Memories - Slow Part 4

The week leading up to Saturday was a slow-motion blur of anticipation and practiced composure. Every time I caught my reflection, I didn't just see a boy; I saw a project in transition.

I stood before my dresser, the top drawer hanging open. My fingers brushed over the familiar cotton of my standard briefs, but my eyes were drawn to the back, tucked under a stack of gym shirts. I pulled them out—a pair of neutral-toned Vanity Fair Comfort Silky Stretch Bikinis. I’d bought them months ago, after a purge, but then buried them, terrified of what they represented.

They felt incredible. The fabric was a micro-ballistic nylon blend, slick and cool, with a low-rise cut and a distinct V-front waistband designed to sit flat against the skin. They reminded me vividly of the specialized dance trunks I’d worn years ago—garments meant to disappear under a costume while providing a streamlined, aesthetic silhouette.

They don't have tags, I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs, I could tell her they’re just old dance gear. I could tell her I wanted her to see why I shave—to see the lines of my body without the bulk of men's underwear.

The lie felt like a safety net. It might allow me to wear what I craved while keeping the "secret" tucked just behind a technicality. I held out the panties with trembling hands and stepped into them. The fit was perfect—smooth, supportive, and unnervingly soft against my hairless skin. I dressed in my charcoal trousers and a blue shirt, the hidden silk of the bikini a low-voltage current running through my body all the way to her front door.

---

The atmosphere in Emily’s bedroom was thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of the city. She was already waiting, leaning against the headboard in a simple black slip that made her skin look like cream.

"You're late," she said, though her smile was indulgent. "I assume the preparation was... extensive?"

"Kind of...am...am I undressing?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I'm wearing this, but underwear again for you."

I felt relief. "I wanted to show you something," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I shed my shirt and then my trousers, standing before her in the neutral-toned bikinis.

Emily sat up, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the smooth, shimmering fabric. She leaned forward, her gaze lingering on the V-shaped waistband and the way the low-cut legs emphasized the seamless transition of my skin.

"Those..." she murmured, reaching out but not quite touching. "Sweetie, those almost look like panties."

A shot of adrenaline spiked through me. I wanted to confess, wanted to tell her they were. But I forced a casual shrug. "They’re actually old dance underwear—from back when I did ballet. I found them in the back of a drawer. I wanted you to see why I shave... I wanted you to see the actual lines of my body without the bunching of regular briefs. They're just for the silhouette. This was me for years."

Emily's eyes tracked the curve of the fabric, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her face. She didn't call the bluff, but she didn't look away either. "The silhouette is certainly... streamlined. Did you...tuck? Everything is smooth."

"Yes," I said. "I was never...well endowed. It was easiest for me to just hide everything.

She stood up, the slip shimmering as she moved. She walked behind me, her presence a heavy weight in the small room.

"Well we need to untuck you tonight as the rules are changing, just like I promised," she whispered into my ear. "Sit on the edge of the bed. Hands behind your back. Clasp them. Do not move them until I tell you."

---

I obeyed instantly. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my shoulders pulled back, my hands locked together. I felt completely exposed. The silky stretch of the bikinis felt like a second skin, vibrating with every heartbeat.

Emily moved to stand between my knees. She didn't touch me with her hands at first. She simply stood there, letting the heat from her body radiate against mine. Her eyes were fixed on the waistband of the "dance underwear," watching the way it rose and fell with my shallow, frantic breathing.

"Rule Number One," she said, her voice a low command. "You are an observer of your own body tonight so you aren't allowed to participate. I'm in control, you just... feel."

She reached out, her index finger tracing the very top edge of the V-front waistband. The sensation of her nail against the slick fabric, followed by the warmth of her fingertip against my stomach, made my breath hitch. "God, Emily," I gasped.

"The fabric is so thin," she commented, her hand sliding down the front, mapping the contours. "It’s almost like there’s nothing there at all. Is this how it felt when you were on stage, sweetie? Everyone watching the lines of your body?"

