Sammy's Panties Pt. 03

"Marti, I am going to make my bags, I leave at four o'clock," Sammy told me.

I decided to bring my laptop into the kitchen and continue with my online Spanish language courses. I also wanted to be available to say goodbye to Sammy and if she needed me, help her with her bags downstairs when her departure was due. I went to my room and dressed prior to returning to the kitchen with my laptop. I was alone when I returned to the kitchen. I was rather keen to keep an eye on those little white cotton socks in Sammy's shoes by the entrance door and consequently sat at the table in order to witness their fate. Would it be the case that they would be whisked from my grasp before she left? I would have their distant acquaintance until that happened. I wanted to participate in the chase. Know my destiny moment by moment.

Marisol and Javi joined me in the kitchen and then Sammy wheeled a small cabin bag up past the front door and then disappeared again back towards her room. She returned with an enormous piece of hold type luggage on wheels which she placed so as to obstruct my view of her shoes.

"Oh my god," she said. I wanted to put those away, she announced glancing down towards her canvas shoes.

We were a goal up in the closing moments of the cup final and I had the dreadful and utterly disconcerting feeling that the opposition was about to put two past us in the closing moments. I wanted to hold my head in my hands and then the referee's whistle sounded.

"I've buried my keys inside my bag, I can't be bothered to look for it now, you don't mind if I leave those there," asked Sammy, pointing at her shoes.

I could hear Marisol telling Sammy that it didn't matter nothing to her, the Spanish like a double negative. In my mind's eye, I saw agitated champagne bottles spewing their contents skywards and a plethora of confetti dropping all around. I heard the adulation of a huge crowd celebrating as I held a pair of canvas shoes loaded with white cotton socks high above my head. The cup winners cup was mine.

We all sat down to have a last cup of coffee together whilst Sammy, Marisol and Javi busily discussed her trip to Madrid.

Sammy's phone burst into life, the ringtone was the band Queen, Freddy Mercury was announcing that they were the champions of the world but Sammy cut him off and told the taxi driver that she would be right down.

Javi stepped forward and took charge of Sammy's massive hold all and I took the smaller bag and we stepped behind her down the stairs. Javi, a very honourable and devoted boyfriend of Marisol was looking at the same thing as me. He must have been doing so. I was watching Sammy's arse packed into her jeans. Only I had noted that now she was without hose and her feet were bare in her trainers.

I was chanting my very own version of 'we won the cup', 'we won the cup', silently to myself. It was instead, "Your socks are mine, Your socks are mine."

Javi and I waved to Sammy as the taxi left to take her to the bus station. Not long afterwards Marisol and Javi left for a family reunion announcing that they would not be back until the following evening. I wished them well and then watched them from the window as they departed.

I went to collect my cup winners medal and took it to my room. I placed Sammy's little cotton socks on my pillow and went on with the business of celebrating until long into that night. I marvelled at the staining of the toes and heel, surely they were those that she had worn at the gym during the week. As I sniffed them my cock barometer indicated that I was in for very stormy weather. The tempest raged throughout the next week with gale tearing at my mast and driving rain abounded but there were moments of blissful calm when my sails were slack and I drifted in still water before the storm arose again. Sammy's socks were safely harboured in her canvas shoes again prior to her returning the following weekend. I had lovingly washed them of necessity but that seemed a mere formality. She wouldn't notice.

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The next time I saw Sammy was the following Saturday. I had returned from my grocery shopping and as I entered the door to the apartment I saw her sobbing at the kitchen table.

"Sammy, what on earth is the matter, what's happened to you," I pleaded.

Sammy was hardly able to speak between sobs and I imagined that something awful must have befallen her during her vacation in Madrid.

"It's a disaster Marti, look at my room, everything is terrible, what can I say to the landlord. He'll throw me out, what am I to do," she whimpered.

I went quickly to her room and peered in through the open door. The dehumidifier was sat in a puddle of water and the laminate floor had buckled so badly that the machine sat cockeyed on the floor. I opened the door of the machine and found that the collecting bucket was almost empty and on further investigation found that it had been inserted the wrong way round and hadn't correctly engaged with the outflow pipe of the condensing unit.

