Shannon

I absolutely love it when my girl goes on nights out. Why? Well, the obvious reasons would be that I get to see her all dolled up, or that she comes home - more often or not - in a filthy mood. But there's another, less obvious reason. And that reason is: pre drinks.

Yeah, what the fuck, right? Who wants a clucking gaggle of hens scurrying about the place, shouting and hollering, with their cheap carbonated wine and nauseating fruit ciders? I thought much the same, until I realised one day that these pre drinks sessions got longer and longer and longer. Bear with me here. Let me explain.

It started when they would all come round, dropped off by parents or boyfriends, and they'd have a drink or two and wait for a taxi. It'd be fucking great to catch a glimpse of them all dressed to the nines ready to hit the clubs. I'll leave you to your imagination there.

Then, the time that they were here for got longer. They'd come over all dressed up, but wearing flat shoes and no make up. They'd drink, shout and get pretty drunk before they even hit the town, whilst applying all their make up on each other. That shit would take hours.

By the end, I had girls showing up at my place early to mid afternoon before a Friday or Saturday night out; they'd be carrying full bags of the clothes that they were due to wear out that night, and all of their make up supplies. One day, when Kate showed up straight from the gym in her mouthwatering skintight leggings, that's when it dawned on me. The penny had finally dropped.

I'd like to think I'm smart, but clearly not, as this fact had been escaping me for some time. The girls were getting changed at my place into their glad rags, which meant of course, that they were leaving bags of every day clothes - or gym clothes or work clothes - in the spare room at my house.

Just the thought of it would usually do the trick. Or I'd go in, and peep in the bag, then imagine them all getting changed together. The imagination would run wild. Maybe they all stand around and compare their tits, or practice kissing? Or both at the same time? Maybe some trendy website told them scissoring was a great way to keep in shape, and that's what they were really doing in my spare room. Who knows? You know how your mind concocts these ridiculous scenarios when you're trying to get off. Don't pretend you don't understand what I mean.

Of course, with time, this behaviour of mine escalated. It was the gym stuff that usually got me going, and it wasn't long before I was fondling and sniffing items of clothing. Dainty sports trainers led to sweaty ankle socks pressed up against my face as I bashed one out. It was like a fucking gateway drug. Gym clothing was divine. Kate's sports tops, which kept her huge fucking tits tied down as she worked on the cross trainer, those tops lead to the skintight leggings. Those were unreal; all those feminine smells from the seat, mixed with the fabric. It was a perverted paradise.

That fateful night however, where I took things to another level again, was a work's night out, so it was only my girlfriend and her best friend and colleague - the platinum blonde, drop dead stunner Shannon - who were pre drinking and dressing up. I hate to pull the bombshell card; such a typical card that it is, but God's honest truth, if you could find me a straight guy who wouldn't bark and howl at the moon whilst this girl walked past, I'd lose all my faith in humanity.

You're probably fixing to know a little more about Shannon. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, to unfortunately further perpetuate a stereotype, but she was the sweetest, cutest thing. Or so I thought. Throw on her some strappy heels and any ASOS or Lipsy dress and you've got yourself a knockout combination. She could be wearing Chanel or whatever instead, it wouldn't matter. She could rock anything with those legs, and that waist length hair.

She's the type of girl to make it all look easy. Like being the centre of attention is effortless. Like it's no thing at all - accidental almost - to look so good, and to carry it so well. Of course, that came with it's own kind of self confidence, as I'm sure you would all expect, but she was, previous to our encounter - which we will get to - nothing but kind and polite.

Tonight, the girls were starting local, so Shannon's fiancé had volunteered to taxi them to the bar. I sat watching the TV, as had become almost tradition, quietly waiting for the girls to leave. When they finally clopped through the living room, both of them looking incredibly gorgeous, I couldn't wait to get upstairs and see what had been left behind.

My girl was wearing her little black fuck me dress, and black high heels. She wore a thin necklace and held a small purse, and her dark hair had been curled. I looked forward to seeing her again later. She smiled at me and I told her to have a good night.

Shannon was bundled into a very short cream dress, her slender, tan legs put into a definition by her trademark strappy heels that could bring a man to tears; the straps of which climbed her shins to the knee in a criss cross pattern that was hard not to follow with your eyes. Her tiny feet, no more than a size 4, were stuffed into difficult shoes, her toes protruding from the exposed end. The nails were coloured a soft magnolia to somewhat match her dress, and the paint on her fingernails.

