You’re in Nicole’s car again, driving toward your destination. The ‘good’ news is you’re making good time. The bad news is you can barely breathe in this thing she calls a dress. It’s way too short, and way too tight, but according to her, that’s a ‘killer’ combination.
You think you might agree with her, only the person who might end up dying here is you and not the men she thinks will be ogling you because of it.
You shift in your seat again, adjusting the dress you’re wearing for the hundredth time in an attempt to get somewhat comfortable, because that’s the most you can ask for. This dress was not made to be comfortable. That much is clear.
“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding all that underneath those baggy clothes of yours this whole time!” Nicole exclaims for the sixth time—or maybe it’s the seventh. You’re not sure anymore. You lost count after her initial reaction when you first put it on in her apartment.
She’d literally screamed, to the point where you were ready to reach for your phone and dial 911 because you thought something had gone horribly wrong. But then her overly dramatic squeal was followed by the exact words, “Holy shit, Ramona, you’ve got tits and ass for days!”
You didn’t know what to say to that. You still don’t. To say that you were bewildered by her reaction would be an understatement.
“Jesus, those guys are gonna be falling over themselves trying to impress you tonight,” she says, bringing you back to the present.
“Gee, why doesn’t that make me feel better?” you counter, making sure she hears every bit of the snarkiness in your tone.
You try to sound unbothered by her words, but renewed anxiety is making your heart do flip flops in your chest at the prospect of several men eyeing you the way a pack of wolves would a huge piece of meat. You can’t stop the shudder that escapes you at the thought.
“All you need to do now is get rid of those granny panties you have on,” she says nonchalantly, ignoring your remark.
“Ugh, for the last time, they’re not granny panties, Nicole,” you say, feeling exasperated from her continuous picking on your underwear. “They’re cotton briefs!” you explain, as if telling her that for the umpteenth time is going to make her change her stance on the matter.
“If they’re not lace thongs, they’re granny panties,” she says coolly. “And I can’t let you go in there wearing outdated granny panties. This is my reputation on the line, here. Besides,” she adds with a wicked smirk, “why would you wanna cover up an ass like that?”
“My God, you sound like a guy,” you say, sighing in surrender. You seriously give up! There’s no use arguing with her over it.
She makes a quick detour, pulling up at some sort of boutique.
“Sit tight. I won’t be long,” she says as she pops her door open.
“Wait, wh—” you begin, but she heads out and slams her door shut before you can get another word in. You watch her sashay into the fancy shop, swaying her hips almost provocatively before disappearing through the glass door.
You sigh again, leaning your head back on the headrest and resisting the urge to bang it several times against the firm leather cushion.
A few moments later, Nicole comes back, easing herself into the driver’s seat once more.
“Here,” she says, casually tossing a brand new red lace bra and its matching thong your way. You look at the pair of items incredulously, along with the attached price tag, and then you shoot her an even more disbelieving look.
“You can’t be serious,” you say, your eyebrows arched so high that, if you’re not careful, they may very well assume their new positions permanently.
“As a heart-attack,” is her simple response.
“Nicole, look at this!” you say with a hint of desperation in your voice, holding up the flimsy sheer fabric of the thong as if she didn’t just pick it out herself. “How the hell am I supposed to wear this? And why the hell does something so small cost this much?”
It’s so tiny that it’s barely even there. I mean, where the hell is the rest of it?! You might as well just go commando if this is what you’re supposed to be working with. Besides, you and thongs have never gotten along for a reason; they’re practically constant wedgies!
I mean, why the hell would anyone pay to get a frickin’ wedgie?!
You frown as you continue to regard the thong. “And even if I did agree to wear this, where I am supposed to change?”
“Well, right here, duh,” Nicole says, her tone still as nonchalant as ever.
You shoot her another incredulous look.
“What?” she says with her brow arched. “We’re both girls, here. Plus, I’ve already seen your goodies,” she adds with a grin. “Well…most of them, anyway.”
You feel your face burn at hearing her tease you like that. You know they’re just harmless words, but it’s still embarrassing.
You sigh in surrender once more, silently agreeing to take the plunge and just wear the damn things. You know she’s risking a lot for you with the Rainbow Service, and you don’t want her to feel like you’re being ungrateful.
You slide down the length of the seat, and the dress immediately rides up your thighs as you do, exposing more of your skin to the heated leather. You reach for the band of your panties under the dress and pull, avoiding any eye contact with Nicole as the briefs slide down your thighs and legs.
After quite a bit of fussing and uncomfortable body positioning while trying to remain discreet, you finally have the lecherous pair of lingerie on.
You stuff your other pair into your purse, and a part of you can’t believe you just changed your underwear right in front of Nicole—and in her car, no less.
You finally meet her eyes, and she still has that coy grin on her lips. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
You can only shake your head in resignation.
She starts the engine up again, fixing her wand-curled hair in the mirror before zipping onto the road again.
She maintains the grin plastered on her lips. “Now you’re ready for a party.”
***
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