I went back to see Sammy who was still sobbing, tears dropping into a mug of hot chocolate that lay on the table before her.

"Sammy, dear girl, don't worry. Please stop fretting. It's not your fault. It will be okay. The landlord is up Shit Creek but he does have a paddle, he's insured. Listen, I broke the glass door of the washing machine, I was worried then but it was no big deal. It was all sorted out with the insurance.

At that moment Marisol and Javi returned home and on seeing the distress and upon hearing the reason for the problem, Marisol interjected speaking in Spanish to Sammy. Marisol explained that a similar disaster had been averted when she had asked Javi to empty the collecting bucket and he had put it back in the machine the wrong way round. It's a stupid machine, the design is an accident waiting to happen, she added. She pulled her smartphone from her bag and moments later she was speaking with the landlord.

Don Garcia, the landlord came round later that evening. He wasn't that happy with the situation being a greedy arsehole but nonetheless he did agree that the poor design of the dehumidifier was the source of the problem. Knowing that his apartment was hopelessly equipped to deal with the humidity that is ever present in that region of Spain he made Sammy a decent offer.

Don Garcia suggested that if it was okay with us, her flatmates, then Sammy could live in the television room until a new laminate floor was laid in her room. More than that the Landlord told her she could live the month rent free. It was more than okay with me and despite the fact that I rarely used the room myself I had the feeling that when no one else was around I might just become a telly-addict impostor. Marisol and Javi were also only too pleased to co-operate and so as soon as Don Garcia had left the apartment we all helped Sammy to move her stuff to the television room on the other side of her room from mine.

"Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant, Sammy declared. I spent much too much money in Madrid and it's perfect that I don't have to pay the rent," Sammy enthused.

While Sammy packed her stuff up and placed it outside of her door her three willing flatmates collected suitcases and drawers and other bits and pieces and took them to the television room. I saw Marisol pick up a drawer and as she passed me in the corridor I noticed it was almost empty except for a couple of saucy little thongs. She was followed by Javi who carried a second drawer. There were just three balls of rolled up socks, two black and one pink that occupied an otherwise empty space.

I was content with Sammy's laundry basket which I put my arms around as though I was embracing the dear girl herself and carried it fondly before I set it down in the television room. It felt quite heavy and must have been stuffed full. Fuck me, was I looking forward to the working week when I would be left alone in the flat, at least apart from whoever came to lay the new floor but that would not impede my filthy ambitions.

After we had installed Sammy in her temporary accommodation we all went to the kitchen and had coffee.

"What's your favourite food," I asked Sammy.

"Spaghetti," was her immediate response.

"So to celebrate your return and the fact that all has turned out so well how about I cook a carbonara for everyone and I'll make some sweet Yorkshire puddings for dessert. Marisol and Javi were in agreement and Marisol declared that she would make a salad. I understood that she told Sammy that she was in for a real treat because my sweet Yorkshire puddings were a dream.

"Maple syrup, vanilla ice cream, cream and chocolate sauce would go down well with the puds," I added.

Sammy's tears had dried on her beautiful cheeks and now she was smiling with joy and the huge relief.

"Well, now that I am a little rich girl again I will go and buy some wine," announced Sammy with an endearing pout of the lips that she often displayed to express satisfaction.

Sammy left her chair at the table and as she passed her canvas shoes in the hallway she bent down showing her tight arse in her jeans and plucked the white cotton socks from her canvas work shoes. When she returned she was wearing her trainers with their pink lining which contrasted with the white cotton ankle socks on her feet. I was taken aback when I noticed that they were identical to those that had been in her work shoes. There was no way she would have worn a pair of socks that she knew were very sweaty not unless she had another boss to placate. I imagined that they were an identical pair after all socks are often sold in sets of three or five pairs.

"See you in a little while," she said as she disappeared through the apartment door.

When she returned I was in the middle of beating my batter. For the Yorkshire puddings, that is.

"I have two bottles of white, Albariño and Godello and a bottle of red, Ribeiro," Sammy announced and placed them on the table.

