellore, decided to clean between my toes with her tongue. The toes are a sensitive erogenous zone, and she licked slowly and deliberately between each one with her peach-skin tongue. Now that was sensual.

  Of course, I couldn’t exactly tell Carl that my cat turned me on more than he did. Particularly when he had been so good to me, lending me money when I lost my job, and putting down the rent deposit on the new apartment we had just moved in to. I managed to get a temporary job at a local beauty salon, thanks to a contact of Carl’s, and things seemed to be looking up again when Vellore, who still hankered after my old garden flat, went missing.

  “I’ve been back to my old place, alerted the new tenants, but there’s been no sign of her,” I told Carl anxiously a week after her disappearance. I was horrified at his response.

  “I expect she got run over,” Carl replied, then more tenderly, “Don’t cry, Kandi. You can always get another cat, you know.”

  “I could never replace Vellore,” I howled.

  “No. You’re right,” he said quickly. “Best not to try.” Then he tried to comfort me by cradling my head in his lap, and slowly I began to relax as his fingertips stroked my face and gently pushed back my hair. I was grateful to have him with me in my misery.

  As the weeks passed, and Vellore did not return, I told myself that I was lucky to have someone who cared enough to occasionally buy me roses and chocolate truffles and – to my surprise – a pair of crotchless knickers. He was trying hard; you had to give him that. I knew Carl wasn’t my soulmate and our relationship lacked passion, but I decided that this was as good as it would get.

  Recently, Carl had been staying extra late at the office, and when he finally got home he was usually so tired that any kind of sex was out of the question, let alone anything vaguely kinky. He had been working so hard since his promotion that I decided to do something special for him. Unfortunately, it was my motivation to do good that led to my fateful encounter with Wesley.

  I had planned a surprise candle-lit dinner in the flat. Being a hopeless cook, I bought the food from M & S, chose suitable background music from my CD collection and decided to put on some sexy underwear. He was getting the works. However, I wanted to buy something really erotic that he wouldn’t forget, so I called in to our local Pillow Talk store to choose an appropriate outfit. They had everything – pretty sensual lingerie, leopard print sheath dresses, latex catsuits, leather thigh boots with stiletto heels, black lace-top stockings, shimmering G-strings, edible condoms … I felt like a kid who had just been given an enormous jar of her favourite sweets.

  “Can I help you?”

  The guy behind the counter gave a friendly smile. He was tall and good looking, with dark eyes and liquorice black hair. He wore skinny jeans and a black T-shirt which showed off his muscular, tattooed forearms.

  “Well, I…”

  “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Something sexy,” I ventured like a burbling idiot.

  “You’ve come to the right place then,” he replied, without a trace of sarcasm. “If you don’t mind me making a few suggestions, the black rubber mini-skirt is one of our best sellers,” and he scooped one off the rack and handed it to me. “I think you’ll find that will fit.”

  I clutched it to my breasts, my eyes scanning the array of whips and bondage gear displayed on the wall to my right. “Here, try this,” he continued, passing me a red silky package, “and these,” adding a pair of six-inch spike heels with a complicated arrangement of leather straps. “The changing room is just through here,” and he pulled back a black rubber curtain that led into a small cubicle with a gothic-style mirror.

  “Need any help to get undressed?” he asked, confidence oozing. “Well, just shout if you need me. I won’t be far.” And he hovered outside the cubicle, watching me, until I pulled the curtain shut.

  I realised I was trembling. He was a real charmer, an outrageous flirt, but at this moment I didn’t mind at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Somehow, he had managed to choose the right sizes, just by looking at me. And the way he looked at me. Lustful without being sleazy. I sighed. Carl never looked at me like that. I wriggled into the skirt, wrestled with the strappy red top and tottered before the mirror in the stiletto bondage shoes.

  “Does everything fit?” he called and I knew he was still standing just behind the curtain.

  “Yes, but I’m not too sure about…”

  “Don’t be shy.” He pulled back the curtain. “Wow!”

  I couldn’t move. I had never felt so self-conscious in all my life.

  “You look fabulous,” he whispered, standing so near that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

  “You would say that,” I muttered. “You’re the salesman.”

  But when I glanced at my reflection I could see that he was right. I did look stunning. A sex goddess. I was gobsmacked.

  “Tell me your name,” he insisted gently, moving closer.

  “K-Kandi.”

  “Well, K-Kandi, I’m Wesley – let me adjust the straps on this for a perfect fit,” and his fingers skilfully tightened the silk ribbons, brushing lightly on my breasts before standing back to admire his work.

  “And now the shoes.”

  I stood motionless, my heart thumping wildly as he crouched down on the floor and pulled in the straps on the fetishy shoes, pausing to let his lips touch my ankles, then kissing my legs and my knees, travelling up to my trembling thighs and belly until I was shaking uncontrollably. He looked up at me and smiled.

  “Shall we go for a ride, my sweet?”

  At this point I was no longer K-Kandi but had been taken over by Kaaaandi, my newly discovered alter ego. We left in my car and parked on a dirt-track off Bluebell Woods. Wesley smiled. “You look beautiful, Kandi,” he murmured, running his fingers down my cheek and I realised sadly that Carl hardly ever used my name when we had sex.

  “I’d love to see your body,” continued Wesley, sliding a silky strap gently down my shoulder. I lifted my arms and he slipped the red camisole top over my head. It was a warm summer evening but I could feel my skin prickling with g
oosebumps. And anticipation.

  “Hmmmm.” He breathed in my scent and kissed me tenderly on the lips before slowly peeling down the rubber skirt. I was naked. In every sense.

  “Perfect,” he said approvingly, admiring my smooth, shaved pussy. “Your skin,” he murmured, devouring me with his mouth. “You taste sweet, like candy.” I leaned back, my naked flesh sliding on the leather seat, every sensation heightened, allowing myself to luxuriate in his penetrating kisses. His hand was moving between my thighs, quickly discovering how wet I was already.

  He grinned. “You’re streaming, Kandi? Did you know that?”

  I nodded and groaned as his head moved down and his tongue began to stroke my clitoris in slow rhythmic movements, sending electric currents pulsing through my body while his hands cupped my breasts, his thumbs playing with my nipples. Just when I thought I could bear it no longer he stopped abruptly, leaving me begging for more, while he placed my fingers over his throbbing erection. I ached to feel him inside me, filling and stretching me.

  “Fuck me,” I whispered. He smiled as I pulled him urgently towards me and soon he was pumping vigorously. I clutched his back, moaning and sobbing.

  “Fuck me, fuck me harder,” I demanded greedily, my muscles tightening around him.

  I was near to coming when he suddenly produced a pair of handcuffs and I readily allowed him to fasten them on to my wrists, the unforgiving metal clicking shut, before he pinned my hands above my head, still thrusting energetically. I loved the delicious feeling of being captive, of giving myself to Wesley. I had often fantasised about such things and it seemed all my erotic dreams were coming true at once – sex with a stranger, in a car, in a deserted spot, handcuffed.

  Wesley smiled as I writhed and groaned with pleasure, and now that I was at his mercy, he took charge, slowing down his thrusts, moving in and out of me with careful and deliberate precision, so that I could feel every movement, savouring the gentle and exquisite friction.