The Panty Vote

First off, I have to say, I'm so impressed. Your stories and snippets for my Take Your Panties Down contest made me want to start collecting for a brand-new book of short shorts. In fact, damn, I think I will. (More info to come shortly.) But how am I supposed to choose a winner with such sexy, sultry, scintillating entries?

That's where you come in! I've made another poll, but this time, I've cut and pasted the stories below. So you can read them easily and then vote for your favorite. (Next contest, I'll try to come up with a way to have anonymous entries. I promise.)

Anyway, here goes:

Jeremy Edwards:
Like this she asked verging teasing hesitating like this you mean her fingers clutching elastic like the rubberbands in my belly twanging for her twat approximately like that yes I smiled laughter my precome I want them at your knees at your ankles I want you against my nose my face naked your nakedness like this.

EllaRegina #1:
HAROLD and the BLACK FOUNTAIN PEN

Harold grew up and left his purple crayon behind, learning how to wield his cock instead, or a shiny black fountain pen, but not at the same time. Harold could have any girl he wanted; all he had to do was draw her. She could be naked, she could be clothed, or anything in between. And she would do whatever he wished, as long as he was able to illustrate those desires. Harold drew a very white girl, nicely shaped and held in by a spare arrangement of thin black lines.

While drawing he felt her kissing him, even though she only existed, so far, from above the kneecaps to just under the breasts -- he was getting to her other parts. The yet-undrawn mouth was planted exactly on his own, as if he were kissing a mirror. A tongue found his. He kissed the faceless girl until his cock became hard. Harold drew a couch -- a simple one as time was of the essence -- so they would have a decent place to kiss, something more dimensional. He drew her knees, which immediately buckled, making the paper twitch. Even though Harold and the very white girl were grounded -- now horizontal on the couch -- their stomachs, both drawn and real, were dropping in a bottomless free-fall from the kissing.

The girl was holding on to her underpants -- whatever Harold had drawn. She rolled them off, slowly, as she kissed him, her mouth never leaving his. He drew her hand so that it reached for his cock. Then his pen slipped, the right side of her thong string not yet drawn. He took his hard cock and brought it to the girl's hand so she could grasp him. He wanted so much to dip into her bubbling inkwell -- once drawn, of course -- but felt it only proper to wait until the rest of her was there, too. After all, she was more than just a collection of lines. He retrieved his fountain pen from the floor and continued, filling in the missing areas -- he drew her asshole and stuck his finger in it -- all the time kissing, and being kissed, with a very white black-outlined hand wrapped around his flesh and blood purple cock, both he and the girl reeling, flying. They would never hit ground because it was not yet inked, so they could float and kiss forever, and so they did.

Harold loved the smell of paper, especially a bleached bond.

EllaRegina #2:

E-I-E-I-O

It was like Strip Poker except there were no cards or chips. W. and I, on the sofa, giving each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation even though we were both very much alive. W. made me dizzy. He could make me come just by kissing. I had to sit, or better, lie down, such was the vertigo he gave me. Once he kissed me against a wooden gate and if the structure had not been there, neither would I have been for long, turned to vapor or ash and swirled in the wind, a confetti scattering of desire. So, to kiss W. I needed architecture, preferably the interior variety.

So, the sofa. Green velvet, the kind you buy for the rest of your life. I tried not to think of how many kisses, besides ours, had been exchanged there. It was not healthy to dwell on the past lives of furniture. W. and I had a game. Whenever either of us was close to coming we had to make an animal noise and take off a piece of our clothing. It was easy with W. Soon I was mooing. He laughed and pointed to my short skirt. Off it came, W. pleased that I'd worn no underpants. We resumed our game and he barked. I undid his fly and his trousers flew out the window, disembodied and running, like in a cartoon. W. put his serpent tongue as far as it would go into my mouth. He brought me to the brink again and I whinnied. My garter belt. Our lips together once more and I made him crow. His shirt. Then W. on top of me in gray tank undershirt and gray thermal underwear, his full weight -- twice my own -- pinning me like a butterfly in a specimen case, his cock unquestionably aimed at its target. Before long I was meowing. I pulled my black cashmere sweater over my head.

We had to pause. I needed air. I walked around W.'s bedroom in what was left of my outfit -- a crinkly black silk camisole, its straps falling down, grey thigh-high sheer stockings with black-ribboned bands like chokers at their tops, red patent leather high-heeled pumps. W. liked me to keep those on, no matter what else came off. I also wore a feathered cap, easier to imagine than describe. Its thin elastic string hooked under my chin, something à la Marlene Dietrich although I probably looked more like a circus monkey. If W. played an organ grinder we'd be all set. I paced the room surrounded by beige 1950s horizontally-striped wallpaper. He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis, the biggest I'd ever seen. It needed its own building. W. enjoyed watching me perambulate before him, half dressed, especially when the combination of what I was wearing was the result of his command.

He pulled me onto the bed. I'd had enough air. His mouth was on mine again and his endless legs held me like a nutcracker. After a few shared breaths he growled and I dug my stilettos into his thighs. The long underwear landed on his wood floor. Then my turn with a squawk (the camisole) and his with a howl (the gray undershirt). We were left with just socks (W.) and stockings and pumps (me). It was at this point that we could travel beyond the tantric barnyard and the second part of the game would begin.

Online Lover:
as i felt my insides turning to jelly and the wetness starting against my baby blue lace boy shorts - he tugged at the button on my jeans. I could feel the hardness of him - pushing against me. Slowly he unzipped my jeans and turned me over on my belly - with my face down on the leather couch - he pulled my jeans down enough to reveal tight round white ass cheeks peeking out of lacy blue panties... he tugged at them and pulled them aside and dove his tongue straight into my wetness...

Kirsten Monroe:
My first email of the day was from Mr. Bigshot Naughtypants. “Send me a shot under your desk.”

I texted him a cell pic of the tangle of dusty wires down there. Under my desk.

He pouted hopefully when I delivered a report. On my way out, I dropped a pencil. “Oops,” I said, turning sideways and bending over to retrieve it, showing off my ass to his polished cherry bookshelf. “Clumsy me.”

Then I couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Bigcock under his desk. I spread my legs and held my cell there, capturing the lacy pink satin bowed light particles gartering for attention. “Send.”

When Mr. Naughtypants flipped me a message to report immediately for an unscheduled noon meeting, I simply had to decline. “Booked, checking schedule,” I replied.

In the ladies room after lunch with the girls, I posed in the stall for a quick pic of my sticky skully bum . “Sorry. Booked all day. Any openings tomorrow?”

Yes Timmy:

I wore them underneath my "teacher disguise" all day at school. I could get away with it easily, and the shame felt good. I liked wearing the sheer, almost scratchy stockings and tight garter belt without panties. I could feel my own wetness all during the imterminable school day, touching myself under my skirt, under the desk, between classes. I liked feeling the ribbons of liquid silk inching down my inner thighs during quadratic equations, making me strain to concentrate. Feeling the stockings against my skin in chapel, fingers gently tracing the ribbon of garter, I took myself over the edge more than once, so secretly, so quietly. How well I knew the rough wool of my novice's habit, by my own needle made too tight around my hips, would punish me all day, rubbing my bare bottom raw between those garters ... where my panties should be, would be, were they not too busy being worn elsewhere on campus, under a black uniform with a white collar.

I've got to go fan myself now.
Back in a bit.

XXX,
Alison