Sammy approached me and without looking at me dipped her finger into the Yorkshire pudding batter in the bowl that I was holding. She withdrew her finger coated in batter and put it in her mouth to lick it off before disappearing down the corridor to the television room. One horny woman.

When Sammy came back into the kitchen she had changed into her red slippers but was still wearing the white cotton socks. Opening the fridge door she settled on her knees to stash the white wine and as she did she revealed the soles of her feet covered in their fine white cotton hose. I wanted nothing more than to get down there on the floor behind her and kiss them.

When I let my spectacles drop from my forehead to rest on my nose to get a clearer view I was aghast to notice that the sock on her right foot had a little snag in the middle of the sole. I knew that sock, I had had my cock in it the previous week. I had had it on my hand whilst I jerked my shaft and there was no mistaking that it was the very same one that she was wearing now. What the fuck was going on I wondered to myself. It was impossible to dismiss the notion that she had discovered that her sweaty socks had become miraculously laundered whilst she was in Madrid.

My cock had stiffened up and I reached above Sammy to put my bowl of batter in the fridge to allow it to do the same. I continued with the preparation for my Yorkshire puddings, loading each of the cups in a muffin tray with a blob of lard all the while pressing my cock against the edge of the kitchen work surface because it was really pleasant. I was glad I was wearing my apron with a tea towel tucked into the waistline pocket. Otherwise, Sammy would have noticed that I had a raging boner in my pants.

Then I heard a cork pop behind me and I turned around to see that Sammy had extracted the cork from the bottle of Ribeira.

"I'm letting it breathe," she said.

Looking at me and taking a step forward and looking straight into my eyes she asked me if there was anything she could do. I felt that she had placed herself a millimetre or two inside that perimeter of personal space that divides friends from lovers. Was there anything she could do. Well, she could certainly test my meat. I rather think that the best way to have done that would have been with some sensitive instrument such as her tongue, her tonsils or her lips, most reliably would be a combination of all three.

Instead, I replied, "all under control Sammy but you can lay the table if you like."

Sammy went over to the glass table and with her back to me she reached right over the length of the table to grab some paper napkins that were stored in a dispenser on the table where it abutted against the wall. In order to facilitate this feat of flexibility, she slipped her foot out of her right slipper and raised her leg behind her and towards me to counterbalance herself. Her foot with that unmistakable cotton sock was now raised to just about the level where she could have shoved her toes directly into my mouth.

Lay the table indeed. I wanted to lay her, on the table. Drag her jeans down to her knees and pull the gusset of whichever naughty little moist thong she happened to be wearing to one side. Slide my probe deep inside her and if it had reached the correct temperature and seemed succulent enough then I would have dressed it in a thick creamy and salty bechamel sauce, again of my own making.

I just stood there shaking my head and thinking of what might be. When she turned around to collect cutlery from the kitchen drawer she looked me straight in the eyes again and smiled. When she had finished with the cutlery and plates and wine glasses and had placed condiments and seasoning on the table, she said,

"Anything else, Marti. If not, I'm going to watch television."

"No that's great, dinner will be at ten o'clock," I said to her, relieved in a way that she was leaving me. My concentration was now completely shot by her insolent sexuality. After she left I took the liberty of having a large glass of the Ribeira, rested or not because I had the need to steady my palpitations. I had just about recovered when Marisol and Javi made an appearance in the kitchen.

Marisol informed me in Spanish, "Nos vamos a preparar una ensalada Cesar con los boquerones."

She and Javi were going to create that king of starters a Ceasar salad, the best version with anchovies, yummy.

I heard the flip-flop of Sammy's slippers on the corridor floor and caught a glimpse of red towelling making its way past the kitchen door to the shower room. Some thirty minutes later I had a similar experience as red towelling made its way in the opposite direction.

At ten o'clock there was no sign of Sammy. It really gets me down when people are late to eat particularly when they are in the same apartment. The spaghetti was ready and the Yorkshire puddings were rising magnificently in the oven, they were beginning to brown and soon would be ready to come out.

