The Guessing Game by Mick Mykola Dementiuk--Paramour 1996, Vol 3, No 3

 

 The Guessing Game  

  

by Mick Mykola Dementiuk 

 published in Paramour 1996, Vol 3, No 3

It had been a week since he had guessed correctly but since she only him one guess a night there was a limited number of panty colors he could guess at, the odds of hitting it correctly sooner or later should have been in his favor, but they weren't, and once again he had guessed wrong.

Blue! he stammered, thinking they had to be blue, it was time for blue anyway. 

Yesterday was cream colored, the day before was red, before that black, and it was pink four days ago... Yes! Today blue!... 

Besides, there was only one blue pair left in her dresser drawer, and dirty cream colored, red, black and pink ones in the laundry hamper, so they certainly had to be blue! 

Blue! once again he gushed, but no matter how logical and calculating his reasoning, still none too sure of himself. 

Because all the deductions, the snooping through drawers, through laundry baskets, had led him to wrong conclusions before. He had counted, tabulated, sorted and sniffed, clean ones and soiled too, every pair in the house --there must have been over two dozen-- and still for the past week he couldn't come up with any pattern she followed to put on which pair with which outfit.

Didn't a black dress with black hose and black shoes presuppose a black pair of panties? No, she'd wear green ones! 

Wouldn't white tennis shorts on a Sunday afternoon blend in perfectly white with panties underneath? Of course not, stupid! A shimmer of tiny red, circling, outlining, dipping into her highlighted attention-focused little ass was the preferred style!

So how could he ever guess what color she'd be wearing, or the logic behind it? 

Blue! he gushed once more and winced. For the look of disappointment was evident in her eyes, her mouth grimacing in disgust.

He groaned, and felt his still expectant penis weaken, falling more useless.

But they had to be blue! They were blue this morning (he had peeked as she dressed) when she pulled pink skirt, smiled at him, and departed for work!

But he knew they weren't... Who the hell knew what color they be? How many times did a woman change her panties in a day? Five? Six? 

What was a pair of panties anyway? A strip of colored cloth, two, three inches of elastic, stretchable material. You could squeeze one in your palm and clutch it all day, like a sacred talisman or holy amulet, a good luck charm, take it with you wherever you went, to business meetings, to restaurants, to 12-Step programs, and who would be the wiser?

They were practically invisible. He had never checked her purse, but he was certain if he had he'd find a few pains in there too, in between the makeup jars, the lipstick tubes, the eyebrow pencils, the bulging wallets and checkbooks, the subway tokens, the brushes, the sales coupons, the Tampons, the other panties...

Hell, the things were so tiny they could be shed and replaced in an instant! How convenient! Take them off on a hot summer's day. Step into a hallway, lower the damp sticky ones, powder the ass and cunt, and step into a nice cool fresh pair of dry ones...Voila!

That's what the fucking panties in the streets were all about! Everywhere you looked panties were lying the on the sidewalks, in the gutters, and top of garbage cans, draped over fences, stuck on poles, everywhere you turned some cunt bitch was unobtrusively tossing something invisible over her shoulder.

God damn it! Hot sweated cunts changing their wardrobes in the middle of the day in the middle on the street in the middle of the whole fucking city!

Of course, they weren't blue! Who could possibly know how many colors they had been that day? The fucking things changed by themselves every fucking minute of every day! Like magic! Nothing up the sleeve? Nothing around the cunt either!

She sighed, looked at him sadly, and shifted her weight on the sofa. He scowled and clutched his crotch. It had come to this, his failure of guessing correctly at least gave him the consolation of peeking under her skirt to verify his wrong assumption, the frustrating consolation of gaping up her long nyloned legs, of eyeing glimmer unattainable moist flesh, of staring in disbelief at whatever-colored panties clasped the bloated bulb of her unpossessable cunt...

It was always the same scenario: she sat cross-legged on the couch, he knelt before her, guessed at a color, watched her uncross her legs, peered under her skirt, and spasmed in his pants. 

Even if he had guessed correctly and been rewarded with his first fucking in a week he knew he couldn't have gotten it up for a second time. The anticipation, the fear, the anxiety probably brought on the force of his ejaculation as quickly and rapidly as did any abstinence or sexual stimulus of gaping under a female skirt. 

For a week he had creamed his failure at guessing correctly in his pants, and he was ready for another failed creaming right now. 

She uncrossed her legs, the rustling whoosh of brushing nylons tearing at his soul and groin, and slightly pulled up a corner of her skirt, raising one leg up on the couch.

He gaped at her bare crotch! 

You fucking bitch! he screamed. You stinking lying whore!

She smirked and shrugged.

It was almost a hundred degrees outside, she said.

You bitch! he cursed again and stared at her bare panty-less cunt. (When did she shave that? But then, when had he last seen it?)

It was hot, she shrugged, and smirked again. Unbearably hot.

He leaped off the floor. 

That's not fair! he screamed. You cheated!

This was certainly outside of the ground rules of their guessing game. This was cheating. He knew it, and so did she. They agreed there'd be no trickery of any kind, no arguing or bickering over color-shades or tints, blue would always be blue, and not seaside marine. Red was red, and not majestic scarlet. Purple would be purple, and not evening magenta. Pink pink, and not pussy blush, or whatever the cunt-clothes-catalogs she got in the mail called it. And if she wore tiger-stripes or colored spots of polka dots any color on the panty he guessed at was valid to take in the entire panty and he won. And got laid, too.

But pantyless? And hairless crotched? This was outside the rules. This was cheating, and it wasn't fair!

You cheated, you bitch! he cursed, and leaped on her. I'll give you panty pussy, you cunt, you whore!

She giggled as he unzipped his pants and was in between her legs, fast, and she didn't even resist, for she wanted him too, pulling him in her. Oh God, it had been a week without him too!

And he was in and out, in and out, back and forth, back and forth. Her ankles on his shoulders, her ass at his balls, his cursing mouth Bitch! Whore! Pussy! Cheater! spitting at her grunting yelping teeth and lips Oh God! Yes! Fuck me!

She screamed, he yelped, they came, and he collapsed atop her heaving chest, her legs falling down his arms but circling round his ass and waist and holding him in...

They gasped into each other's ear, they kissed. Perhaps the guessing game had gone on too long?

He gently stroked a breast: the bra cup under the blouse seemed stiff; was it new? Blue? He leered. Since the blouse was red, her fashion logic probably called for green...

He dared to ask, she smirked.

Guess, she teased.

He guessed; she frowned.

Guess again...

***