Peach Satin And Ecru Lace

Pamela Howard was my best friend. She acquired that label the day she was assigned the locker next to mine on her first day on the job. We were lab bunnies. The name, "lab bunny," was attached to any female who worked in the lab at Zytech. It didn't matter that it was an antiquated idea; our lab was old school and scoffed at political correctness, when given the chance. We could have made an issue of it, after all, we had the same degrees as every man in the place. We'd gone through the same screening. We'd had the same training. But "lab bunny" was just a name. The truth was, respect was earned in the lab no matter what your gender, so we "bunnies" figured there was nothing wrong with a little Playboy humor.

Working in our clinical environment meant you changed from street clothes into white jumpsuits provided by the company. The jumpsuits weren't any more sterile or functional, but white seemed to appease the minds of the bureaucrats. For us, it meant less time and money spent on buying work clothes, and the company did the laundry.

I'd started fresh from college, still believing I was one short discovery away from ridding the world of disease. By the time Pam hired on, I'd been there eighteen months and was still working on the same project: saliva testing for MHP--male hormone panels.

Pam came from a sister company where she'd worked for five years. I learned later that she'd left Zycomp because her husband, Duane, had had an affair with one of the "bunnies" there. The whole department knew of his indiscretion so Pam decided it was time for a change.

On her first morning, crammed into the six-by-eight locker room, we exchanged names and cursory hellos. You learn quickly that there is very little room for modesty when you're shoulder to shoulder with a perfect stranger in your bra, panties, and socks. While balancing on one foot, I tried to take my pants off. My foot got caught in the hem, and I accidentally fell against Pam. Without missing a beat she said, "If I'd known we were going to dance, I would have shaved my legs." I burst into giggles, which she echoed, and our friendship was born.

From then on, we shared everything: our daily routines, our time, and our hobbies. Pam and Duane were trying to work things out. My husband and I were as happy as any upper middle-class couple with two kids and a mortgage. She was a die-hard antique nut, and I just loved to shop, anywhere, anytime. We went to soccer games, dance recitals, birthday parties, and summer beach trips. There was very little I didn't know about Pam, and I'm sure she felt the same about me.

Sometime later, Pam started having affairs--clandestine dinners, secret rendezvous', and on a couple of occasions, overnight trips--with me as her alibi. None of the affairs were significant, and only one lasted longer than two weeks. According to Pam, she was only after what she wasn't getting at home--sex!

Her relationship with Duane had never healed, but it wasn't until Pam and I were on a "ladies night out" that I learned just how truly damaged their relationship was. The conversation started with Pam giving me the juicy details of her latest sexual liaison.

"He's skinny. Skinnier by far than anyone I've ever had sex with." Pam took a hit off her cigarette. "I'm used to muscle, or at least a lot more fat."

"Was it so different?"

"Yeah, it was. Nothing got in the way of his long dick."

Don't misunderstand, Pam and I didn't need booze to talk openly. This was our natural way of discussion. She had the affair, and I got off on the details. We were both satisfied.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know, no belly that cuts off another inch and a half from getting all the way inside."

I did know what she meant, but I'd never thought about it until now. "So he was well-endowed, huh?"

"Long and skinny, just like him." Pam tapped the butt of her cigarette in the ashtray and took a sip of her beer. Her eyes shone bright over the edge of the mug.

"So, what do you think? Does size really matter?" I had my own opinion, but I was interested in what Pam had to say.

"Let's just say he touched me in places that Duane could only dream about. If Duane were to dream of me at all." She took another sip of the beer but this time her eyes were downcast. "And he had no trouble finishing."

"Finishing?"

"Duane says I'm too loose, that the babies did a number on me and it's like a tunnel through a mountain. He has trouble 'finishing' if you know what I mean. Didn't seem to bother Mr. Skinny though."

I never cared much for Duane. He'd tried to cop a feel once when Pam and I had met him at a local bar after a football game. Duane had drunk himself into liquid meltdown, so I offered to drive his car home. He opted to ride with me. His hands were on me like an acidic solution eating away an outer layer. At the time, I chalked it up to too much beer, but I made sure never to be alone with him again. From then on, there was little doubt that Duane was a full-fledged jerk.

"He actually said that? About the tunnel?"

"Oh yeah, more than once."

"Why do you stick with a man like that, Pam?"

"He's my husband, the father of my children. It's easy. We're Catholic. I don't know, take your pick."