I'm not a stats man, but she had small tits, which looked like little handfuls. I've - unfortunately - never seen them, so I can't give you more than that. The dress moulded itself like liquid to her frame, but flared out at the upper thigh. This was where I lost all resolve when it came this girl.

She was a petit 5,4, at best, yet she thickened out at the thighs. Not disproportionately, but fucking Christ, the way she grew out at the hips, ass and thighs, and the way that dress flared with her (she knew what she was doing), words cannot adequately describe how hot her body looked.

The one downside with her dress is that her fat bubble of an arse was not perfectly defined for perverts such as myself. Whenever I saw her in jeans, that denim parcel that contained her butt would have my jaw on the floor; eyes hypnotised as I watched her walk, that fat booty wobbling back on forth at the top of those edible legs of hers, framed by her gorgeous cascade of waist length hair.

A car horn beeped from out in the street, and the girls left. I watched them leave. Shannon gave me a little wave, and a flutter of her dusky eyes, heavily made up with fake lashes, and she curled a smile out of her pink glossed lips. If I'd died at that point, I'd have said that life had been pretty good to me. By the time they had clopped out of the room, through the kitchen and out past the utility cupboard, I was hard as a rock.

I ran up the stairs and into the spare room. There, on the floor, lay an Adidas bag. I knelt down and unzipped it, fishing out the contents. It contained a whole batch of casual clothes; a black hoodie, a small crop top with a heart on it, her hip hugging blue jeans, a pair of socks and... a set of crimson silk panties. My God, they felt divine. So soft and smooth; the hairs stood up on my neck just touching them with my fingers. The thought of her wearing these less than an hour ago drove my heart racing.

Placing them flat on the laminate floor, I took a picture of them with my phone. The panties had little frills at the hems. I picked them up with both hands and lifted them to my face, and I drank in their intoxicating aroma. Holy fuck was that hot. I could smell washing detergent, a lingering of her expensive perfume, and underneath that combo, was what I was searching for most of all... that deep feminine musk, that unspeakable scene of woman. As I sniffed, I imagined her body filling them, or her smooth hairless cunt hidden on the other side, with all its scents and warmth.

It was at this point that I decided to fuck the panties. It was the closest I was ever going to get my cock to her delicious cutlet; this fine erotic garment could share our essences. I figured I had enough time to wash them and dry them before the girls got home. It would be hours before they returned. Hopefully Shannon wouldn't notice the different detergent used. She didn't strike me as the type to sniff panties.

I unzipped, and bounced free of my jeans. I was so erected that I ached. I wrapped the panties around my manhood and gripped with my right hand and began jerking. The material was so delicate and tingly it was almost effervescent.

I tried to imagine fucking her, but she was so perfect it almost felt like a war crime. Instead I imagined worshipping her, her feet, her legs, ass or pussy. With my left hand, I artfully managed to load up her Instagram profile. I selected a photo of her in a similar dress to this evening, but this one was a sky blue. She had a ring of flowers in her hair for some fucking reason. It was taken on holiday. The reason I picked it? Her great big smile. Staring right up at me. That flawless, gorgeous face, without a care in the world. And I had her worn panties wrapped around my cock.

That was it, really. It was a crime of passion - I'd never gone this far before. I unloaded squirt after squirt of hot cum into her panties. Fucking the warm load made it slippery and for a moment it felt like I would never stop cumming, but stop I did, and reality swam back into the room.

I'd like to say that guilt swam over me, that I wanted to repent for my sleazy and unsavoury actions, but I spread the garment flat on the floor once more and took another picture with my phone. The beautiful silk panties were battered with my sticky cum. Most of it had soaked in, leaving dark patches, but a thick pool of cloudy liquid remained on the surface.

I buckled up my jeans and folded the panties, running down stairs. In the kitchen I treated myself to a glass of water, before sauntering out to the back door, where the boiler, washing machine, dryer and utility cupboard lay. I stood there before the washer, and unfolded the silk one last time to admire my handiwork.

The back door to the house opened in a flash. I jumped out of my fucking skin. I stuffed the panties into my pocket as quickly as possible. It was Shannon.

