Purple Panties

by Zane

  My short, breathless laughter shook us both. I rolled off her, lying on my side snuggled close to her warm body. I glided a hand over her soft belly and combed my fingers through her thatch.

  Annegret sat up and gave me a caress that stroked along my shoulders and back. “I have Schnapps. Would you like a drink? We’ll make a toast.”

  As she climbed off the mattress, I collapsed face first on the bed, completely undone, but feeling that warm, enervating afterglow. I turned my head and watched her bend over to reach into the cupboard where she’d stowed her bag. “Was I okay?”

  I winced, wishing I could take it back. I sounded like I had after the first time I’d screwed a boy, but I felt every bit as unsure. This was new territory for me.

  Annegret lifted a bottle from her back, unscrewed the top and held it high. “I’m ready to celebrate, aren’t I?” She held out the bottle to me, and sat on the edge of the bed. “If you hadn’t been everything I dreamed, I’d probably be dressing now, and wondering how long I’d have to hide in the bathroom down the hall until you fell asleep.”

  Her expression, happy and flirting, was so much easier to read than a man’s. I took a long swallow from the bottle, wrinkled my nose and handed it back.

  “Too sweet?” she said, laughing.

  “Yeah, but it is warming me all the way to my toes.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “I thought that was supposed to be my job.”

  “Well, if you’d like to give it another try…”

  Her wide smile drew my mouth into a grin. She bent and kissed me. “I think I’ve never enjoyed a business trip quite so much.”

  I tugged her hair, bringing her closer. “And I never saw this one listed in the travel brochures. But I think I like it.”

  Her glance slid away, and her head tilted. “You know…I have this room reserved at a little hotel, not far from the Opera House…”

  “Hmmm…That’s right on my itinerary,” I murmured, knowing where this was headed.

  “I’ll show you the sights after I finish with my business.”

  “I’m seeing them just fine,” I drawled, and reached to cup her breast, playing with her nipple until it lengthened.

  Maybe this wasn’t exactly how I thought I’d spend my week in Austria, but then again, I’d packed light, wanting to be free to linger where I chose.

  I chose Annegret.

  These days, award-winning novelist Delilah Devlin is missing the wide-open skies and starry nights of South Texas but loving her dark forest in Central Arkansas, with its eccentric characters and isolation—the better to feed her hungry muse! Her personal journey has taken her through one war and many countries, cultures, jobs, and relationships to bring her to where she is now—writing sexy adventures that share a common thread of self-discovery and transformation. For more about Delilah, check out: www.DelilahDevlin.com.

  The Private Room

  Allison Hobbs

  Astra and Lanie, my girls since high school, invited me out to celebrate my divorce.

  Celebrate! Yeah, right. Getting untangled from my marital mishap wasn’t easy and it most certainly wasn’t cheap. I get nauseous just thinking about all the money I had to spend. So, when Astra and Lanie came up with the divorce celebration idea, I felt more like puking than raising a glass in cheer. But I decided to grin and bear it, pretending that a failed marriage and the high cost of being free had not taken a terrific toll.

  We bar-hopped on South Street and I really got my drink on, throwing down Cosmopolitans like I was guzzling fruit juice. Hell, I deserve to get pissy drunk, I grumbled to myself. My divorce settlement sucked. What kind of backwards society would demand that a woman pay spousal support to a big, strapping man? Why should I be penalized just because I work hard for a living and he chooses to loaf around? What a fool I’d been. But you know how the saying goes. Love makes you…No, scratch that—good dick makes you do foolish things.

  After Astra and Lanie were sufficiently inebriated, the three of us—dignified (when sober), wage-earning, home-owning, churchgoing women—boldly sauntered inside one of those sleazy, adult novelty shops on the South Street strip. Emitting drunken giggles, we shook boxes of penis-shaped pasta, fondled feather ticklers, squeezed the pumps of nipple suckers, and ogled pussy pound cake and other naughty novelties.

