Adrienne's Ironic Lingerie
"Did you say 'erotic lingerie'?"
Written by: Jeremy Edwards
"No, ironic lingerie.
It's erotic, too, of course. But this was not the point I was making." Adrienne's eyes glinted with sharp intelligence and dry humor, as they usually do.
Okay. I had no idea what she was talking about. But I was used to that. I love Adrienne madly, and when her eyes glimmer that way she can speak nonsense or Old Norse, and I won't mind.
Furthermore, I'd learned that this was a woman who could teach me a thong or two about underwear, and that the lessons were always most enjoyable. Like the night she'd explained "boyshorts" to me - with the vivid, hands-on approach favored by all the best teachers.
"What do you mean; you want to show me your 'boyshorts'?" I said cluelessly. "Is all your own underwear in the laundry or something?"
Adrienne tried not to laugh too hard as she slipped off her jeans. She didn't say a word as she rubbed her palms slowly along her hips, emphasizing how nicely the "boyish" cut of these baby-blue panties flattered a feminine shape. A flutter or two of her fingers along the front served to underscore that these ultra-brief briefs had no fly, and that they had been designed for nobody but a girl. Even before she turned around to slap her own butt cheeks and show off the way the perky cotton hugged them, I was sold.
So now I understood "boyshorts." I'd even had the pleasure, later that same evening, of pulling them down Adrienne's cutie-pie ass slowly, with my teeth, while she simmered with girlish giggles and stroked me so daintily that I almost couldn't hold back. Yep, I could get used to these "boyshorts," on the right little bottom.
I didn't yet understand "ironic lingerie," but I was confident that Adrienne would tell me all I needed to know on the subject, and that my education would continue to be rewarding. The arrangement for Friday night was that we'd meet for dinner at a favorite restaurant near her house, after which she would take me home and unveil this latest underwear mystery.
On the subway, it crossed my mind that she might be referring to a pair of panties with some sardonic slogan printed on the front, or across the ass. I'd certainly seen such things in the windows of hip-kitten boutiques, and in online ads. But that wasn't Adrienne's style, I reflected. She was not the sort of woman to rely on a pre-fab slogan to welcome yours truly to her pussy or her behind.
Dinner was delicious, I suppose, but I can't pretend that the pasta had my full attention. Adrienne's smile kept seducing me away from gustatory thoughts, as she flashed silent erotic promises across the top of her Chardonnay glass.
When we arrived at her place, she asked me to wait in the living room for a minute. She disappeared into the bedroom, unzipping her sleeveless summer dress as she vanished.
When she re-emerged, she was wearing, of all things, a white lab coat. I recognized it from Halloween, when we'd attended a party as funny scientists. Tonight, again, the effect it gave was generally humorous. But I noticed there was nothing comical about the way her luscious, bare legs protruded from the mid-thigh hem of the garment.
Adrienne gestured for me to remain seated. She stood before me in a quasi-formal manner, obviously prepared to make some sort of presentation.
"Now then," she began with mock sobriety in her voice, her eyes all the while gleaming with mirth. "We wished to discuss 'ironic lingerie,' yes?"
"Yes indeed," I answered my own voice a husky cocktail of anticipation and curiosity.
"Excellent," said Adrienne in her clipped, professional manner. "First, what would you say is the primary role of underpants?"
I believe this was the first time in my life I had been confronted with this question. But I was a good student. Eager to play along with Adrienne's little skit, I put up my hand.
"Yes?" She was calling on me.
"Well," I began, "Underpants, nowadays, are often considered sexy ...."
"Remember," she interrupted, "I said the primary role."
Her tone was gentle but determined. And behind the serious voice, her expression continued to glisten with a madcap wit.
"I guess I'd say that the primary role is to clothe one's - er - genitals," I ventured.
Adrienne's eyes enlarged with passion. "Exactly."
She stepped toward me.
"Speaking for myself, as a woman ... my underpants serve, primarily, to clothe my cunt."
She licked her lips after the sacred word passed across them, as if it were a morsel of savory food.
The tension of pleasurable expectation had by now spread from my mind to my crotch. And the magic word cunt, spoken by Adrienne, acted as the psychological equivalent of a soft kiss across the head of my cock. I twitched in my trousers.
Adrienne took another step forward, a dramatic vision of logic, loveliness, and sexual electricity. She resumed her show-and-tell speech.
"Wouldn't it be ironic, then, if my underpants left this very thing ..."
