Tight Whites

Tight Whites

© 2019 Victor Cabana

They were white. And tight.

When one leg stepped forward the thin fabric would stretch taught over the opposite cheek, hugging the swell of her buttock, adhering to it, outlining everything. As if painted on. No pantie lines meant no panties. She was walking fast and it was mild so when the captured hillock's leg swung forward the cloth clung to her moist skin until the slightest of jiggles sloughed it off. Deliciously. Then the other cheek would be embraced, similarly revealed, until the next shimmering bounce of her butt would release it. The quivers were entrancing and I could feel, almost taste, the softness, the roundness, the fullness of her derrière as it undulated before me. My fingertips twitched, tingling, caressing without touching. The cycle repeated over and over and, walking behind her, I had no choice. I stared.

Her ample hips swung to and fro naturally and counter to the sway of her long blonde braided ponytail. Tanned triceps and calves had definition borne of fitness, and her blue Nike tank top hung on wide, tanned shoulders, but didn't hide the straps of her white sports bra. However, it was her shorts that captured my eyes. Rather what was underneath. Though scrumptious, it was not a trim, distance runner's rear. Under truth serum she'd no doubt aver that she needed to lose five pounds, maybe nine -- women are so harsh with themselves -- but to me the fullness was perfect; it allowed the jiggle. My mouth opened in amazement when I felt the stirring.

I'd been walking very fast, part of my rehab program, but had slowed as I approached her, taken in by the show. There were others walking on the wide beach trail, savoring Pacific vistas, but I felt safe. The focus of my lascivious eyes was masked by dark wrap-around sunglasses. She could hear my footsteps behind her, however, and I reluctantly decided I'd better pass before she felt uncomfortable. As I did her head turned slightly. I said, "Hi. Lovely morning." She smiled. Very pretty, probably 35, no wedding ring.

* * *

The following day I'd walked at the same time. Not by chance. Her shorts were pink but the show was the same. The next day they were pale blue and I surreptitiously took the video. I felt like a masher, a lecher, a pervert, but the vision of her cheeks, their softness, their supple bounce, had embedded in my mind and I was unable to keep it from replaying. Especially at night when I tried to sleep. Why not memorialize the real thing, the sight that had triggered my return? It had been eleven months since the sudden death of my wife, a long period of mourning, and I was used to feeling dead, devastated, suspended, and cold. It was almost annoying that my mind, or maybe my body, was pulling me back, back to feeling, to life, to desire. To vulnerability.

* * *

Sitting at the table waiting for her to return from the ladies room I recalled the inch-by-inch progression that had led to this: lunch at Fisherman's. First longer greetings when I passed her, her eventual replies. "You again," in recognition of mutual recognition. Smiles. Walking alongside her for a bit, just long enough for a carefully planned bon mot or two, then resuming my faster pace. Then staying beside her longer, allowing a couple questions.

She lived nearby. Walked daily. I was on extended leave, recuperating. From what? Injury. Accident. I felt there was a connection and she wore no rings. Her impenetrable road block surfaced only when I asked her to lunch: you seem nice. But married. Oh, that. My wife died, nearly a year ago. I suppose it's time I took off the ring... Oh, I'm so sorry. Forgive me... Not at all. Lunch? Yes. Wine? Why not?

I'd already learned a lot about Diana, never say Di, Cummings. The last her recaptured maiden name. Recently divorced from a cad who traded her in for a more recent model. Bitterness quite well masked. At least he was a rich cad, and she got the house and compensation. And the two kids, 20 and 17, boy and girl, he at college, she a senior in high school. I'd revised my meaningless estimate of her age to early 40s, up from the mid-30s she looked.

I stood when she returned from the restroom and held her chair. She smiled, probably at the antiquity of the gesture, or maybe the antiquity of the gesturer? Or maybe she liked it. I'd ordered another round of Pinot Grigios and she commented.

"A third glass? I'm not sure I should." But she took a sip. "This is a nice wine. Are you an expert?"

"Hardly. I've tried but there are so many vineyards now I can't keep up. I ate dinner here last week and the sommelier recommended it."

"What brought you here, John, to San Clemente?"

"I'm rehabbing an injury. It was work related, so I'm on extended leave. I'm supposed to get back into shape."

"You look quite fit to me."

Good, I thought. "Thanks, but I've got quite a ways to go still."