"He's a bastard!"

"I'm not exactly angel material, Liz."

My best friend instincts kicked in. "Oh, I don't know. Angels like to fly. Isn't that what you're trying to do?"

Pam smiled. "Maybe." She changed the subject, and I let her. This was supposed to be a night of fun. Talking about Duane wasn't fun for either of us. "Mr. Skinny wants to meet again."

"Are you going to?"

She shrugged and finished off her beer, then signaled to the waiter. I wasn't much for alcohol. I was still nursing my first umbrella drink. The waiter, a college guy, teased a little and gave us his white, orthodontic smile. Anything for tips, I supposed.

"How about him?" Pam asked as we watched the college boy walk away.

"Too young."

"He's serving drinks. He has to be at least twenty-one."

"Way too young."

"God, Liz. You're only thirty-three."

"I like my men to be older than my underwear." It was a long-standing joke. We both laughed. "You never answered. Are you going to meet Mr. Skinny again?"

"I think so. I told him about you."

"What about me?"

"That you were a voyeur, and I would be telling you everything."

I could have argued the voyeur part for propriety's sake, but why argue the truth? I loved hearing the details of these rendezvous probably every bit as much as Pam loved going on them. Maybe more. We both knew it.

"And he didn't mind?"

"Heck no! He offered to let you listen in the next time."

"Listen in?"

"Sure, you know when I make my check-in call, instead of hanging up, I'll just leave the phone off the hook."

For as long as Pam had been meeting these men, we had a routine. She would tell me where she was going, when she got there, and when everything seemed OK, she would call and tell me, "Everything was a go." It wasn't a completely secure setup, but it was better than nothing.

The idea of listening to my best friend having sex made my face flush. I downed my remaining drink and immediately felt dizzy. I blamed it on the rum that had settled to the bottom of the glass. "I don't think I can do that, Pam."

"Why not?"

Body and mind struggled with individual reactions. "I don't know. It just doesn't seem right." My stomach fluttered and little tremors made their way between my legs. "Wouldn't you be uncomfortable?"

"It's not any different than me giving you the play-by-play."

"It's a little different." I fidgeted with the umbrella and wished the cute waiter would come back. I was feeling warmer by the minute.

"Mr. Skinny liked the idea." She was looking at me again. Her amber eyes were glossy from drink and what I guessed was desire. "So do I," she said.

I tried to think of all the reasons why I shouldn't. There was only one--my husband, Mike. I wondered if he might think of it as some sort of cheating. Listening to Pam tell her exploits wasn't the same thing as actually being there, on the phone. I'd been honest with Mike, up to a point. He knew Pam was messing around, and he also knew about Duane. I'd told him about the groping incident in the car, and he'd fumed a little, but he let it go at my request. Mike also knew how Pam's adventures affected me. I was horny, and he benefited. But would he think this was going too far?

'I-I don't know, Pam. Mike might get upset."

"So don't tell him." She looked at me and must have known immediately that that wasn't an option. "Or, tell him and let him listen, too."

"You're kidding?"

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

We were quiet for a few minutes. Oddly, I felt jealous. I figured this part of the game was meant for her and me, not Mike or anyone else.

"Can I think about it? When are you planning to meet him again?"

"Wednesday. Think about it. Let me know Monday at work."

The rest of the evening went as usual. More drinks, more teasing with the waiter, and occasional offers to dance by some of the men in the place. Pam danced. I watched.

***

When I got home, Mike was in bed, watching TV. I started to go for a shower, but he hopped up from the bed and pulled me close.

"I smell like smoke," I said.

He ran his hands through my hair and sniffed. "Yeah, you do."

"Let me shower."

"I don't mind the smoke." He nuzzled through my hair and kissed my neck. His skin was damp, and he smelled of fresh soap.

"The kids in bed?" It was a reflexive question.

"Tucked in tight." His hand slipped under my shirt and cupped my breast. "I've been waiting for you to get home."

"I feel grimy. Let me shower. You've had one."

"No shower." He kneaded my breast and then made his way down the front of my pants. "A shower might wash away this." Before I could say a word, his fingers were inside my panties slipping through the puddle of moisture that had collected. "I knew you'd be wet," he whispered.

