Sara's Panties

I pressed a thumb deep under her shoulderblade and ran it to the center of her back.

"God that feels so good. Tingles," as she let herself drop flat onto the mattress with her arms at each side. "Keep going, do my back now."

And with that invitation I stroked her shoulders, pressing them until they were soft, and then lower working the muscles of her back over her thin top lower and lower reaching bare skin at just above her panties. I was sitting on the bed close beside her now. Wrapping my hands across her rib cage and pressing in to her spine. Working her muscles slowly, gradually, and pressing, rubbing her steadily.

And I stared at her ass. Eyeing the large rose patterns on her panties, lace edging and at the nylon webbing between the rose patterns that were see through, so trasparent I could clearly see the line of her ass. What was I doing? My cock was hard again pressing in my pyjamas. I had to position myself to keep it from falling out the fly, but keeping my hands on her the whole time. I was in heaven.

Pressing my hands outward from her spine on each side was a little harder with the fabric at the middle which kept me from being able to do it right. She lifted her head up, looking back at me, "You know, if you want, you can just rub my back underneath, on my skin?"

I hesitated.

"Here," and before I could answer, she reached back and grabbed the bottom hem of her top, lifted her self up from the bed and pulled it upward and then over her head with her back to me, and tossed it beside her on the bed and then pushing all the papers off to the side as well. She lay there flat out on the bed before me.

"There. That's better right," she cooed to me, laying with her head sideways on the bed smiling as she look back at me.

Her head was tipped toward me, her blonde hair fallen around her shoulders and down her bare back which was exposed to me, her long legs, her feet hanging over the bottom edge of the bed.

I softly stroked and tippled her skin, sliding my hand over her, so warm. Feeling her shoulders, the ridges down her spine, her narrow waist, the edge of her panties, drawing a line across the small of her back.

At one point I let my hands slide down her sides running along the length of her from under her arms to each hip, and then ever so lightly at each pass tipping my hands around to touch just the edge of her breasts. I wanted to feel her again, I had to, if just to see what she would do. Would she let me touch her like last time?

Reaching, reaching I let my fingers press her breasts from the side and she lay quietly, eyes closed. I was so nervous, crossing this line shaking, continuing to lightly stroke her back and then braver still to reach further, further beneath her, just to touch her breasts. Just to see if she would let me.

She didn't move. But as my one hand pressed around cupping her breast, cradling her nipples between my fingers, without pretense now she said softly, "I don't think that is my back."

I was in such a state, I was breathing in ragged gasps, was seeing spots in my eyes. Seeing pure lust. I just said, "Sorry, I uh . . ."

But then she did not move in any way, not to push me away, not to move away. My hand in fact was still stroking her breast, squeezing the soft flesh in my hand. I simply let my hand slowly drift back to the small of her back drawing circles on her there.

She smiled at me, "This is nice. So relaxing."

So I simply set there stroking the length of her back from shoulders and neck, pushing her hair out of the way, right to the bottom edge of her panties in long sweeps with the flat of my hand for a while and then worked on the muscles right at her waist, the small of her back; and then rubbing her feet and legs one at time. And up higher to her shoulders again, stroking her breasts freely my hands wandering on her. We set like this for about twenty minutes, my hands gliding over her soft skin, legs and feet, her resting, sort of sleeping, pressing her body into the bed arms spread out, legs splayed. Silent reverie, filled with the sounds of soft music and of her soft moans and squeeks. Reverie.

I kept looking at the only part of her that was still covered. I wanted to rub her butt, to touch her there. My mind was whirling, I asked, "How is that cut?" And I lay my hand right on her panty clad behind as I said it.

She whispered out as if rising from sleep, "What?"

"Remember the cut that needed medicine." I was still stroking her bottom as we spoke.

"Oh, yeah, it's fine," she breathed out, letting me touch her there.

"You remember how you wanted me to put medicine on you, I wasn't sure. . ." I did not know how to proceed with this line of conversation.

She opened her eyes, looking at me, my hands lay at her hip.

". . . Uh, How you were going to have me apply it. The medicine I mean."

She furrowed her brow, "I was just going to lift my robe up . . ." And she opened her eyes a little wider, smiling at me, swated at my leg with her one arm. "You. You are funny, you know that. You want to see my butt, don't you?"