"Me, too. It's harder to keep in shape now that I'm older, and it's frustrating. It's awful to be 'out there' again, thinking about dating, obsessing on how you look. It's been so... Oops, this is, as my daughter would advise me, TMI, too much information. I must be tipsy." Her eyes crinkled as she giggled softly. I was even more charmed.

"Not at all. You must work out in other ways, too. You've got muscles."

"Ooh, that's a smooth line, John. You really know how to make a girl feel special." She batted her blues.

I felt my flush and didn't much like it. I tried for a save with, "It really was a compliment, Diana. Muscles are good. Attractive." It felt lame on my tongue but she just went on, letting me slide off the hook.

"You've got them, too. You must work out. Your calves are highly defined, also. Do you run?"

"Not since the accident. I'm planning to get back into it, starting with small jogs next week." This much, at least, was true. Most of what I'd been telling Diana wasn't. Not even close.

She offered, "You've got a nice walk, very smooth, and effortless."

"Thanks. I just put one foot in front of the other."

"I'm on the beach path every day and am an aficionado of walks. Yours is actually quite unusual. Do you play music in your head? Your gait seems to have a flowing cadence to it."

Wow; perceptive. "Guilty as charged. Are you a musician?"

"I played some piano as a kid. Like everyone. But no, I'm no musician."

"I repeat a sort of tune, a melodic mantra I guess, as I walk and it's in ¾ time, like a waltz, so emphasis shifts from one foot to the other every three steps. I find it keeps me balanced, and equalizes muscle development. Everyone has a dominant foot and if we always lead with it, step more heavily on it, our muscles can develop unevenly and... God, how boring. Sorry."

"No, it's interesting. I'll try it. I used to listen to music when I walked, but I prefer to hear the ocean. It's very calming. Anyway, I like your walk. It's very fluid." She blushed slightly. Did she like more than my walk? Dare I hope? Maybe because of the wine, I jumped in with both feet.

"I like your walk, too."

The look of a mother disappointed in her ten-year-old who just said something stunningly stupid. "Oh really, John? I tell you I like your walk so you reciprocate? Seriously?"

Doing my best not to look like an idiot pre-teen, and completely blind to the looming, perilous abyss, I pressed onward. "But I am serious. I do like your walk. A lot."

Intrigued. "Really? What about it?" Her wide sparkling blue eyes bored into mine under raised eyebrows. She was interested, which was good, but I was suddenly trapped way up a creek with nary a paddle in sight. I couldn't very well tell her that I loved ogling her ass's undulations, how the fabric of her shorts clings to her bare buttocks. Diana had shown herself to be very smart, with a sharp wit, not to mention tongue. I knew she would not accept any gibberish I'd be able to concoct on the spur of the moment. I leaned back, took a sip of Pinot, and gazed at the Pacific hoping to buy some time.

A whiff of salvation wafted in on the cool salt air. I leapt at it.

"OK, I'll tell you. But only when you have dinner with me." I held her pale blue eyes. I was sincere, telling the truth. Could she perceive that I really wanted to see more of her? I hoped so. I also hoped that she could not see my calculation that it would give me time to create a convincing explanation.

After few seconds of terrifying silence she smiled, looked down, and picked up her glass. "Well, I can't tonight. I've planned dinner with my daughter. Today's her eighteenth birthday, and afterward we're..."

"Tomorrow, then? You know you want to hear why your walk is so appealing." I smiled, raising my eyebrows as I stressed and elongated the last two words.

* * *

It was going well, very well. She'd blushed at my "so appealing" compliment and we were at dinner. We'd split an appetizer and I was truly savoring the seared Scottish Salmon that she'd suggested. I'd insisted that we go to her favorite restaurant and Nick's was nice. We'd covered a variety of topics, intelligently I thought, and so far she hadn't brought up her walk. I had prepared, but... The wine had flowed freely -- we were into our second bottle -- and the restaurant was perfectly loud so that we had to lean close to be heard. Intimate. I hoped she liked my cologne as much as I did her perfume. She looked lovely. When I told her so she admitted that her daughter had supervised the preparations, and Diana had blushed again. There was a rosy glow between us.

She broached it.

"So, John, now tell me, what is it about my walk that you like?"

Damn.

With my crossed fingers hidden under the table I sallied forth, trying to drive the persistent phrase "Into the valley of Death..." from my mind. "Well, you have a very natural sway as your weight shifts from one leg to another. Do you know that your pony tail swings in the opposite direction as your hips?"

