You in Your Apricot Panties

You in Your Apricot Panties

by Jeremy Edwards

www.jeremyedwardserotica.com

Oh my fucking goodness. You! You in your apricot panties. Sitting there, cross-legged on the rug, your music magazine spread in front of you as if it were a horny girl with her legs open, just for you . . . you in your apricot panties.

You in your panties, your sun-bleached hair perennially falling in your face, your wholesome little breasts enjoying their “bra optional” freedom . . . you in only your panties, your apricot panties.

Your apricot panties, with slits at the hips that give me a window on the sleek, fleshy world of your just-below-the-waist contours. Your apricot panties, whose opaqueness around your crotch provides a modesty that is so sensually undermined by the wisps of blonde bush that peek out along the seams.

Your apricot panties, whose sunny color may say “bathing suit,” but whose cotton-intimate gusset shouts “private” whenever your moisture begins to seep through.

Something in the magazine makes you laugh. But when your eyes meet mine to share the joke, I know that your mind isn’t really on music-biz gossip. You look hungry for me . . . you in your apricot panties.

On the days that I fold our laundry, your apricot panties look so cute in the basket, smiling up at me in their sleep. But “cute” doesn’t cover how sexually dynamic they look on your body. When they’re wrapped around your ass, it’s impossible for me to separate the wrapping from the package. I’m not seeing apricot panties, I’m not seeing you . . . I’m seeing you in your panties, your panties on you.

Your panties on you, like a neon apricot sign directing me to your cunt. Your panties on you, like fluorescent orange highlighting across the word “sex” on a page full of other words. I don’t just want to run my hands over your cheeks and give wet kisses to your pussy. No. What I want is to fondle your derrière in your apricot panties, to mouth your crotch with the fabric between us. To taste cotton that tastes like your pussy, to rub my lips against natural fibers that house your natural fibers.

Your ass is so round beneath them. Hell, even the reinforced seams have a rounded edge to them, as if the manufacturer wanted every detail of this garment to scream femininity. Did the manufacturer know how mouth-wateringly luscious your soft bottom would look in them? Did he hold the fabric up to the window of his office and ponder how the rich cotton would stretch across the perfect shape of your pale behind? Did he lock his office door to pore over full-color schematic drawings that demonstrated how tightly the orange skin would cloak the corner where mound turns south toward cunt? I want those drawings.

But mostly right now what I want is to kiss you all along the edges of your apricot panties, following the bikini-cut boundary across your sensuous belly, around to that ticklish spot in the small of your back . . . and downward, ever downward, taking care to kiss each millimeter of the hidden place where the gusset clings against the very upper insides of your thighs, where the flesh is so close to your sex that it tastes like the treasure that the apricot panties proudly enclose.

You can make me hard merely by mentioning them. Tell me, when we’re walking down the street in our winter coats, that your irritating co-worker got your panties in a bunch, and my dick will stiffen while my voice empathizes. Mention casually that you need to plan a shopping trip because you need more socks and panties, and I’m ready to fuck you, standing up, in the department store dressing room of your choice.

Not all your panties are apricot panties; but it is always the apricot panties that I visualize when you say “panties.” Those are the panties that matter, the panties I’ll welcome any passing excuse to imagine touching, smelling, and tasting . . . with you in them. If I were bolder, I might lean in to you at random moments—in restaurants, on airplanes, in subway cars—and ask you to say “my panties,” so that I could salivate apricot-flavored kisses into your mouth and nurse honeyed precome against my fly, while wrapping my mind around your ass in apricot panties. I want to hear you say that phrase, to acknowledge that the panties I adore on you are practically a part of you. They are your panties, the panties that enclose your unique feminine essence. You and I are not materialistic, but how I love to hear you affirm ownership of that most personal property.

Will you say it now? Will you have occasion, as you sit there with your magazine, to toss off some sentence that includes the magic phrase “my panties”?

I have noticed that they launder very nicely, these quality apricot panties. No matter how juicy I make you in them, they come back fresh for more. On more than one occasion I’ve creamed right across the front of them, when you’ve aroused me so extremely that my animal jets of love sought the comfort, not just of your sex, but of your sex in apricot panties. I can’t see the panties when I press my tingling erection between your pelvis and mine, my hardness grinding against you through apricot cotton . . . but I know they’re on you, receiving my love with you. And you never regret it. You know that if I’m excited enough to come onto your panties, that I’m good for more, and that you’ll get yours.

Now you abandon the magazine and stand up. You adjust the crotch of your apricot panties—or have I glimpsed an instant of anticipatory masturbation? You close the distance. You stroke my chest and push me backward, toward the bed. You playfully grab the front of my shorts and kiss me.  You press against me—press them against me, press yourself against me through them. You giggle, squirming and teasing, because you know in a second I’ll be all over you. You in your apricot panties.