Where the fuck was she. Then I heard the clacking of heels on the wooden corridor floor becoming increasingly loud and heading towards the kitchen. When Sammy appeared any irritation she had caused me with her slack timing simply evaporated. She looked regal, like a million dollars, before the years of inflation. Why speak American when one has all the literary refinement of an English school education? She was fucking drop dead gorgeous, sex on a stick.

She was wearing a sky blue sleeveless dress with a low neckline which was outlined with black braid as were the armholes. Two black braids travelled south and stopped at her waist at which point the dress passed from a tight bodice to a pleated skirt. A single bow in the fabric of the same blue material decorated the bodice and sat between the little lumps that her breasts formed within the garment.

Her hair was woven into plaits and these were wrapped around the crown of her head exposing her irresistible slender neck the colour of very pale milky caramel. A colour utterly appropriate as she was not only sweet but smoking hot too. Her lips were painted bright red and her violet eye shadow complimented her intangible dark eyes. The blue dress finished at her knees.

Her mouth-watering legs were covered with tan pantyhose. Her feet disappeared into a pair of black high heels that were open toe and had scalloped sides with a lacy fabric covering. Just behind the toe was a big black bow almost the width of the shoe. It was her second toe that peeped out from the tip of her shoes and that beautiful little piggy had a blue varnished nail.

Other than a bright stainless steel wristwatch she was devoid of bling and there was not a tattoo in sight. Her fingernails were trimmed in a natural way and in contrast to her toes they were highlighted with a semi-translucent white varnish. She took my breath away.

"You could at least have dressed for dinner Sammy," I joked from behind my kitchen apron and she smiled knowing it to be a hidden compliment. It was also a tactful way to deal with a situation when there are two women present and one is 'it' and the other one 'is not'.

"Sorry I'm late," she said as she strode elegantly over to the fridge and knelt down to take the Albariño and Godello from the lower shelf.

Marisol flattered Sammy telling her that her dress was beautiful and it suited her down to the ground. The Spanish way of saying this is to use the verb to remain. It remains well on you. That was the case but speaking personally I think I would have liked to see Sammy when it didn't remain on her. I had the feeling that Javi would have liked to compliment her as well but he kept his mouth shut, he had too much sense. Sammy revealed that she had treated herself to the dress in Madrid, it was her souvenir of the city.

There was a large intact salmon lying on a platter in the fridge that had presumably been placed there by Marisol. The lucky bastard fish had a large open eye that would have had the utter privilege of spying straight up Sammy's dress. Myself I had to content myself with the soles of her feet, that had slipped her heels, clad in delightful soft tan nylon. I was more than content. I had to reach for my handkerchief in my trouser pocket to stop myself from salivating on the kitchen floor.

"Debería llevar la ensalada a la mesa, Marisol," requested Sammy.

"Sí, gracias," answered Marisol and Sammy took the salad over to the table.

The two women sat opposite each other and Javi took the head of the table facing the wall. I sat at the corner, the best place for the cook as it made it easy for me to come and go and attend to stuff. It did seem a bit of a waste that Marisol, a heterosexual girl that did not wander at all, should have the privilege of being able to look through that glass table top right up Sammy's dress. However, I had nothing to complain about, certainly, I was better positioned than Javi was to witness such a delight.

We ate the carbonara and salad with bread and the proof of the pudding is in the eating as they say. Everyone had second helpings and we finished everything. I particularly enjoyed the Caesar salad as someone else, Marisol, had made it. Sammy, however, didn't touch it, her distaste for fish was something that we had not previously identified. Marisol was busy interrogating Sammy about all the things that she had done whilst in Madrid. The conversation was easy as the wine flowed and we had no end of interesting comparisons of vocabulary and the idiomatic speech of three nations to share. Javi with his fine understanding of English was an indispensable translator and sorted out a plethora of confusions.

I was concentrating on making Sammy laugh. I noticed that every time she did her back would arch and she would lift a leg and allow my to see more and more of her delectable pantyhosed thigh and even beyond. It was when I told a joke about the excess of trees in Paris that I got a glimpse of red cloth between her legs. Sammy doubled up over the table prior to leaning back and raising her arms to her face in delight. She was wearing panties and they were red. What a discovery.