She just looked at me. Bemused perhaps? "And..."

Mine not to reason why, I charged further down my preplanned path, talking about her smooth transfer of weight, the compact, easy swing of her arms, the fluid oscillation of her shoulders, how her head stays poised, completely level, in a straight line. And other plausible things -- I'd reviewed the video searching for ideas -- and summed up with, "It all comes together in a very nice, appealing whole."

I sat back and sipped the Sauvignon Blanc. That should do it. What to discuss next?

She looked at me, through me, it seemed. Suddenly serious. "I think there's more, something you're not telling me."

Damn. Is she psychic? I didn't have anything else prepared, but mine but to do and die, I bluffed, "No, that's it. As I said, there's a balance, an integrated unity to it. Describing the individual parts can't adequately explain the whole. It all comes together in a harmonized Gestalt, and to dissect it to the elements makes it lose its essence. Its appealing essence." Hmm. Pretty good for the spur of the moment, I thought.

She looked at me again. Very serious. Sad? Not good.

"Well, if you're not going to tell me I guess I can't force you to. It's disappointing though. I thought things were going really well, and it's a shame you don't feel you can be honest with me."

Zing! If she was that intuitive, I was screwed. I liked this woman. A lot. For the first time in nearly a year I was feeling attraction, arousal. Alive. There was definitely a connection between us and I was blowing it. I wanted to go back in time and bite off my traitorous tongue before it could ever mention her walk. When I looked at her again her eyes definitely seemed sad, even hurt. Damn, again. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Even the truth.

"OK, Diana, I'll tell you. But you have to promise one thing. You'll hear me out and won't make a scene."

Immediately annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous! I'd never make a scene." Good move, John, I congratulated myself.

Things were getting worse, but again ignoring my mocking inner voice again quoting, "Into the valley of Death..." I barged ahead. "You don't know what I'm going to tell you yet. What if it seems really weird, or creepy?" Creepy? Nice locution, John. Are you trying to plant the idea that you're a pervert, to drive her away?

Impatiently, "Oh, for God's sake, John. We're both adults. Just tell me."

I tried to diffuse the tension, slow things down. "All right, I will, but let's order dessert first. What's best here?"

She seemed somewhat mollified, at least distracted for a moment, but once the waiter left with our order of Butter Cake, she leaned close and whispered (the restaurant was half empty now), "OK, John. Now tell me the truth." At least she smiled.

I took a deep breath, "The truth is...." I paused, searching for the right word, for how to begin.

"Yes...?" Head cocked to the side, amused at my consternation.

"Everything I said before is correct but the truth is that what I most like about your walk is the way that your derrière moves."

Whew! I'd said it. I took a deep breath and let it out. Well, that was over, thankfully. At least she hadn't bolted.

My relief was short lived. Her smile remained, but changed subtly in a way I couldn't read. Under raised eyebrows her blue orbs locked mine to hers as she whispered, leaning ever closer, "Really? What about how it moves do you like?"

God! Will she never give up? Like a flailing cutthroat hopelessly hooked, I began trying to describe it, but floundered, repeatedly, and finally just capitulated. "Wait. I'll show you. But remember you promised not to get upset."

"I'm not upset," she said blithely as I fished out my phone and pulled up the video.

I wondered what in holy hell I was doing, but was committed now. "OK, watch this. It's amazing; you're amazing."

She did. Expressionless. Then she returned my phone and sat back. Immobile. Inscrutable.

I feared the worst and blundered ahead, "Please, Diana, don't be angry. It's really not creepy. I've been in such a bad place, such a dismal state, ever since my wife died. Then one day I walked up behind you and, well, I was just captivated. I couldn't get you out of my mind. It was the same the next day, and on the third day I recorded what you saw. To analyze it, to understand it. I don't know, to memorialize it. I'd felt dead for so long, no hint of attraction or arousal and I just...."

I stopped. I'd stumbled into a hopeless cul-de-sac with no way out. The tears forming in her eyes made me blurt, "Diana, I'm so very, very sorry. Please let me ex..."

"John!" she interrupted. "Stop talking! Now."

I did.

"Find the waiter, get the check and the dessert to go."

She smiled at my confusion. "John, don't you know I check out your ass every time you pass me by? Tell the waiter to box the cake, pay the bill, and let's get out of here. We'll have our dessert at your place."

Oh.