I was getting embarrassed could feel my face flush. "No, its just that I didn't know if you were really . . . If you . . . really even had medicine. Maybe you were just teasing . . ."

She let out an, "uhhh" and then "You think I was teasing you," Her mouth was open in mock surprise. "I'm not the one sniffing girls panties, or copping feels, or. . . and she turned her head away from me, "sitting in someones room."

"Well sweet, you're the one laying here in just your underwear letting me. . . You're, you're teasing me now."

She turned her head to me, fluttering her eyes. "Hmmm, my daddy can't resist me." Then reaching down and pulling her panties higher, lifting them up at her hip so that there was this little crease running between her legs, the pout of her pussy, her cunt.

"You like the way I look? Want to see my *cut* dad? I HAD medicine. Go ahead, check. There's a scar."

I was looking at her panties.

"Go ahead, check. I'll show you where it is."

I began to reach lower. She looked back at me, smiling, "Now I'm really teasing you. But to prove a point."

She was lifting herself up and turning a little more just then. She was letting me see her bare breasts, hanging down I could see the edge of her tiny nipples poking out as she looked back at me. So cute I thought. I simply wanted her.

"Go on."

I took the top of her panty and began to pull it down, tugging at the hem, sliding them to the bottom of her perfect little ass, down to the line across her thighs, until I saw little soft hairs springing up into view.

I next was about to grab them at the hip and was going to try slide them even lower when Sara says, "Whoa, that's enough sailor. There, Look! My right cheek. Right there," Her trill little voice, sing songing in my ear.

She touched it, "Theeeere, see it, the red patch there. My cut. It's healed now like I said."

"Satisfied?"

I was still staring at her ass, at the red spot right there on her right cheek. She was naked from her shoulders down down down to the little line of panties crumpling at the line of her pussy. I let my hand rest on her thighs. I remember thinking this is why I came in here.

"See. . . and you thought I was teasing you," and she let herself drop back down on the bed.

And I began to rub her lower back again, leaving her panties where they were and then let both hands drift lower so they were right on her bare ass. She looked back at me. I had to touch her there.

"What are you doing?"

"The Backrub." I said.

"Those aren't my back."

I kept tracing my finger over her hips, clasping my fingers right around her hip bone and sliding my finger tips, tippling her skin lower across the sides of her ass, and drawing wide circles along her ass. Looking down at the panties crumpled in a line at the top of her legs.

Her legs were together, but I could see down between her legs in a small space there. Just the start of pink little lips, I could see her puss pouting between her legs. I wanted to lay my hand between her legs, and I began to press my fingers down through the crack of her ass until I was just touching the pucker of her anus with my finger.

I answered her, "I think its singular."

"That! is not my back." I had her pressed to the bed with my finger held over her anus, and I began pressing her there. The tease was too much, I could no longer control myself. I had to touch her, feel her, press into her.

She began to move away, to slide up the bed away from me, to swing her legs around to the other side of the bed from where I was sitting and turn to the edge of the bed with her back to me. "I think the shows over."

She rose from the bed and stood for a moment facing me drinking in my lust. Me still sitting there in my pyjamas, her seeing my erection tenting straight up between my legs, tenting the fabric. The twinkle in her eyes enjoying the effect she was having. I knew the game now.

Her panties were down in the back, and set low right at the top of her pussy from the front. Short hairs, the glimpse of short hairs. She was not even trying to cover her breasts. She reached down, casually even slowly pulled up her panties and positioned them, and then reached across the bed toward me, both arms extending down and across the bed reaching to her nightshirt while letting her breasts fall, hang right in front of my face, and lifting herself back up smiling at me and sliding the shirt over her head.

"Maybe I do tease you a little?"

********************************

Some evenings we spent winding down before bed, usually on Fridays leading into the weekend, sipping a little wine at the table and nibbling some slices of bread with olive oil. Most evenings were filled with small talk, and sometimes we talked endlessly. God we got along. Touching into one another’s lives ever more deeply, until we truly became aware of the other. I was feeling myself opening, my thoughts reaching back before the white flashes of pain that had so filled my life. And there was a certain eroticism creeping into our evening conversation.