"Hi," she said nervously, closing the door behind her. She looked at me weirdly, as if I had farted at a funeral.

"Hi, Shannon," I said as calmly as I possibly could.

Holy fucking shit that was close. Too fucking close. My heart raced. Surely she hadn't seen? I'd been too quick.

"Nick brought me back, I forgot my purse," she explained, smiling widely, but the smile quickly faded.

She glanced down at my jeans, and then made to pass me.

Shit! Her bag was still open. Her clothes were still in a pile on the spare room floor.

"Hey, it's okay," I fumbled, "you wait right here, I'll quickly run up and get the purse for you. You know where it is?"

She smiled awkwardly. Holy fuck she was beautiful. Even in this moment of pure terror I couldn't ignore that.

"I think I left it on the dresser with my make up," she explained.

"Thank you!" she shouted after me, as I jogged through the kitchen and living room, and began to climb the stairs.

This was too fucking weird. Too fucking close. I'd taken too much of a risk by fucking with her clothes.

The purse was exactly where she said it would be. It was a hideous baby pink. I ran back down the stairs and found her waiting, staring down at her beautiful toes.

"Here you go," I said, handing her the purse, "I haven't taken any money out of it, I swear."

She laughed nervously.

"Thanks," she said, turning for the door.

I watched her clop about on the spot in her heels, open the door and step out. She turned to close it behind her, but instead she stopped. Why had she stopped? Why wasn't she closing the door?

"Say, uhhh," she began. She grabbed her right arm with the left. "What's in your pocket?"

I froze. I hoped that on the surface I betrayed no sense of absolute panic, but inside, every last part of me froze up.

"My pocket?" I asked, trying not to blow my cool.

"Yeah, your left pocket, right there."

She pointed.

"There's nothing in my pocket, just my wallet," I lied, "why do you ask?"

I don't know if it was my imagination playing tricks on me, but she almost looked disappointed, which was a bizarre reaction.

"Oh," she said, "no reason. It just looks a weird shape. Anyway, bye."

She closed my back door. I could hear her heels on the pavement outside as she headed for the car. Looking down, I could see a small piece of red fabric protruding from my pocket. Shit, could she see that? Fuck.

I stuffed my hand into my pocket, opened the washer door and threw the panties in. I piled in a bunch of other random clothes out of the washing basket and popped in the detergent. I pressed the button frantically for the unit to start, so many times in fact that I'd accidentally paused the cycle.

Fuck, this was bad, right? Bad bad bad bad fucking bad. She had obviously seen what it was that I had in my hand. Otherwise, why else would she ask about my pocket? Why would she give a single fuck about what was in my pocket?

I poured myself a whiskey while I waited for the wash cycle to finish. Then another, and then another after tossing the fucking panties into the dryer. Fuck. How could I have been so fucking stupid?

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. The worst of which was that Shannon had told my girlfriend what she had saw. However, I was almost certain, if that was the case, then my girl would already be home by now, throwing fucking plates at me.

No, if she had seen what I was doing, she had kept it to herself, for now at least. Maybe she hadn't quite figured out what I was doing? Maybe I'd frightened her, which made me feel absolutely awful, but what if that was the only thing keeping her quiet? I'm not sure how I felt about that.

It did feel however like a lifetime had passed, but the dry cycle was coming to an end when I received the first text. Part of me knew that it was coming. It was from a number I didn't recognise, but one glance at the screen and my stomach dropped.

"It's Shan, I just want 2 say that I saw wat u were doing earlier on. I don't rly kno wat 2 do tbh, bt I just want u 2 kno that I saw."

I glared at my phone, reading and re-reading the message. What the actual fuck did that mean? Was she taunting me? I took a deep breath and replied.

"What did you see?"

Maybe it was the wrong thing to write, I don't know. She replied almost immediately.

"U with my underwear. I saw wat u had done w them and kno u was trying to clean it up. I dnt kno y u wud do that and think its disgusting and im rly upset. I dnt kno wat to do. Bt I have 2 do smthn"

There it was, in white text in a green bubble. That was me, fucked.

"I'm so sorry. I've never done anything like that before. I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean to frighten or upset you. It was wrong and I have a problem, I need help. I'm really sorry. Please don't tell anyone, let me clear this up? I'll make this right, somehow. I promise." - This was my response in desperation.