* * *

Situational awareness. Once you've acquired it, it's always there. Even when you'd rather it wasn't.

San Clemente is small, sleepy and safe, and as we both lived close to Nick's we had arranged to meet there. We started off, walking to my apartment. I took her hand and she leaned into me. I felt her breast on my arm and wanted to skip.

Then I saw him. A figure a block ahead of us. Something odd, not quite right. I stopped, turned to Diana and kissed her lightly to cover the peak behind me, checking my six. Another one. When you've been in the business as long as I have you get a sixth sense. For bad news. The kiss promised heat but the men promised trouble.

So many factors, so little time. I was supposed to be well-hidden, secure. The alt right terrorist cell that blew up my car with my wife inside it, that ambushed me, almost killed me, was supposedly eliminated. Kaput. If not, if these were more of them, pros, I was toast and my best course of action would be to run. Get away from Diana so at least she wouldn't become collateral damage. But why would they take me here, on the street, in public? It didn't make sense.

The men were closing, fast.

When the van's tires screeched as it careened round the corner, side door sliding open, I knew. It was a snatch, not a hit. I drew and popped to full length my compact combat baton as I leapt at the vehicle. To have any chance I had to reach the two guys exiting the Nissan NV before they got to their guns.

They were too slow. As I drove the baton into the solar plexus of the first, spinning off to crush the temple of the second, something struck me as wrong, but I didn't have time to think about it. I grabbed Diana and launched her through the open side door. "Get in," I hissed as I leapt inside and my baton broke the driver's radius as he swung his gun towards me. My pole's smaller end smashing into the side of his head hurt him worse than hitting the pavement after I threw him out and jumped into the driver's seat.

As I floored the van, right at the man coming from the front -- he dove aside -- I yelled over the engine to Diana, "Stay down, flat on the floor." It struck me as odd that the bullets I'd anticipated didn't break windows, clang on metal, but maybe they were lousy shots. I didn't ruminate on it for long.

* * *

I'd left the Butter Cake behind but it didn't matter. The incident had killed the mood. Maybe a lot more. I had to argue to keep Diana from calling the police -- I was under strict orders to keep a low profile which is why I hadn't had my Sig with me -- and she was very upset, very scared. She just needed to get away from everything, from me especially, the lunatic who had committed such unprovoked violence. Who, seemingly without provocation, had just charged, attacked, and maybe seriously injured random men on the street. Diana wanted to go home and insisted that I not drive her. No way.

We bartered.

If I didn't leave her alone, she'd call the police. I capitulated, winning round one. She didn't call 911.

She won the next. I dropped her at an arbitrary corner so I wouldn't know where she lived. I neglected to mention that I already did.

As she got out she told me I had to leave, to drive away so I couldn't follow her. I said I would, but wanted time to explain what had happened. Everything.

Not now. She promised she'd call me tomorrow, or the next day.

I said please do.

No, I couldn't have her number.

Diana, please think it over. We can meet for lunch again and I'll explain, tell as much as I can about myself.

She'd call. She promised.

I left. So she wouldn't call the cops.

* * *

I phoned in after I'd dropped the van in a church parking lot having wiped all the places I'd touched and those I suspected Diana had. The driver's Charter Arms Bulldog .44 Special struck me as an odd choice, but I suppose all bullets can kill. I left it where it fell.

Pickering, my handler, my boss if I ever went back to work -- I had a pension waiting, and a choice to make -- had no information. He agreed that everything was odd, seemed off -- why snatch me instead of kill me? How could the cell that murdered my wife still be in operation? How could they have found me? He'd look into it and let me know what he learned. Super.

* * *

My eyes popped open at 12:56 AM. God, what an incompetent, senile old geezer! I quickly toweled off the cold sweat and leapt into my shorts, tee, and shoulder holster with the Sig 365 and an extra mag already in it, then covered it with a light jacket.

I parked the silver Chevy Cruze -- rented, plain, nondescript -- a block away from Diana's and stayed in the shadows as I sprinted, slowing as I approached. Every light in the front of her house seemed on. Insomnia? Something shifted in the shadows on the west side of her house, so I used the shrubberies in the neighboring yard as cover. Neither the east side nor the back of the house held danger. The lookout, the one I'd seen, was on west. He wasn't very good at looking out, or maybe I'm just better, but the heel of the 365 slamming into the back of his head put him down and out. The second blow -- it's protocol -- insured he'd stay that way.