Tonight we were working on an entire bottle of wine, which was not so unusual for me but it was for her. Tonight she was keeping right up with me, her eyes were mellow, we were happy and our patter was bewildering.

“Yes. Believe me, when I was your age, it was so different then. I was so different. There was no HIV or AIDs, drinking wasn’t alcoholism. We didn’t even know smoking was bad for you.”

“There were still sexually transmitted diseases then dad!”

“But we didn’t think about things like that. At least I didn’t. It was all freer somehow.”

“We have more to worry about. I’m the first to admit that my life is probably different than what if it had been twenty or thirty years ago which was your life dad.”

“How do you mean?”

My life was a life that for some reason had that fear in it. The fear you talk about. I remember being afraid, when I was little I took it to heart. I felt it inside. I was always told from all sides ‘not to give it up.’ From mom my step-dad.”

“I never would have said things like that. Well, maybe . . . some.”

“Well it probably would have been better dad. I dreamed of you coming to get me. You were always that white knight that was going to come and get me out of the locked tower. You never came dad. And all I got were lectures of fear. I saw you that one time. One time dad.” She had a tear in her eye. I never saw that before.

“I’m sorry. You don’t . . .”

“Look at me, I’m pretty, right? It’s always the message when you’re pretty. That’s the message for pretty girls. No! No! No!”

She looked at me, waiting for a response. I didn’t know what to say just then - to say she was pretty. I remained still.

“Right? It’s just . . . oh, never mind. You’re my dad.”

“Your beautiful” I stammered.

“. . . I am. God dammit I am. I always hear how pretty I am. Always.” She said it with disgust just then. I was taken aback. “And that led to boys, all boys, all the time trying to . . . you know, get into my pants.” She paused, looked at me, "My panties."

This conversation tonight was taking an interesting turn, and I was feeling very guilty just then. I looked away.

“Anyway. I got really good at saying no. It’s one thing I know how to do. I said NO. No. No. Like I was supposed to. Like the good little girl. Always no. And anyway you get used to NO and sometimes you don’t even know why you are saying no. I ended up being eighteen, thinking to myself do I say no all my life?”

“And then there was this guy.” And she let out this laugh up into the air. It was loud, a surprise and I jumped. This was a side of her I had never seen. She put her hand over her mouth. “He was so into me, so much of what I wanted. But I went out with him, made out with him, teased him. But no. no no.”

She was twisting the fabric of her top. Pulling it up and laying it on the table flattening it out.

“And one day, he took me out. Beautiful roses. We ate at this wonderful restaurant, he was so wonderful, so smart so charming. That night he told me he wanted to make love to me, to feel me, taste me, touch me.”

I could not believe she was saying this, I simply nodded my head and sipped the wine. Got another bottle as she kept talking as I went into the kitchen.

“And I wanted to say yes. Everything was yes. But - no! I had to say no. He was in the car, he went silent. Said nothing. I looked over at him, knew he was mad. I said if you love me you will wait for me. He just said, wait for what?”

“And when I got out of the car he did not kiss me and he did not even look at me. I got out and he said under his breath but i know it was so I could hear it - ice queen, and he screeched off into the night. And that became my nickname the last three months of twelfth grade. Ice Queen. It doesn’t help I have this blonde hair.” She twirled it in her hand. “Ice.”

Her top fell back down off the table.

"And then the very next guy I went out with, spent all his time trying to get into my pants. And you know what I let him. I didn't say no. I didn't want to, I didn't like it at all. So I say no when it would have been wonderful, and yes when it . . . it's just confusing. And then I get so horny I can't stand it. I crawl right out of my skin. I think you know something about that."

She winked at me.

I blushed.

"God, I don't know what I'm trying to say."

She took a long sip of wine, "I AM the ice queen."

“But you are not, not like that at all.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know some things about you.” We shared a look with one another that included probably things like my panty fetish, the heartburn incident and the medicine incident, my massage. I believed that anyway.

“You weren’t in my life were you? What did you know. Where the fuck were YOU?” She shook her head. She was sad now.

“Well, you don’t know me either. It’s not like I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to.”

“I know the stories dad.”

“From your mother?

“Yeah. . .There’s some things I know about you now too for instance.”

