Pears and Silk

A juicy tale

Silk, green, lacy and tiny: I have a pair of panties in my hand, and they are not mine. My curves could never be cramped into something this small. I’m almost insulted; you’re not even trying. They feel slinky and tender in my hand. I rub the fabric between my fingers backwards and forwards. It slides together easily until it catches the lace.

How long have they been here? I guess I’ve been too caught up in my own world to notice. But really, how could you be so careless? The drawer was open. It’s usually where you keep your after shave and things of that nature; the things that I never need to look at. I must have walked into the bathroom two or three times before I saw it, then the green caught my eye. I thought maybe you had bought some new product I didn’t know you were using; it would have been hard to guess since we don’t get close enough to smell each other anymore.

I’ve been wearing a new perfume lately – you’d like it – it smells of Jasmine and Myrrh. You’ve always been led by your nose. I remember when you would dig your face in my neck for hours at a time. Whenever I would walk in the room, you would cup my waist in your right arm and pull back my hair with your left hand, you always wanted to smell me before we spoke, I never asked why, but I would always melt when you did.

And now we’re here: two people who were once in love, who share meals once in a while, a passion for reading and a love of good music. Once a week, when we both get home at a reasonable hour, we might crack open a bottle of wine, put on a new record, toast to great beats and then, without noticing, we eventually end up on different sides of the living room, you on the computer and me on the chair, reading or correcting work that has carried over from the day. We haven’t even been doing that lately.

The delicate item in my hand is getting warm from being rubbed between my fingers. I want to know how it feels to wear them. I want to feel what she feels when she’s wearing them. I slip off my own panties, low-cut, cotton, lacy things that move with me when I walk and keep me cool in the summer. Silk makes you sweat, it makes you wet, it makes your natural smell more accessible to curious noses.

The lace is cutting off my circulation some, but I don’t care; they fit where they need to. I pull my camisole down to the underwear line and look at myself in the mirror. The colour goes with my skin. Is she dark haired like me? Maybe blonde, very pale, with such a skin tone that emerald would suit her.

I turn the light off in the bathroom and close the door. You’re away and won’t be coming home for a couple of hours. Are you with her? I don’t know, and frankly, it’s not like we’ve been controlling each other in that sense. I’ve had my moments, but I’ve always been very careful with you. You’ve never known, you’ve never suspected, you could never imagine.

That night we were at dinner to celebrate my new book, my lover du jour worked at the restaurant, I told you I had to take a call and he took me in stall number three. When I came back, you asked why I was flushed, and I told you I had been discussing a negative review with my editor. You almost looked sad for me that night.

I turn off the light and strut out of the bathroom. I walk around the house doing mundane tasks. I answer some of my emails. I call the plumber; you’re never going to fix that leaky faucet. I make flight reservations for a week in Paris. I think I might be in the mood to walk around Montmartre. I input your credit card instead of mine. This one’s on you and you’re not coming with me. I smile.

When I start to feel hungry, I walk to the kitchen and pick up a pear from the fruit bowl. Bosc, they’re my favourite. I lean over the counter to eat it, wouldn’t want to get any juice on these pretty little things. The panties protest my position and rise up a bit on my cheeks and tighten between my thighs. The feeling is unexpected and my body jolts, I bite down on the pear, the juice overruns my mouth and trickles down my chin. Two drops land on me: one on my camisole and one on the silk. Now you’re going to know that I found them.

I really don’t care. I put the pear down on the counter and lick my fingers ‘til they are free of pear juice. When was the last time she wore these? Do they still have her smell? I walk to our bedroom and lie down on our bed. The skin on my hips is delighted with relief when I slip off the silk constriction and run it down my legs. Hooking them with my finger, I let them fall onto my face.

As I take in the scent, I can discern pear, me and a slightly stale presence that is not my own. She sprays perfume everywhere I see. I chuckle; you never stood a chance with this one. Did this happen once or more? She must have made an impact if you kept her panties. Did you have them in your pocket when you came home? Was I here?

The smell is overwhelming my senses. When I close my eyes I imagine a young, fun girl, sitting across the table from you and beginning to feel herself getting wet despite herself. My hands are circling the tips of my nipples over my camisole, both at the same time. The panties are covering my mouth, nose and eyes. I can’t see, but I am watching this last moment between you two take place.

You take a stroll around the city. You talk about things that you like. You are telling her about your dreams in life and she is slowly falling for you. What she is producing as a result is this warm, sweet liquid that is pouring out of her. No matter how much perfume she’s wearing you’re bound to take notice if you get any closer. She becomes self-conscious. I dig my fingers into my breasts and grab handfuls of them.

You stop. She is animatedly talking about her love of art-house films. You have led her to a patch of grass. Gently, you place your hands on her shoulders and she falls to her knees. You descend on top of her and lock your lips to hers. She closes her eyes in an effort to control herself: you surprised her. I am running my hands down my stomach.

She can hear people walking by; their footsteps make her nervous. Will any of them be people she knows? Will any of them be me? She curls her knee in and cradles your hip. You can now see the wet stain on her panties, they have soaked through and her scent fills the air. You can smell it. I am smelling it.

My hands have reached my lower lips. I part them. I can’t see but I don’t need to, I know myself well enough. Your hands lift up her dress. She tries to protest but soon surrenders, defenceless to your caresses. You reach in under her panties, with your index and middle fingers you feel down her smooth and hairless surface and you part her pretty, pink opening.

I scissor my fingers around my clit and squeeze them together. All the blood rushes to the tip and it begins to throb. You have your thumb on her clitoris and you have put your fingers inside her. She digs her face into your shoulder to stop herself from moaning. She can still hear people in the distance. She can’t help letting out a soft moan – she is getting close. I am getting close. I can feel myself dripping down. I use the juice to slide easier around my opening. Circles – I like my fingers to work in little circles.

The grass is cool underneath her skin. She no longer cares who hears her. She contracts. I contract. I bite down on the panties, I can taste her, I can taste me, I can taste pear. The waves start. First the warmth spirals out from my fingers, to my skin and from my skin to my muscles. I’m tingling all over. She is trembling, her legs want to tighten and close, but your hands won’t let her. She can’t hold it in anymore.

I’m about to explode. We scream. Our hips rise up into the air taking our chests along with them. Our nipples stand erect and our mouths open to let out the only tool of release we have. You cover her mouth with your hand to muffle the sound. The silk panties make their way deeper into my mouth. Our screams are muffled. I spasm, she spasms, then we spasm again. Our hips come down.

She puts her head on your shoulder and looks at your intently. A little while later, you leave, she takes off her panties and gives them to you. I take them off my face, panting, exhausted from the violent spasms. I drift off into sleep for a few minutes.

When I wake up, I still have the panties in my hand; I lift them up to my face and inhale us together one more time. I get out of bed, walk into the bathroom and put them back. I slip on my own panties and close the drawer. The camisole is damp with sweat; it’ll dry. I’m going to the kitchen to finish my pear. I think I’ll spend the afternoon working on my latest book, and maybe, I’ll even chill a bottle of wine for when you get home.

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