Panties with a twist

Time clenches around you, each second an eternity in this naked hell. Then footsteps slap against the wet concrete. Chattering voices. Female.

Your head jerks around. Christina. She’s coming back. And she’s brought backup. Three other girls from the softball team, all in skimpy swimwear, all laughing, all with glances that instantly dart like magnets to your corner of the pool.

You freeze. An animal in the headlights. Your heart hammers so wildly it steals your breath.

Christina grins, that lopsided, victorious grin. She says something to the others, a quiet, giggling word. Then she pulls something small and colorful from her hand and swings it like a slingshot. "Hey, Forgetful!" she calls, her voice bright and falsely casual. "You dropped something!"

It’s a pair of panties. A tiny, pink scrap of fabric. It sails through the air and lands with a soft plop in the water, right in the diagonally opposite corner of the pool. A bikini bottom. A thong.

Everything spins. The air grows buzzing, heavy. The four girls line up, arms crossed, gazes fixed on you. Expectant. There is no way out. No trick. Only the long, clear, deadly blue lane between you.

"Hurry up, before it sinks!" calls one of the others, a blonde. Her laughter feels like shards of glass.

Oh god. Oh god, no. The old lady has put down her newspaper and is lookin in your direction.

But your legs are already moving. A dull, survival-instinct-like command. You push off from the wall, head down, body as flat as possible beneath the surface. The water, which had just promised coolness, now feels like transparent oil, betraying every movement. Every sway of your hips, every slight rise of your naked ass as it breaks the water with each arm stroke, is an explicit revelation.

You hear their giggles. Hear the quiet splash as your bare butt submerges again. The heat in your face burns like fire, but deeper, more vile, another heat is swelling. The humiliation is so absolute, so public, that it crosses the threshold into ecstasy. Your cock, limp and shriveled with fear, twitches nonetheless.

The distance feels like a marathon. Finally, gasping, you reach the corner. The pink panties float like a shameless water lily before your nose. You grab for them, fingers trembling. The fabric is tissue-thin, wet, utterly useless.

You have ****. Underwater, with your back to the girls, you fumble. Guide one foot in, then the other. Pull the ridiculous string up. The fabric immediately cuts into your buttocks, covering almost nothing. Your balls bulge beneath it, your cock lies slack on the tight, wet triangle. It is worse than naked. It is a caricature.

Slowly, every centimeter an agony, you turn around.

Four pairs of eyes take you in. Christina stands at the front. Her gaze wanders slowly, savoringly, from your tormented face down to the pitiful pink covering that only emphasizes your shame. Her breath comes a little faster. You see her tongue wet her lower lip.

"Well now," she says, her voice a rough whisper that cuts across the water. "Fits perfectly. We'll see you later."