I might have told Mike then about the possible phone call, but I didn't. Instead, I opened my legs, offered myself to his hand, and enjoyed his lust-directed fingers. I'd been teetering on the edge of climax all night. With Mike's exquisite touch, I could have tumbled over that edge effortlessly. I didn't want to.

"Don't make me come, Mike. Make me wait."

He pulled his fingers from between the folds and dallied in my pubic hair, tugging at it and swirling among the follicles, occasionally dipping into my slit and nudging my clit with tender reminders he was never far away.

His busy hand caused the heavy denim to pull and the seam worked its way between my ass cheeks, teasing along my backside. I wouldn't last long no matter how much direct stimulation he avoided.

"Mike..."

"Yeah, baby, I know."

And he did know. He knew me like a favorite movie--every line, every act, every scene. He slipped his hand up, pulled open the snap, and jerked down the zipper. Within seconds I lay naked, stretched on the bed watching Mike slowly remove his clothes. He ran his hands over his chest and down his thighs where his pants had been. His hard cock bobbed between.

When he grabbed his shaft, I followed each detail--how tight he grasped, how fast he stroked, and how the tip of his thumb arched back while the pad of it rubbed through his precum and spread it around. I was afraid to look away, afraid I'd miss something important. I glanced only to his eyes and in them discovered a deeper intimacy. Yes, Mike knew me, knew what I liked, and as always, wanted me to know him.

He stroked until he was as close to the edge as I was before he abruptly stopped and climbed onto the bed with me. On me. And in me.

***

Monday rolled around, and I still wasn't sure what I was going to tell Pam. Great sex with Mike and a couple of family weekend days had dulled the initial excitement of her idea, but squeezed next to her in the locker room had me thinking about it all over again.

"Have you talked to Mr. Skinny?"

"His name is Chet."

"Chet?"

"Hmm. I figured you should know, just in case."

"I told Mike." It was easy to tell him snuggling naked in bed after our heady lovemaking. He hesitated at first, and then wondered if we could get the kids out of the house.

"You did? What did he say?"

"He told me to do what I wanted." What he'd actually said was do it if it meant I'd be as wet as I was on Friday. No wonder I loved my husband.

"So does that mean yes or no?"

I said, yes. Listening to sex might be as interesting as reading an Anais Nin story and filling in the blanks with my own imagination. After all, reading is voyeurism at its best. But something told me Pam badly wanted me to listen. I wasn't sure of her motive, but in the long run, I didn't think it mattered. The whole idea was arousing.

Unfortunately, by Tuesday at lunch, while we discussed the details of how and when, the affair started to take on a clinical feel--too much preparation, too many do's and don'ts. Pam wasn't sure she would talk. She didn't think I should talk to Chet. I should only listen. By the time the planning was done, I wanted to forget about the details and just let it happen.

But changing in the locker room Wednesday morning had me looking at Pam in a way I'd never looked before, and I began to get excited again. She was in her bra and panties. They matched--light, peach satin with ecru lace. Her breasts swelled above the demi-cups. Freckles, the color of her eyes, dotted her chest, like stars in a winter sky. I had an urge to trace along them to discover a hidden constellation. Was Chet the sort of guy who would want to do the same?

Her nipples, barely covered thanks to the half-cup bra, strained against the edge of creamy fabric. I could see the rosy hue of her areola. This teasing glimpse was every bit as provocative as a completely naked view might have been. Heat rushed to my face and sweat tickled my underarms. It hit me. Pam was sexy. Not Victoria-Secret-model-sexy, but real-woman-sexy.

She caught me looking.

To her credit, she blushed--a soft red across her cheeks, down her neck and over her upper chest. But she didn't cover herself. Not immediately. She stood perfectly still and let me look. Her breathing turned heavy and a further bit of nipple poked above the fabric. She had the type of breasts a lot of women can only have surgically--full, round, and perfect.

I didn't know if her openness extended to a lower look, but I took the chance and glanced to the triangle of peachy satin covering her delta. Dark pubic hair lay just beneath its surface in swirls of tamed rebellion.

Pam's voice sliced across the heavy air. "Now you'll know."

"W-What?" I was too stunned to catch her meaning at first.

"Later, when you hear, you'll know," she whispered.

I looked at her face--eyes shining, cheeks flushed, and lips moist. "Yes, I'll know," I said. What else was there to say? Except, "Thank you, Pam."

"Good grief! Don't thank me." She stepped into the white jumpsuit and pulled it up as usual--quickly. "You'll have me thinking of this as a service I'm doing you instead of the other way around."