  Tipsy and having a good time, I actually forgot my troubles for a little while. But in the midst of laughter and frivolity, while watching Astra try to squeeze into an extremely small, satin-padded corset, I was hit with a sudden feeling of being utterly alone. No longer happy and carefree, it was obvious that the liquor was wearing off. A lump in my throat took form when I caught sight of an attractive couple holding hands as they browsed, stopping ever so often to express their love with an open-mouthed, fervent kiss.

  Viewing this passionate pair pierced my heart so deeply, my knees practically buckled from the pain. Envious and close to tears, I was unable to continue my happy-to-be-free routine. I turned from the couple and briskly walked away.

  “Where are you going?” Lanie tilted her head to the side.

  Looking over my shoulder while walking quickly, I mouthed, “Restroom.” In my haste to get away from my friend and be alone, I mistakenly wandered into a deserted aisle that showcased hardcore sex paraphernalia. My mouth dropped open at the startling sight of vibrators, life-like dildos of varying sizes, Jock-Strap harnesses equipped with realistic penises and scrotums attached. A thigh harness with a protrusive phallus made me gasp out loud. I squinted at the advertising on the package that boasted that it was great for lap dancing.

  Sobered by the jolting sight of dicks and dangling balls, my lips parted to call my friends over to share the shock of the scandalous display. But before I spoke a word, I heard someone murmur, “Mmm. Nice ass.”

  Just because it appeared that I was appraising the strap-on dildos, didn’t make me fair game for some horny bastard. With my face set in mean mode, and feeling justified in expressing my indignation, I jerked my head upward. But my hateful expression swiftly changed to a look of bafflement when I discovered the person who crudely assessed my body was not a lecherous man, after all.

  The voice belonged to a young woman. Early twenties. Muscular and lean. She was a lesbian, no doubt about it, but not the feminine, curvy, girls-gone-wild, come join me in a ménage-a-tois, porno-flick chick. She was a rough and rugged type of dyke. It took a few seconds to mentally shift gears. But I got it together because this thugged-out, hussy needed to know, I’m not the one! Dramatically, I scanned the aisle, turning my head back and forth, looking around me as if to say, ‘I know, you’re not talking to me!’

  She ignored my theatrics and nudged her chin toward the fake dicks. “Which one do you like?”

  Too appalled to speak, I twisted my features into a severe scowl.

  No she didn’t! I wanted to chastise her, but being alone in the aisle with this brazen she-male, I didn’t dare antagonize her. God forbid if she developed an attitude and got all up in my face. I’ve heard that those people are easy to anger and prone to violence. Unwilling to risk a physical confrontation, I held my scolding tongue. I pictured myself wind-milling her wildly and it wasn’t an attractive sight. Even worse, was the image of the muscle-bound dyke using one hard-ass, well-aimed punch to knock me the hell out.

  Still, despite my fear of her brute strength, I had to let her know that I felt offended. With carefully chosen words, I spoke ever so politely, gesturing with my hands to make my point. “Your behavior is crude.” I took a deep, huffy breath. “Now, my motto is to live and let live, but I don’t appreciate being hit on by a woman.” I gave a huge sigh, and then added smugly, “For your information, I’m not gay.”

  “For real?” She took on a feigned expression of innocence.

  “For real!” I sucked my teeth in disgust.

  She nodded her head toward the sex gear. “So, why are you checking out the strap-ons? You thinking about switching teams?”

  “Not hardly,” I
tossed back. “Unlike you, I am not confused about my sexuality. I’m straight as an arrow—one hundred percent, heterosexual,” I asserted, fired up and mad as hell.

  Paying no attention to my angry words and tone, the dyke chick’s eyes roamed my body. It creeped me out when her roving gaze settled on my breasts. Silently admonishing myself for wearing such a low-cut top, I folded my arms across my chest to shield my innocent twins from her perverted stare.

  “Oh, excuse me, was I staring?” She shook her head as if to break the captivating spell my extra-large boobies seemed to have on her.

  I dropped my arms, prepared to leave the vicinity of the dyke and the triple X-rated sex toys.

  “Yo, are they real?” There was amusement in her voice as her eyes again zoomed in on my deep cleavage.

  “Of course, they’re real.” I rolled my eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business.” Finished with the vile chitchat, I gave her my back and took a few steps in the opposite direction. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a package being torn open.

