"Wanna see my new red lacy panties?"
These are words to draw any man's ardent attention away from even the most important of gridiron clashes (with Playoff AND Fantasy implications in the balance), and his head snaps over like a duck hook from a 3-Iron. Pavlov would be proud.
She's wearing pajamas, red with little designs on them, the fourth different pair he's seen in the four nights since they arrived at the hotel. He hasn't worn pajamas since he doesn't know when, unless you count Return of the Jedi Ewok Underoos, and no reason that you should.
She looks at him intently, waiting for an answer; his wrenched-away gaze and near pant apparently not enough.
He opens his mouth, about to say, "Yes! Yes, of course!" but he hesitates. Maybe it's a trap. They know each other well, but then again they don't, and this first time in such close proximity is new territory, and he doesn't want to screw it up.
"I do like to keep up with the latest high fashion." He offers, aware it's a lame reply, but also feeling that it's a safe answer in case he is being tested.
She flashes that special sparkly smile, and he knows he passed.
Later, much later, both pleasantly sore and lethargic, he would mock-accuse her of insatiability.
"I never!" she exclaims. "You threw yourself at me!"
"Yeah, maybe....but that was AFTER you asked me if I wanted to see your new red lacy panties; not packed away in your suitcase, but beneath your pajamas, on your very own not-unpleasant body! Talk about a red flag to a bull...."
She giggles, busted, without shame. "I knew that's all it would take."
Lying flat on her back, she thrusts up almost comically so she can tug her pajama bottoms down off her hips without getting out of bed. The garment - as advertised: new, lacy, red. The front features what looks like frilly bows and ribbons, fancy and mysterious, like a woman's corset in a high-class brothel smack dab in the middle of the Old West.
The panties look so special that he is intimidated at first, afraid he might cause damage and thus raise her ire. He's been known to rip the fabric right through the heart of the triangle to get to what he wants, and there's never been any objection (she even joked about bringing many extra pairs just in case), but instinct tells him this time would be an exception.
He sees her watching him, waiting, and this is where he has his epiphany, his flash of realization of what she wanted all along.
She wants his hands on her body. She wants to lie there helpless beneath his gaze, his touch, his weight. She wants to surrender control and not be responsible for the things he makes her do, and the shuddering spasms he brings her to.
She wants all that and more, but custom, society, upbringing, biology - who knows? - prevents her from asking. A few short minutes from now, when he has thumbed her clit to throbbing and suckled both nipples hard, he'll be able to make her beg, so desperate will she be to have him inside her. But right now she is shy, and cannot ask for - let alone demand - what she craves. What she needs. So she offers to let him see her new red lacy panties, and she waits for the bull to charge.
He intertwines his fingers with the bows and ties that decorate the front of her new red lacy panties. The heavy pressure of his hand against her soft mound sets her whimpering. Her legs and hips begin involuntary movements that won't completely abate until much later, when her fifth climax is so overwhelming as to be painful, and she has to beg him to stop, even though she wants nothing more than for him to take her into oblivion.
He discovers the lace ties are strengthened with elastic, and he uses them like rubber bands to snap swollen flesh on the other side of the thin barrier.
She tries to shuck her new red lacy panties the same way she did her pajama bottoms, but in vain. He puts a hand on her waist almost contemptuously, easily pinning her in place. He gives her a look, as if to say, You're going to make such a big deal about these panties, you can just keep them on for awhile.
She almost screams her frustration. He lowers his hand from waist to lace and begins working her with his fingers - still blocked by the panties: an exquisite torture.
To forestall further protest he lowers his body down, overlapping her. Every time she opens her mouth to complain he kisses her. She vents her fury by trying to bite his lips, his tongue, anywhere she can get her teeth. He re-doubles the pressure of his fingers and she abandons all efforts to maim him, concentrating on gasping for breath.
It is not long before he shoves the crotch of her panties to the side, but he still won't let her shed the red prison. This means a constricting tighter fit as he thrusts a powerful finger inside her slowly, first in and out, and then rotating around and around inside.
It is here when his thumb makes itself useful, slipping back a small hood and gently rubbing figure-eights on the sensitive spot over and over and over again.
Her first wave crests, but he doesn't let up, adding a second finger inside her while lowering his mouth to her breast. She cries out repeatedly, almost out of control, and he watches her face keenly, eager to drink in the sight of her at this very moment, when she is at her most vulnerable, raw and real.
He'll get his in awhile (yes, her panties do eventually come off, as does, later, his belt), but right now the only thing he cares about is bringing her to the edge, knowing that it is he who has done it. He feels pride that he can play her body like a fiddle, but right on top of that he feels humbled, and grateful, that she would allow herself to be so open with him, to show him a piece of her soul.
He has mastery over her body, and dominates her flesh for her pleasure, which in turn pleases him. But it is She who willingly gives up control. It is She who allows herself to fall helplessly into forever.
She is the one with true power.