D. B. Reynolds is the RT Award-Winning author
of the popular Vampires in America series of Paranormal Romance/Urban Fantasy and
an Emmy-nominated television sound editor. She lives with her husband of many
years in a flammable canyon near Los Angeles, and when she’s not writing her
own books, she can usually be found reading someone else’s.
Visit her blog at www.dbreynolds.com for details on all of
her books, for free stories and more.
WARNING: This story is racy and contains adult themes.
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Marcella preened as the woman slid lace
straps over smooth shoulders, cupped full, youthful breasts into silk-lined
cups before twisting the front snap closed.
Round globes of smooth, golden skin plumped over the top of the cups,
framed by the same delicate lace that curved over the woman’s shoulders.
Marcella could feel the weight of the woman’s breasts straining gently on the
straps, stretching the cups to their fullest. It was what Marcella had been
created for, to caress and shape that loveliest part of a woman’s body. This
was perfection. She was perfection.
Her lace was imported from Italy, her silk from the finest weavers in France.
It was a mark of distinction, a recognition of her beauty, that she was named
at all. Most bras and panties were nothing but underwear, a style number on a
tag. But Marcella was lingerie, meant
to show off the grace of a woman’s body, to charm and seduce.
The woman slid one finger under a delicate
strap, straightening it on her shoulder, making the slightest adjustment,
shifting the weight of her breast, before bending to draw on the matching
panties, with their tiny triangle of lace in the front. Triple bands of satin
glided over the woman’s hips until they met the narrow thong that outlined the
firm, round cheeks of her bottom. Marcella was pleased. She’d been designed for
a body just like this woman’s, for strong curves and full, firm breasts.
The woman shot to attention suddenly,
whipping around to pull on a silk robe. Marcella recognized the feel of it, the
way it slid seamlessly over her lace without catching or snagging. Just lovely. The perfect wrapping, meant to
be peeled away to reveal the true beauty beneath it, the enticing elegance of
Marcella herself. She imagined the man’s thick fingers, slipping carefully
beneath her lacey straps, sliding them down the smooth skin of the woman’s
shoulders, delicately pulling away the lovely curves of the silken bra cups to
display the woman’s breasts. He’d pause, admiring the way the gorgeous lace
framed their fullness, the way its creamy color brought out the golden glow of
the woman’s skin. He’d move to the clasp next, slowing again to appreciate the
cleverness that went into the twist snap, the perfect melding of form and
function as the clasp blended seamlessly into the beauty around it. He’d twist
it gently, understanding intuitively that such a clever design would never
require anything but the most delicate touch.
The woman would sigh with pleasure as the
bra fell away, as the soft silk offered a parting caress, the lace scraping
gently over her desire-swollen nipples, giving them one last stroke before
baring them to her lover’s eyes. And then, with a final, admiring gaze for its
perfection, the Marcella bra would be carefully set aside and the man would
turn his attention to the seduction that was the Marcella panty. His hand would
glide slowly over the woman’s flat belly, drinking in the anticipation,
delaying the moment when his fingers would dip beneath the smooth satin of the
panty’s straps. He would marvel at the perfect symmetry of the triple design,
the flawless detailing. And then he would go to his knees, his lips kissing the
woman through the satin, pausing over her smooth mound, his tongue dipping
beneath the satin where it met the seam of her thigh, where Marcella would be
hiding the heat of the woman’s sex.
And finally, the man would reluctantly
slide the panties down the woman’s long legs, his covetous gaze following their
slow journey over the woman’s thighs, her calves, her ankles, until the panty
too would be safely set aside, joining the bra, to be donned and appreciated
another day.
The man’s deep voice drew closer. Marcella
quivered in excitement, her lace rubbing the woman’s nipples to hard peaks that
the man would appreciate. The robe was whipped away, tossed to one side,
forgotten as his gaze drank in …
Marcella shrieked in silent shock as her
front clasp was ripped open, her imported silk torn as the man’s rough hands
caught on the delicate fabric, as his thick fingers cupped the woman’s breasts,
his thick thumbs scraping over the woman’s enlarged nipples as Marcella had pictured
her own silk perfection doing. The fragile lace straps were yanked down the
woman’s arms, one of them torn from its mooring in his haste, holding on by a
single silken thread as the bra went flying through the air to land in a dark
corner behind the bed.
If she’d had breath or voice, Marcella
would have moaned in agony as the perfect triple strands of satin on the panty
were snapped without ceremony, one side hanging useless as the woman fell back
onto the bed, as her legs spread wide to accommodate her lover’s hips. The man
shoved aside what was left of the panty, the velvet over steel of his cock slamming
between the woman’s thighs, the woman crying out in pleasure, her naked breasts
crushed against his chest, her smooth mound rubbing against the rough hair of
his groin as he fucked her over and over again, the juices from her arousal
soaking the torn satin of her panties until with a sharp cry and a shout, the
couple orgasmed together, arms clenched, bodies slick, his release joining her
arousal to drench the once-pristine Marcella panty.
The couple roused at last from their
post-orgasmic stupor. Marcella lay in her dark corner, waiting for the woman to
retrieve her beautiful lingerie, to mourn its damage and promise to restore it
to its former perfection. Marcella heard the woman’s soft voice and then
finally, she was brought back into the dim light of the bedroom.
“You’ve ruined another one,” the woman
laughed.
“Sweetheart, I don’t care about the
wrapping, only the present.”
Marcella gasped mutely as she was tossed
away, her lovely Italian lace torn, her French silk sinking into the pile of
used tissues and discarded nail polish in the bathroom trash, the soaked
remains of her satin panty landing on top of the bra before the trash can lid
closed with a snap, and there was nothing but darkness.