  “Yo, hot chocolate,” she called out, referring to my dark-brown complexion.

  My gut reaction was to ignore her and swiftly rejoin my friends, but curiosity got the best of me. I refused to acknowledge to myself that it was she who intrigued me. Brushing the thought aside, I stopped and slowly turned around.

  “What do you think about this one? Big enough?” At her groin, she’d placed a replica of an erect penis. It had the fullness, shape, and appearance of the real thing.

  It was vulgar, a revolting contradiction—a chick with a dick. Blatantly disrespectful, the virile-looking young woman caressed the length of the heavily veined shaft. The gender dichotomy had my mind spinning. The imagery was surreal.

  And intriguing.

  I felt a quick rush of uncomfortable heat. I wanted to whisk myself away from the tawdry aisle of dangling fake appendages. It was time to end this lurid interlude, but my feet refused to move.

  In the distance, I could hear Astra’s and Lanie’s excited, slurred voices as they undoubtedly stumbled upon another provocative conversation piece. They were too sloshed and too caught up in the marvels inside the South Street sex shop to concern themselves with my whereabouts.

  “Think you can you handle this?” The dyke chick used her thumb and forefinger to fondle the mushroom-capped head. Her behavior was lewd; her words were coarse and lustful, bringing me to my senses.

  Then she smiled at me, disarming me with the appearance of a dimple in her left cheek. That dimple, so non-threatening, so adorable, came from out of the blue. The charming indentation in her cheek threw me off balance, skewed my sensibility, and caused me to inadvertently take notice of her smooth, flawless, ginger-colored skin. To be honest, she wasn’t as tough-looking as I’d first thought.

  In fact, she was really cute with perfectly arched brows, and almond-shaped, brown eyes that sparkled with sexual mischief as they once again glanced downward and penetrated the satin fabric of my black bra. In an instant, my nipples hardened against my will.

  Whoa! This woman was a predator. She sensed my emotional quandary and smelled fear.

  Astra and Lanie were a few aisles over; I could hear them giggling at some outlandish discovery, but instead of rushing to rejoin my friends, instead of returning to the safety of the real world where wounded women assumed stiff upper lips, and banded together to celebrate the overthrowing of yet another mistake-of-a mate, I stood transfixed in a surreal space, disturbingly mesmerized by a masculine female.

  She cradled her hairless chin between her thumb and forefinger, stroked it thoughtfully, clearly realizing that I was experiencing a bout of sexual confusion and the ball was now in her court. Then, with the aggressive posturing of a man who is confident that he can have whatever he wants, she took a few steps toward me. “My name is Tristan.”

  “Nina,” I replied, eyes downcast, nervously brushing back wayward strands of hair.

  Her eyes darted to my voluptuous behind. “You’re sexy, Nina. You know I wanna tap that ass, right? And yo, I can’t wait to wrap my lips around that big chocolate mound,” she replied with a wink.

  Without warning, completely unexpected, I felt an outpouring of liquid heat, saturated the thick thatch of hair that curled near the lips of my womanhood. My cheeks felt hot and flushed, they would have been blazing red if it weren’t for my deep-brown skin tone, which concealed my embarrassing and unexpected arousal.

  Wearing a satisfied smile, she stuffed the strap-on inside the box and returned it to the shelf. Her swagger, her demeanor was masculine. That cute dimple and something else that was hard to identify gave her softness. The intermingling of male and female energy was surprisingly sensual.

  “Come here.” Tristan moistened her lips as if preparing to kiss me. I hesitated. “Get over here, girl. I won’t bite you.”

  As if hypnotized, I took a few steps toward her. The moment I got within reach, she wrapped her arms around my waist. Her hands briefly rested on the cheeks of my buttocks and then began a gentle, circular massage, causing the liquid heat to increase between my thighs, as her fingers trailed down the crack of my fabric-covered ass. Caught up in the pleasure of her forbidden touch, an anguished moan escaped my lips.

  Her lips brushed my neck. She inhaled my scent. “Mmm. You smell good. Whatchu wearing?”

  “Um….” My mind was mush, hell if I knew.

