Author's Note: This is a mainstream rewrite of my incest story, Position of Trust.
***
If I had a girlfriend like Gemma, I would never treat her the way Paul does. I love him, he's my best mate. But he hasn't got the slightest clue who she really is. If he keeps this up, she's going to move out. And it's more than our waterfront apartment in Port Melbourne that I would lose.
I'm desperately in love with her.
"So what am I supposed to do?" Gemma whined in response to Paul's announcement that he was going to the football that night.
"Hang out with the Masterchef." He gestured towards me in the kitchen behind her. "He's not going anywhere."
"Whatever, Paul." She was furious about being abandoned on another Saturday night. "Just go. Watch your football," she sighed, then turned back to me to continue her cooking lesson.
I spent sixteen hours a day slaving in a hectic commercial kitchen. But with the first day I've had off in over a month, I was more than happy to spend the time with Gemma, teaching her how to cook. I didn't notice Paul leave as I continued showing her how to encrust a piece of swordfish with lemon myrtle.
But Gemma did. She sighed loudly, her big green eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness.
"Dry your eyes, Princess," I smiled with a click of my fingers, bringing her back to the task at hand.
She wrinkled her nose at me, and brushed a dark, errant curl behind her ear. Then she smiled brightly. If nothing else, Gemma was very easy to instruct. She threw herself back into expertly prepping the salad. Although she made a frightful mess, covering herself and the kitchen in assorted foodstuffs.
Once we were ready, we barbequed the swordfish out on the balcony, enjoying the unseasonably warm winter sun. It was one of those perfect moments, eating a delicious meal with a beautiful woman, overlooking the bay. I actually forgot for a while that she wasn't mine.
"How did I do, Chef?" Gemma beamed when we finished our meal. "You think I could get a job at the Park Hyatt with you?"
"Maybe waiting tables," I teased. I barked a laugh as I was struck in the side of the head with a balled up napkin. Picking up our empty plates, I stood up. "You did really good, Gem. Although you made a shitload of a mess."
"Hey," she protested, collecting our wine glasses and following me inside. "I'm an artist, not a cleaner."
I rolled my eyes and gave her a friendly smack on the ass, eliciting a squealing giggle. She was covered from head to toe in the ingredients of our lunch, so I sent her off to get changed while I got started on the bomb site she had created.
A few minutes later, I turned to see Gemma had pulled up a stool and was watching me clean down the kitchen. Her head was tilted slightly, with the ringlets of her chocolate brown hair bouncing off her shoulder. I snorted a laugh at her new t-shirt. It was the yellow one with the words, 'Cheer up emo kids.'
"You like it?" she smiled, sitting up and pushing out her chest. She had gorgeous, small breasts, which often meant she would go without a bra, allowing tantalising glimpses of the outline of her nipples.
My voice caught slightly, but I managed to croak out a response, before putting much more attention than was required into the coffee machine. "Do you want one?"
"No, thanks." She tapped the book that lay face down on the bench. "I'm just going to read for a bit outside."
"Oh, okay. What are you reading?"
Gemma didn't answer. Instead, she just grinned at me, sliding the book off the bench and holding it close across her stomach as she skipped out onto the balcony.
"Okay then," I smiled to myself, amused by Gemma's teasing.
With Paul gone and Gemma distracted on the balcony, it was the perfect time to participate in my dirty, little routine. I put half a load of my washing in the machine, then feigning some concern about the environment and wanting to make the most of the cycle, I called out to Gemma to ask if she had any lights she needed cleaned.
"Sure, Will. Thanks," she called back. "Just grab whatever you can find in our basket. Oh, and what's on the floor."
Victory! Permission to get my hands on her dirty underwear. I savoured the anticipation of the prize that awaited me in Paul and Gemma's dirty clothes basket. When I had waited as long as I dared, I went into their bedroom.
I scooped up Gemma's scattered clothes from the carpet, where she had stepped out of them the night before. Flicking the lid off the hamper in the corner, I fished out the lights and dropped in the bundle of darks I had retrieved, then stretched for the plain white t-shirt just out of reach. Then I saw them, a pair of tiny pale blue panties on the floor up against her bedside table.
Sitting on their bed, I bent down to pick them up. The softness of the satin instantly tingled my fingertips. I held them out in front of me, studying the cute little bow on the front of the waistband, and the frilly, lace embellishments down either side of the gusset. The '10' on the tag offered a seductive little thrill.
I exhaled slowly to try and calm my heartbeat. Then, turning them inside out, I held the crotch to my nose and mouth, and breathed in her scent. The hint of perfume combined with the earthy aroma of her sex brought me an indescribable relief.
I'm such a pervert, I silently confessed to myself, before deeply inhaling again.
I balled up her panties in my pocket and took the bundle of lights to the laundry cupboard in the hall. Loading one garment at a time into the machine, I sniffed at each pair as I went, but none of the intoxicating delicates were quite as fresh as the pale blues I already had.