I acknowledged her wicked jibe but continued, “No. I mean. Do you know why I never saw you after your mother left me?”

“Yes. She told me you never wanted to see us again. You were too busy had to move away for a job, and . . .”

“Other way around sweetie.” My voice was rising, “ Did your mother tell you she went to COURT with a bunch of lies and got a restraining order against me. I was forbid contact by that Court. Did she tell you that.” My voice was cracking, now I had the tears in my eyes.

Sara’s eyes were wide, and filling with tears.

“That’s right. Yeah. She got what SHE wanted. I would have been arrested if I saw you.”

“But then how come when I was ten. . .”

“That was a friend of mine and your mothers. He arranged it for me. Just because I was so sad. He did it for me. You never told your mother right. Like I said.”

She shook her head.

“Like I said then. I told you it was our secret.”

“I thought you were going to rescue me.” She looked down and she said more to herself, “You didn’t.”

“Then she turned you all against me. But then so did all my family, everyone everywhere. Your grandparents. My father. That’s my whole life. So that’s what she told you . . . “ I stopped I didn’t want to go there.

“I didn’t know dad.”

I was silent. I was angry staring at the table. The room was filled with silence.

She took my hand, “What were you like then? Dad. I’m here now.”

I looked up at her, calming, “What do you mean?”

“When you were my age I mean what was it like. You said free, and innocent. And ignorant too.” She laughed at that.

I laughed.

“Oh when I was a child, your age. (She laughed at that too) I WAS so innocent. I was thin like you too. In fact, it was that great naivete I had that led to me being so taken advantage of all the time. I felt I was always being cheated. But then did it really matter. I loved life.”

I looked over at her, expectant. She was all listening

“Think about it. You don’t know that . . I loved to write poetry, even painted.”

“Poetry!”

“It was so wonderful. I painted I wrote, I had nothing. Owned nothing. I loved women. God I loved the senses. Let me tell you, poetry class is a great place to meet women.” I looked up at the ceiling. “There was no past, no future. Just the day. Just reading. Just . . .”

Sara was leaning forward in her chair, “Tell me about that. That’s it! I was just the opposite. I had everything planned out for me. I had so much to do, so scheduled. Always a schedule. All this education, all this effort and work. And I got no one, my social life is so . . .”

“You are a beautiful, sensuous . . . “ I stopped there. “But, so was my life - just the same. When you are free, people see that. They use you. No one wants to be with you long term. You got nothing, they don’t want that. That was my discovery. So we’re the same.”

“Not at all. You were open to life. I feel like I was always so closed. No. No. No.”

“All open and all closed, it’s the same. We are both afraid of choosing. Afraid of our choices. Always yes and always no is the same thing.”

We stared at each other. We were sitting now leaning toward one another, just our glasses of wine between us. Our knees were practically touching. A second open bottle sitting off to the side. The light shining low from the living room into the kitchen. The sun was setting. I reached out my hand and lay it over hers. She did not take it away.

“I’m glad you called. Came back into my life Sara. I’m not the best person in the world, in fact I’m probably one of the terriblest.”

“That’s not a word dad.” She looked at me smiled the freshest purest smile. She squeezed my hand. "Your not the terriblest." My big hand wrapping around hers pressing her fingers against the table, stroking her thumb.

“I did love those days though.”

“Tell me something. Tell me a story from then. Tell me about one of those girls that USED you. And then she threw her head back and said HA! "But not mom.”

I had to think.

“Anything. I don’t care. What was it like to say only yes! Yes. Yes. Yes.” Sipping another glass of wine, her cheeks were bright her eyes sparkled. Her teeth were whiter than I had ever seen them.

She turned her small hand over on the table and let me stroke her palm.

“Well whenever I think back. I have one story. Laura. I don’t know her last name. Poetry class.”

“Ah. Poetry. That was my mistake. I never got to meet you at poetry. I was so busy in biology.”

“Yes. A very different energy. I never darkened the door of biology. Anyway. One day she came to class wearing this unbelievable pair of jet black jeans. They were so tight, low on the hips before low riders were even something anybody knew existed. It had the shortest little zipper right at her . . . and she had just bought them. Or, I’d never seen them before. And she wore half tops - like yours.” I squeezed her hand flirtatiously as I said that.