With a graceful, perhaps rehearsed, motion, she flung off the lab coat. "Exposed."
Adrienne posed for me, topless, her long black hair wild against her bare shoulders and her diminutive breasts flushed and alive. All she wore was an exquisite pair of
Of course, I thought. Crotchless panties! An article of cunt-concealing clothing which, paradoxically, left the cunt itself magnificently exposed. Ironic, indeed. And erotic, for sure.
I thought I might come in my pants, the effect was so sexy. And she hadn't even opened her legs yet.
I forced myself to resist grabbing Adrienne long enough to study the lingerie du jour. I really wanted to do justice to the effect she had so carefully planned. The panties were a giddy mauve in color, like a laughing glass of Beaujolais, fresh and ripe and intoxicating. As for the fabric -- well, I don't know my fabrics the way I know my colors, but some underwear designer had evidently made a major breakthrough. For while the "peekaboo" latticework design mimicked lace, the feel - in which I now carefully indulged, reaching out a tentative, reverential hand - was cool and soft like satin or even silk. These were not just panties - they were a work of art, and a marvel of engineering.
A precious button held the top together at the waist -- the only place in sight where the two halves of the knickers met. So while the lingerie played adoringly over the texture of Adrienne's sturdy hips, it was conspicuously absent in the vicinity of her bushy welcome mat and the slick lips she now took care to flash for me, lifting her leg like a dancer. I stroked the cloth along her hip again before wetting just the tip of my index finger inside her. The mischievous scientist had dropped out of sight with the lab coat, and the raw, horny woman who had replaced her purred impressively, closing her legs around my hand.
After a few sensuous undulations, Adrienne released me and spun around. Now I saw the second button, fastened around back, at waist level like its cousin. Beneath it, the long, smiling crack of her vanilla-mousse ass was revealed in all its lewd glory. I began to pleasure her here, teasing up and down with a gentle finger and watching her twin roundnesses wriggle through the clinging network of mauve, which resembled a crosshatched blueberry drizzle on two beckoning, convex pies. I grabbed the two cheeks of pie and felt Adrienne vibrate against my palms. I saw her dip her right hand into the place that the underwear designer had left vacant, but which the wearer inhabited with the most intimate parts of her beauty.
Somehow we made it to the edge of the bed without my hands ever leaving her ass or her fingers abandoning her crotch. Here we parted briefly, and she lay down and sprawled for me, mauve lingerie still in place, pink pussy gloriously available, and eyes shining with fire. I shed my clothes without taking my eyes off my passion-charged darling, and I plunged onto the bed, right at her feet. My erection bounced against the mattress, and I grabbed Adrienne's girlish ankles for support. She laughed and pulled me forward, and we quickly slid into place and locked ourselves into a slow, mutual tickle within her.
When I situated my hands on Adrienne's hips, I once again experienced the soft and stimulating texture of the ironic panties, their fibers teasing my fingertips. At the same time, I felt the friendly nearness of Adrienne's hand against my waist as she positioned it over her clit, ensuring that all the right vibrations would reach all the right places.
We began to rock into our rhythm, and Adrienne groaned with the landslide sensation of feeling me spark and throb inside her after the long, delicious moments of tingling, dripping anticipation. Then her breathing began to quicken, and her satisfied growls segued into speech:
"Fuck me in my panties."
It had almost been a whisper. But it was immediately repeated, with more urgency:
"Oh! Fuck me in my panties!"
As the pace of our primal rhythm picked up, so did that of this mantra. Every thrust was punctuated with Adrienne's passionate, spoken, encouragement, her unnecessary but incredibly-arousing request that I do to her exactly what I was already doing.
"Fuck me in my panties ... fuck me in my panties ... fuck me in my panties!"
My lover was beginning to sound like a choo-choo train in heat - except no locomotive ever looked this good in underwear. My mind and groin were nearly boiling over at the thought that, yes, I was fucking my sweet, gorgeous woman right in her panties. Right in her fucking panties. Her sensuous, special panties that left nature's feminine masterpiece fully at our disposal, for our mutual delight.
Adrienne's patter dissolved into an erotic scream.
As she shuddered around me I, too, fell off the mountain and plunged blissfully into an ocean of orgasm.
When I finally re-established normal consciousness, I noticed that my fingers were still in contact with the ironic panties, one hand at each hip. So I softly stroked the lingerie, and Adrienne through the lingerie, my delicious lady in her delicate miracle garment ... in which lovemaking, I'd learned, was an open book.
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