Chapter 3: Panties and Pigtails


The door to Frank’s office was half-open when Terri arrived, but it was the raised voice inside that stopped her.

“—assure you, Mr. Calloway takes the legal exposure very seriously. Every child volunteer signs an extensive waiver. We’re just reporting what’s already out there.”

Terri leaned against the doorframe. Legal, a gaunt man in a suit that cost more than her monthly rent, brushed past without acknowledgment.

The air he left behind smelled of dry-cleaning fluid and disapproval.

Frank sagged into his chair. “Legal, always up my ass.” He spotted Terri and straightened, waving her in.

“Whatcha got? Something juicy, I hope.”
“Well—” Terri settled into the visitor’s chair. “Kind of. Interviewed the owner. Straightforward guy, claims everything’s legit. I won’t know for sure until tonight.”

“Really?” Frank’s eyebrows climbed.

“Full access to the dinner service tonight. Penny and I are invited to interview staff and volunteers, take photos, and even dine at the restaurant.”
The word dine felt strange in her mouth.

“That’s great. Knew I picked you for a reason.”

“I may need cash for dinner for two. No clue how much it’ll cost—failed to ask.”

Frank opened a drawer, produced a corporate credit card, and slid it across the desk. “Do me proud. We need those interviews.”

“On it, Chef.” The nickname slipped out before she could stop it.

Terri felt her cheeks warm.

She retreated to her desk in the bullpen. The fluorescent lights still hummed that same weary note.

A shadow fell over her keyboard. Carlos stood there, arms folded, a single sheet of printer paper clutched in his hand.

His smile was the kind a cat wears after catching something slow and helpless.

He dropped the paper on her desk. “You’ll want to see this.”

Terri read.

The printout was a wire article: a restaurant in Texas, an Children dining concept run by a British company, looks like they’re about to open another restaurant location in England.

The founders estate is dedicating the opening to his daughter, Sidney. The article quoted a volunteer from the Texas location —and the words blazed up from the page.
Another article is a twelve year old girl quotes regarding being roasted alive. “People think it’s about the pain. It’s not. It’s about being so completely irrelevant, so totally reduced, that your only purpose is to be consumed. When they truss me, ankles to thighs, and the chef brushes butter over my skin—that first cold shock, then the slow melt—I stop being Samantha. I become a thing. A dish. And that feeling of surrender, it’s the deepest freedom I’ve ever known. The oven door closes, the heat blooms against my bare skin, and I come so hard I forget my own name. That’s my fantasy, that is why I want to do it.”

Terri’s breath snagged somewhere in her throat. The ache between her legs, dormant since she’d dropped Penny off, woke with a slow, liquid pulse.

The dried slick on her panties had crusted against her inner thighs; now a fresh wave of heat dampened everything again, spreading, slicking flesh to flesh.

She looked up at Carlos, who was still waiting. “What do you want, a cookie?”

He flinched.

“Give it to Frank. He’ll give you a pat on the butt.” Terri’s voice came out brash, sharper than she’d intended. She softened it, just a little.

“I did. He told me to hand it to you.” Carlos’s mouth was a thin line.

“Okay. Thank you.” She set the paper aside.

He’s a real creep with the ladies. No telling what he does at home. She didn’t want to know.

The Texas piece would make a hell of a sidebar—a whole bio leading up to the England opening. But that would have to wait.

Terri’s immediate problem was the state of her underwear.

She pushed back from her desk and headed for the editor’s office.

“Chef, I’m heading out.” Frank was bent over a spreadsheet. A wave of his hand dismissed her without an upward glance.

She plucked the corporate card from her desk and left.

—

The apartment was quiet. Good. Terri poured a glass of white wine, not too much, just enough to loosen the knot between her shoulder blades.

The shower was scalding, the way she liked it. Steam filled the small bathroom.

She slid a hand between her legs and let the fantasy unspool.

Penny, bare except for those ridiculous large glasses, bent over Terri’s knee with her skirt flipped up over the curve of her ass.

Terri’s palm striking the pink cotton of her panties— thwack —and Penny’s gasp, half pain, half plea.

Terri fantasies deepen, she spread her open with two fingers, inspecting her, owning her. A single command: Don’t you dare come until I say so.

The way Penny’s eyes would go glassy, her whole body trembling on the edge of permission.

Terri’s orgasm built behind her clit, a sharp, focused pressure.

She circled the nub with three fingers, fast, rough, the way she couldn’t stand and couldn’t live without.

When it broke, her knees buckled against the shower tile, and a sound tore from her throat that was more sob than moan.

She stayed under the water until her legs steadied.

—

The closet was an orderly monument to control. Blazers in grayscale, silk blouses arranged by sleeve length, skirt suits hung with military precision. Terri stood dripping on the carpet, surveying her options. It all looked the same. Charcoal. Slate. Black with pinstripes. She chose the midnight-blue suit—still severe, still buttoned to the throat, but the cut of the skirt was an inch shorter than her usual. Small rebellions.

—

At 4:25, Terri’s sedan idled outside Penny’s dorm. She had to look twice.

The person approaching the car was wearing a little slutty schoolgirl outfit —crop top white blouse tied beneath the bust, a scrap of plaid that passed for a skirt, bobby socks with shiny Mary Janes, and sandy blonde hair twisted into two high pigtails.

Penny walked gingerly on the heels, all bare midriff and innocent smile, and when she ducked into the passenger seat, the hem of that skirt rode up so far Terri could see the crease where thigh met hip.

“What are you wearing?”

Penny looked at herself.
“What? It’s my clubbing outfit.”

“You go out in that?” Terri’s voice was flat.

“Yes. It turns people on. And not just the boys.”

“It makes you look five years younger.”

“Thank you!” Penny beamed.

“It’s called age play. March issue—age play for those with mommy and daddy issues.”

“I remember it. I wrote it.” Terri’s jaw tightened.

“Just be careful no one tries to gobble you up tonight.”

“Oh, eat me please.” Penny laughed, the sound bright and filthy.

“Enough. No sex talk.” Terri’s thighs pressed together. The fresh panties she’d put on after the shower were already damp.

“I’ve brought an extra pair of panties because of you.”

They checked the gear: camera, memory cards, extra batteries.

Terri steered the car conversation toward logistics—shots she needed, angles for the layout, the importance of capturing volunteers’ expressions rather than just bodies.

It worked. One thing Penny liked to talk about more than her own sexual needs was photography.

She had a great eye. Composition, lighting, the rule of thirds—the girl could talk aperture settings for twenty minutes straight, and Terri let her.

Anything to preserve the last dry pair of underwear in her satchel.

—

LeFem Delish at five o’clock was a different creature than the quiet afternoon kitchen.

Cars lined the lot.
Valets in black jogged between them.

Terri found a spot at the back of the lot and killed the engine.

“Busy,” Penny said, suddenly quiet.

They walked toward the entrance shoulder to shoulder. The tinted front door swung open for them, releasing bursts of warm, herb-scented air—a hostess, topless, her breasts bare except for a pattern of crosshatched grill marks seared into the pale skin. Pink. Fresh. The marks looked real.

The hostess smiled with professional detachment and said, “Welcome back,

Miss Penny. Miss Tart, Mr. Philip is expecting you.”

Terri’s gaze lingered on those breasts—the delicate blistering at the edges of the marks, the way the woman’s nipples had tightened in the early evening air but her expression remained placid, untouchable.

This is going to be some night, Terri thought.

Some night indeed…