Quasi-Daily Writing – February 10, 2012


Author’s Note: It’s a rare and odd thing when I am inspired by myself or, more accurately, something that I own. Perhaps it is arrogance, perhaps it’s just early morning bleariness but here you have it. And, yes, entirely fictional paper bullet of my brain. It came to me while brushing my teeth, if you must know. ^_^

She snuck quietly from bedroom to bathroom without incident, not wanting to have to bother to put on her clothes for just a quick trip. She made it, unseen and unheard, took care of business, and then made ready to leave again. Opening the bathroom door quietly by degrees, she poked her head out and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. She was in nothing but her underwear, after all. The black bra was simple enough, no decoration. No, what drew the eyes were her panties.

They were cheeky little concoction of silken leopard-print interspersed with the turquoise eye of a peacock’s tail, the same color turquoise as the lace that edged the little undergarment. They sat low on her hips, accentuating the S-slope of waist to hip and showing off the darling little dimples in her lower back; they also hugged her derriere, the lace showing off a curve that inspired the imagination what else lay beneath.

Naturally, she never thought of these things when she put them on; she just wore them because she liked them, because they made her feel pretty. Of course she didn’t think about the men whose brain might be broken by a bit of silk and lace. Especially not the one who saw them that night. He’d slipped out of his room much as she had hers, trying not to wake anyone for sound travelled quickly. He exited his door, just as her head was turned the opposite way, as she slipped out of the bathroom. He paused upon seeing her, his eyes taking in all facets of her body in those undergarments in less than 10 seconds.

Unfortunately, where he paused was right where the floor creaked and, as it groaned, she paused. No. Froze is more the appropriate verb. Slowly, ever so slowly, her head turned to look at him over her shoulder. As Juliet once said in far more verbose terms, she was glad that it was dark and he could not see her blush. In the shadowed hall, they just stared at each other for a minute until, finally, she reached up and pressed a finger to her lips in the gesture that every person has known since childhood.

Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.

And, with that, she was gone. Back down the hall, into her room, the door closing quietly. Meanwhile, he was left to ponder how turquoise and leopard-print could make such a pretty pairing.

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