"Well, isn't it?"

"Not exactly, well..." she paused and ran her hand through her hair to fluff it up. "Let's just say it works for both of us."

"Are you going to wear the peach satin?"

"Huh-uh. Black lace. Do you think he'll like it?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"Really?"

"I'm sure of it."

The rest of the day was filled with busy work, but in the moments when my mind wandered I would see Pam as I'd seen her in the morning--a mix of sexual bravado and vulnerability. It heightened my expectations for the night to come.

***

After Mike dropped the kids off at my parents and deliberately set out with his buddies to give me time alone, I began to get jittery. I'd asked him if he wanted to stick around and participate, but when he'd said, "No, I'll just come home for dessert!" I was glad. Like the moment in the locker room, it was an intimacy that would lose its clarity if I shared it too quickly. I wanted to think about it, ruminate over it, and memorize every detail, like masturbation.

Pam wouldn't be calling until she and Chet were at his place and already beginning their play, or so was the plan. It gave me time to bathe. The water was warm and fragrant and I lounged in it. My breasts bobbed just above the surface where puffs of bubbles spread along the water line. Any movement and water would lap up higher on my chest like high tide along a sandy beach. I didn't have as many freckles as Pam, nor were my breasts as full and round as hers, but I did have two freckles, one on each breast, that Mike had pointed out in the early years of our marriage. He called them the Alpha and Omega. With his tongue, he would start at one and lick every inch before ending at the other. I felt cherished every time he did. Would Pam feel cherished if someone traced along her smattering of freckles?

The phone rang just as I was toweling off. I was Pavlov's dog, salivating and tingling just from the sound of the ring.

"Hello."

"Liz?"

"Yes?"

"Liz, I'm here. Chet is here." Pam's voice was raspy and guttural, like Kathleen Turner's would be during sex. "He's sucking my tit." She drew out every syllable.

I could hear his slurping sounds and his muffled, "great tits" as he sucked. My own nipples immediately tightened and ached.

"I can't talk, Liz. I can't talk."

"Don't talk. I'll listen."

Tiny moans escaped with an occasional yelp. I pictured Pam's tit flesh falling out of peach satin, and then remembered she was wearing black lace. I heard a shuffling of sounds, as if the phone were being moved, or dropped.

"C'mon Pammy, baby let's give her a real show." Chet's voice was heavy and accented. I imagined his lips were wet and swollen from sucking. "I'm gonna fuck you long and hard for your friend, Pammy, girl. Turn over." There was more shuffling and moaning. "That's it sweet girl, stick that ass up in the air for me."

"Oh, god!" she screamed. "Yes! Do it!"

"You like ol' Chet's long pecker, don'tcha girl?"

"Mmm!" Pam's voice was even more muffled with what I could guess was her face buried in a pillow.

"In and out. In and out. Gettin' honey from the pot. Buzz, buzz, buzz."

The smack, smack, smack grew louder and quicker like a train picking up speed.

"I see that purty rosebud winkin' at me. Maybe we'll try that hole next time, Pammy girl. Whatcha think?"

His crudity nearly made me smirk, but there was no denying it was a turn on. The sound of slapping flesh battled with Pam's moans as each grew louder, but both were lost with the deafening yell from Chet as he climaxed.

Everything was quiet afterward. Only slow, heavy breathing. I waited, not knowing if I should speak or just hang up.

"Liz? You still there?"

"Yes."

"See, I told you he had no trouble finishing."

"No, I guess not."

The heat of the moment passed and Pam's words settled over me like fresh-falling snow. Was this what this was all about?

"Are you OK, Pam?"

"Oh yeah! I'm fine. I'm going to go now though; Chet and I might have some things to finish up."

"All right. Talk to you later?"

"You bet."

The phone clicked dead.

Pam was my best friend and no doubt we would discuss every detail of what we'd just shared. I would remember to tell her how husky her voice had sounded, how exciting it was to visualize Chet sucking her breasts, or to think about her ass propped up in the air while Chet pounded into her depths. We might even laugh over Chet's quirks. I would try to relay every finite detail so she'd realize how incredibly sexy she was, no matter what Duane had led her to believe, because I'd seen her in peach satin and ecru lace, and she was a vision.

Mike was my husband, my lover, and my soul mate, and he would be home in a few minutes. Suddenly, I couldn't wait.