  “Does your pussy taste as good as you smell?” Tristan’s inquiry made me shudder. I grunted an unintelligible response.

  “You gotta let me sample some of that. You wanna get with me?” Her voice was a low, sensual rumble.

  Unable to speak, I said nothing, unsure what to say, what was going on with me that I was attracted to this woman. There I stood, in a public venue, captured in the arms of a strange woman, fighting the strong urge to drop my pants and get down and dirty right there on the tiled floor.

  It dawned on me that security cameras were rolling, but I was beyond caring. It was difficult to summon rational thought and proper behavior with a vagina clenching up and pleading to be fucked.

  Tristan released me. She peeked at her wristwatch, which was big, round-faced and manly. “Get rid of your giggly girlfriends. It shouldn’t take you more than a couple minutes to kick it like you have a headache. Tell ’em you have to bounce. After you get your situation straight, swing back by here.”

  “Uh, okay,” I stammered but lingered, feeling as if I were in a dream-like state.

  She frowned at her watch again. “Go handle your business.” She gave me a quick kiss on the lips. It was more a dismissive gesture than one of affection.

  Following her order, I walked away and bumped smack into Astra and Lanie. Their sour expressions indicated that they were not pleased with my lengthy visit to the restroom.

  “What took you so long? It’s late. We’re ready to go.” Astra’s mouth was set in a firm no-nonsense line.

  “I was sick.” I touched my stomach. “Too many Cosmos.”

  We walked to the parking lot on Bainbridge Street, exchanged air kisses and got in our separate cars. I paid my parking fee, pulled out of the lot and drove around the block, and then parked on a dark residential street.

  Walking fast and cautiously looking over my shoulder in case Astra or Lanie caught me trying to get my creep on, I hurried back to South Street.

  Inside the brightly lit sex shop, I craned my neck, looking for Tristan.

  “Are you Nina?” a man working the register inquired.

  I nodded, wondering how he knew my name.

  “Your party is in the private room,” he said, using a discreet tone.

  “The private room?” My whispery voice was squeaky and confused.

  He pointed to the back of the store. “Walk straight back and knock on the door.”

  For the love of God, why didn’t I just turn around and go home? Tristan was waiting for me in the stock room with the approval of the establishment. This twisted liaison was getting raunchier an
d stranger by the second. But I finally admitted to myself that I was bi-curious, so I mumbled a “thank you” and took awkward steps toward my illicit rendezvous.

  Knowing that I was making an absolute fool of myself, I paused at the door with a plate that actually spelled out the word, “Private.” Never had I felt so out of control, so out of my element, but Tristan’s sexy murmurings and her earthy sexiness had piqued my interest. My libido was fully charged. There was no turning back.

  Nervously, I raised a balled fist and rapped on the door.

  Tristan cracked the door open. “Hey sexy,” she welcomed me, dimple on display, motioning for me to enter.

  To my astonishment, there were no stacked boxes filled with sexual gizmos. The room was furnished with a plainly made bed and two metal folding chairs. Framed prints decorated the walls. I had stepped into a hidden, underground lifestyle. I felt disoriented, but before I could verbalize regret, before I could bow out gracefully, Tristan’s mouth claimed mine.

  Her aggressive tongue parted my lips, snaked in and out of my mouth. She clutched handfuls of my hair and pulled until I cried out from the sweet pain. She pulled her mouth away. “You want me, baby?” she asked and smiled when I gasped a desperate, “Yes!”

  Satisfied with my frantic state of sexual need, she slid her hands around my waist and roughly pulled me closer until we were groin-to-groin. Holding her tight, I positioned my clit against the hard rod hidden in her pants that felt exactly like an erect penis. Our gyrating hips rocked in sync. My breathing became harsh as desire mounted.

  “Take your clothes off, baby.” Tristan tugged at the waistband of my pants and then began removing her own clothing.

  Quickly, I kicked off my shoes and stole a glance. Standing sideways from me, Tristan skimmed off her top. Her small breasts, topped by tiny brown nipples, jiggled deliciously as she moved. She turned away and removed her denim pants, shed her boxers. Her naked ass was toned and tight. The contrast of soft and feminine and rock-hard made my pussy burn.