"I... I suppose so," I managed to rasp.

She began to use her palms, rubbing them in slow, circular motions over the silky nylon. The friction was unlike anything I’d ever felt—the "dance" underwear didn't provide the protective barrier of cotton; it acted as a conductor. Every movement of her hand was magnified, the slick fabric sliding over my smooth skin in a way that felt dangerously close to the "real" thing.

---

I was straining against the neutral fabric, the ache in my lap becoming an all-consuming fire. Because my hands were locked behind me, I had no way to ground myself. I was a passenger in a body that was rapidly reaching its limit.

"You're shaking already," Emily whispered, leaning down so her lips were inches from mine. "Is it the 'dance gear,' my needy boy? Or is it the fact that I can see exactly what you're feeling through it? That I can see exactly how you react to me?"

She increased the pressure, her grip firming around the silk-covered heat of me. I let out a choked sound, my head falling back, my eyes snapping shut.

"Look at me," she commanded.

I opened my eyes, my vision blurred. She was watching me with a predatory intensity that made the "thirty-second" fear roar back to life. I felt the familiar tightening, the frantic pulse that signaled the end.

"Emily, I...I'm going to—"

"I know," she interrupted, her thumb tracing the curve of the V-waistband one last time. "And you aren't going to fight it. Not tonight. Just stay in the silence, dear. Stay in the lines. When I decide it's time, let it be time."

"But I..."

"It's been years, hasn't it? Since a woman did this?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"I can't imagine...it's only been since New Year's Eve for me and I'm going crazy."

My eyes went wide. That was five days before our first date. "That...that's right before..."

"Hmmm," she said, "an old fling...New Year's Eve...technically New Year's Day, I guess."

Four days before our first date. My god, was this woman trying to kill me? Did she have any idea what just the thought of that did to me? She couldn't know, not then, nor did I, the power her words had over me. Four days. Four days.

"Now...present...promise?"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Stay in the lines...just go when I decide your little guy is going to go, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"I know it won't take long," she said, a wry smile. "Ready?"

"R...ready," I said.

She used the slickness of the bikini to her advantage, the friction of the nylon acting as a catalyst. I tried to slow my heart, to find the poise I’d had before, but it was useless. Between the secret of what I was wearing, the thought of her fucking a guy four days before our first date, and the direct, assertive heat of her hand, the dam was going to break.

"Go," she said.

I pulsed against the silky fabric, my body bucking once as the release tore through me. My hands remained locked behind my back, the tension in my arms the only thing keeping me upright.

Twenty-eight seconds.

The number echoed in my head, but as Emily leaned in and kissed me—a deep, possessive kiss that tasted of victory—the shame didn't follow. 

"Two years makes for a very quick needy boy, doesn't it?" she said.

"I...I guess it does."

"These dance briefs ," she murmured against my lips, her hand still resting on the damp, cooling silky feeling fabric. "They’re very, very effective. Do you have more?"

"They...they came in a three-pack," I said, "one black, one white, and one buff, why?"

She moved her hand lightly over me. "I just think maybe you should wear them more often."

"Really?" I asked. Was my girlfriend really asking this? Like was this a route by which I could wear panties without her knowing? 

"You look cute in them," she said. 

"Cute?"

"Most guy's I've dated are more hairy, more overtly masculine, the boxer type; the cotton briefs you wear suit you better. But the softer material of these...makes your little guy more sensitive, more vulnerable."

"You said feminine before," I said, feigning the weight of an insult.

She shrugged like it was no big deal. "I'm just saying, I think you should wear them more often. At least on date nights."

"I could get more dance briefs," I said.

"I'm already imaging the next line you'll get to cross."

"I've liked every line so far," I said, "maybe I should get more."

I leaned into her, the secret of the Vanity Fair tag long gone, replaced by the heavy, satisfied weight of being exactly where I wanted to be.