I originally typed an "X" at the end, but after everything, it probably wasn't a good idea. Again, her reply was instantaneous.

"No. Its fkd up. How do u kno u arnt lyin? I bet uve done this all the times us girls have left clothes at urs. I dnt kno wat 2 do bt I got2 do somthin. I wnt tell ne1 2nite. Pls delet these txts tho. I'll be in touch 2moro."

I think the only reason I got to sleep was because I drank two thirds of a bottle of whiskey. Thankfully, my girl was so wasted that she came in and collapsed straight into sleep, so I didn't have to deal with the embarrassment of not being able to do the deed with her. I didn't even hear her come in; I woke and rolled over, checked my phone, and it was 11am exactly. I had received another text message an hour ago, so I shot out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. My head was pounding. I put the lid of the toilet down flat and sat on it.

"Hi. I've spoken 2 my friend Kim. I've decided not 2 tell ne1 else 4 nw. Txt me bk wen u wake up. Shan."

As with the first message the night before, I must have re-read it a hundred times. Before I replied, I went to the spare room and double checked that I had put all the clothes back properly into the Adidas bag. I was many whiskies deep when I did it, so wanted to be sure. Standing there above the bag, I sent my response:

"I'm awake."

Seconds later, my phone went off.

"Gd timing. I was jst about to tell Nick wat I saw."

What! Fuck! Her meathead fiancé would be round in minutes, wanting to kick my head in.

"Please, don't do that." I responded.

Beep beep.

"Y not. He has a rite 2 kno. He will kno wat to do."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, exhaled deeply and tried to think about what to respond with.

"He doesn't need to know. I will make this right Shan, I promise."

This time there was a delay. I pulled out the stool tucked away beneath my girlfriend's vanity table and sat down, looking at that accursed fucking Adidas bag that started this all.

Beep beep.

"How will u make it rite."

I frowned. I was perplexed at her response. However, I still wanted to throttle her for constantly missing off the question marks.

"Tell me how and I'll do it. I mean it. Please just don't tell anyone else."

I hovered over the send button for a while. The mental image of word getting out to my work colleagues about this whole ordeal flooded my mind. Thoughts cascaded into each other; I would be disgraced and I'd lose my career, my poor elderly parents would think their son a sleazy perv. I pressed send. An immediate response came.

"Send £100 to my PayPal"

If I was drinking something, I would have spat it everywhere.

"Are you joking?"

Beep beep.

"No."

I sat there in disbelief. I laughed out loud. Was this really happening right now? The absurdity of the situation emboldened me.

"What do you need £100 for? How exactly does that make this right?"

Beep beep.

"It doesn't matter wat I want it 4. It doesn't make it right, bt it makes it go away. Ur choice, perv."

Nice touch, bitch. Honestly, I had to admire her audacity. It surprised me that this was the course of action she wanted to take. Maybe her friend Kim had put the idea into her head. The only things I knew about Kim was that she was basically the brunette equivalent of Shannon, and that she worked in law enforcement. Neither of those brought me closer to a conclusion.

I decided to mull this over. I realised after half hour or so that I didn't really have much choice in the matter. As if she could sense my unease, I received another text:

"If u dnt reply by 12 il tell Nick."

For fuck sake. I opened my PayPal app and keyed in the amount of £100. When I did it, it was like I was outside of myself, watching someone else do it. A little tick appeared on my screen to tell me the transaction had complete successfully.

I didn't bother texting her back. I wasn't concerned; the notification of a free £100 would be proof of my decision. The little cunt.

Beep beep.

"Thnx, perv. Ur secret is safe with me."

Beep beep.

"4 now."

***

Two weeks went past before Shannon bothered showing up to the house to collect the stuff in the Adidas bag. I could have jerked off in her fucking panties a hundred times.

Nothing happened during that time and Shannon had kept her word about not telling anyone, as far as I could tell, at least. My girl pissed and moaned about Shannon showing off a smoking hot new pair of shoes that she had kept her eye on. I had the Instagram post waved under my nose. Apparently, Shannon's fiancé Nick was a fucking saint who always bought her cool stuff, and I was a worthless layabout. I had a sinking feeling however, that it wasn't Nick who had paid for those shoes.