Satin Sex Object

You had been blushing and stuttering around my flatmate for weeks when I invited you to come to our house party. I don't know if you looked more grateful then, or when she finally talked to you and told you to go upstairs and wait for her.

I find you in the bedroom, looking sheepish next to a chest of drawers.

"What are you doing in my room?" I ask as I close the door. "Can I help you find something?"

My flatmate is blonde and willowy and, you suspect, out of your league. I am none of these things, but I am on home ground.

You talk apologetically, without making much sense or impression.

"Perhaps you can help me," I say, gently ushering you backwards so that you're sitting on the bed. "Perhaps we can help each other."

I pull out one of the drawers and place it beside you. It contains a pile of underwear. You open your mouth to talk, possibly to explain why you're here, possibly to say there has been a mistake, possibly to deny that you're a panty thief.

I select a pair of peach-coloured satin boyshorts and place them on your lap. You flush. More usefully, you start to swell.

"What do you think about those ones?" I ask and sit on the bed so that our legs brush. I reach across you for a pair of coral-pink briefs in silk and lace. "Or these?" I lay them out on top, gently.

There is a bulge now, but I pretend not to notice as I cover it with more pieces. A powder-blue thong, another pair of shiny briefs in black, a yellow bikini bottom with large white polka dots.

Your hands stay on the bed behind you, propping you up, not daring to come into contact with these intimate clothes nor uncover your involuntary erection.

You have gathered your thoughts now and are trying to speak but you pause. There is a noise outside. It is my flatmate, talking on her phone.

"Shall we invite her in?" I ask. "You could model these for us both."

I smile at your startled look. "Or," I whisper, "you could do it just for me."

I look into your eyes. "Perhaps you would rather it were our little secret?"

You don't move, even as I reach down to take off your shoes and socks. I unbuckle your belt but your trousers, I say a little more loudly than you would like, you must do yourself.

They fall silently to the floor. In one movement you step out of them and into the peach-coloured boyshorts I hold out for you. I pull them up over your legs, slowly, prolonging the soft glide of the fabric against your skin.

Eventually the panties reach your thighs and I stretch the elastic waistband wide to try to fit all of you in. The satin curves tightly over your balls as I attempt to pull the top over your cock.

"Perhaps you could tuck that in," I say, matter-of-factly. You do as I say.

I smooth the fabric against your skin, unhurriedly adjusting the seams against your thighs and running my palm between your legs from back to front. I leave my right hand resting on your balls as I pass my other one gently over your cock.

Each hand finds its rhythm as you let me play with you. You gasp at the pleasure that fills you, ripples then waves so intense that you barely notice you are moaning heavily; by the time you do, you do not care.

I whisper to you, coaxing you to cry louder, slackening the pace till you comply, then rubbing intently to the point of no return.

I feel you tense up, eyes screwed up as if fighting against the pleasure, taking one futile last stand. You spill over, giddy and confused, and my hands fall away.

It is some time before you notice my absence. You recover your awareness gradually. You feel the wetness change from warm to cool. You feel the tightness of the panties. You realise the awfulness of being caught like this.

You open your eyes and see that the door is open now. My flatmate is there. Her mouth is wide. You wonder if she will stand and stare or run to her room. Instead, she comes through the door. You guess before she says it. This is not my room. Those are not my panties.

They are hers.