Panties

Ginger calls her panties mere thread between her legs. She likes them small enough that she feels them the whole time—a line of silk pressed against her slit when she moves or bends. Tonight she steps out in black ones that barely count, triangles so thin the lips beneath them show through if you stand in the right light. Liza waits on the couch already half undressed, a thin white strip stretched over her own shaved mound. She hooks two fingers beneath the front of Ginger’s panties and drags the elastic aside, lets the cool air touch wet skin. Ginger bites her lip, then reaches down and does the same to Liza, easing the white panel away so that nothing stands between them except her fingers and Liza’s slick warmth. The girl on the couch moans softly, thighs widening. Ginger leans in, slides two fingertips across that bare, swollen heat, and both of them forget anything else.