You’re trailing a half-step behind June, your best friend since freshman year, while she weaves through the weekend crowd with a purpose you don’t share.
You’re just along for the ride, for the coffee afterwards, for the easy silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
Then she stops. The familiar black-and-pink stripes of the Victoria’s Secret storefront glow beside you.
“Ooh,” she says, her voice a quiet note of interest. “I need to pop in.”
You feel the immediate, instinctual retreat. “I’ll, uh, wait out here. Text me when you’re done.”
She turns, her smile already in place. It’s not a question. It’s a soft, amused dismissal of the very idea.
“Don’t be silly,” she says, and her hand finds your forearm, her fingers cool and firm. “Come keep me company.”
Her gentle pressure on your arm pulls you forward, through the threshold, into the cloud of vanilla and rose that hangs in the air.
The store is a cathedral of lace and silk, of soft lights and softer colors. You feel oversized, clumsy, a lumbering creature in a world of delicate things.
June doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort. Or rather, she notices and finds it charming.
She releases your arm and drifts toward a table piled high with folded fabric.
“Chris’s birthday is next week,” she says, almost to herself. She picks up a pair of panties, holding them by the waistband. They’re a deep emerald green, a sheer lace panel in front. “What do you think of this color on me?”
You swallow. “It’s, um. Green. It’s nice.”
“Hmm.” She sets them down and picks up another pair, a pale pink with a tiny satin bow at the front.
“Or this? More innocent.” She holds them up against her jeans, tilting her head. Her expression is one of genuine, calm consideration.
“He likes innocent. Makes him feel like he’s corrupting me.” She glances at you, her eyes catching the light. “Which one do you think he’d like to pull down before he fucks me?”
The question lands in your stomach like a warm stone. It’s so casual, so matter-of-fact.
She’s asking for your opinion on which underwear her boyfriend would most enjoy removing. Your mouth is dry. “I don’t… I’m not Chris.”
“No, you’re not,” she agrees, her smile widening just a fraction. “But you’re a boy. Sort of.” The tease is delivered with such warmth it feels like a caress. “Come on. Help a girl out. This one?” The green again.
“It’s… sophisticated,” you manage.
“Sweet,” she repeats, nodding. She places the pink pair in your hand. “Feel that. The satin.”
You have no choice. Your fingers close around the delicate fabric. It’s impossibly soft, cool and slick. You can feel the tiny ridges of the lace trim. You are holding a pair of women’s panties in the middle of a crowded store, and June is watching you hold them.
“See?” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Nice, right?”
You nod, unable to speak. A low, boiling heat is beginning to pool in your groin. You try to will it away, but the sensation is insistent, a physical truth your cock is insisting on.
June’s eyes drop, just for a second, to the front of your jeans. Then they meet yours again. There’s no shock, no mockery. Just a quiet, pleased observation. “You like that, don’t you, bestie?”
It’s not a question. It’s a diagnosis.
She takes the pink panties from your slack hand and replaces them with a black pair, a cheeky cut with a lace waistband.
“These are my favorite cut. Comfortable. Pretty.” She guides your hand, letting the fabric brush against your palm. “You’re getting hard just thinking about it.”
You are. You absolutely are. The bulge in your jeans is becoming undeniable, a tight, aching pressure against the denim. Shame floods you, hot and prickling up your neck.
June sees that too. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, still holding the black panties.
“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s just your penis telling the truth.” She leans in a little closer. “You know, Chris is coming over tonight. I’ll probably wear these. He’ll push me up against the door and bend me over before we even get to the bedroom. He loves this lace.”
She pauses, her gaze steady on yours. “You’ll be at home, won’t you? Probably thinking about it. Jerking off in your boring boxers.”
You can only stare at her, caught in the vivid image she’s painting. Your apartment, your hand, the thought of her and Chris…
“Seems a little sad,” she continues, her tone thoughtful, almost compassionate.
“You, all alone with just your hand, while he’s getting to touch the real thing.”
She plucks the black panties from your grip. “Maybe you should have your own pair. Something to match. Something to feel while you’re thinking about us.”
The world tilts. “My… my own?”
“Of course,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “It’s only fair. And it’ll feel better than cotton, I promise.” She turns, scanning the store. “We’ll need help with sizing.”
She doesn’t wait for your answer. She lifts a hand, catching the attention of a sales associate—a woman in her forties with a sleek blonde bob and a measuring tape draped around her neck. She glides over with a professional smile.
“Hi there! Finding everything okay?”
“We need some help,” June says, her voice bright and normal. “My friend here needs his first pair of panties. We’re thinking something in this style,” she holds up the black lace cheeky, “but we’re not sure about the size. He’s never worn anything like this before.”
The clerk—her name tag says MARIE—doesn’t blink. Her eyes flick to you, taking in your height, your build, the obvious flush on your face.
Her smile doesn’t waver; it softens into something knowing and kind. “Of course. Let’s get you sorted. We want a comfortable fit. Not too tight, but snug enough to feel… secure.”
She says the last word with a gentle emphasis that makes your stomach flip.
“He’s only got a little guy,” June offers, patting your backside familiarly. “So not too much room.”
Marie nods. “The cheeky cut is good, or maybe a boyshort for his first time. More familiar.” She looks at you directly. “What are you wearing now, honey? Boxer briefs? Loose boxers?”
“Okay, so we’ll want something that feels like a change, but not a shock.”
She turns back to the table, her fingers flying through the piles with expert efficiency. She pulls out three pairs: the black cheeky, a navy blue boyshort in a soft modal fabric, and a pair in a light grey with a tiny polka dot pattern.
“These are all in our ‘comfort’ fabrics. Nice and stretchy. Let’s get you into a fitting room and we can see what works.”
It’s happening too fast. You’re being decided for. June has taken the three pairs from Marie, and Marie is gesturing toward the back of the store. “Right this way.”
You’re led, a silent prisoner between two women, past racks of bras and displays of lotions, to the fitting room hallway. The curtains are mostly closed, but you hear the murmur of other women, the rustle of clothing.
Marie pulls open a curtain to a large, well-lit room. “In you go, sweetheart. Try these on. We’ll be right outside to check the fit.”
June gives you a little push. “Go on. We’ll wait.”
The curtain swishes closed behind you. You’re alone in a pink-lit room with a full-length mirror. You stare at your reflection—a tall, flustered man holding three pairs of women’s panties. Your erection is still tenting your jeans painfully.
You don’t know how long you stand there. Then June’s voice comes through the curtain, calm and expectant. “How are we doing in there?”
The curtain parts before you can say more. Both women step inside. The room suddenly feels very small.
“You haven’t even started,” June chides gently. She takes the grey polka dot pair from you. “Let’s start with these. They’re cute. Off with the jeans.”
It’s not a request. Marie stands by the curtain, her arms folded, a benign, encouraging look on her face. There is no escape.
Your fingers fumble with your button, your zipper. You push your jeans and your boxers down in one clumsy motion, kicking them into a pile at your feet.
You stand there, naked from the waist down, your cock standing stiff and exposed.
Neither woman looks away. June’s gaze is clinical, interested. Marie’s is professional, assessing.
“See,” June says to Marie, “I told you he was excited.”
“Quite,” Marie agrees. She steps forward. “Okay, step into them, honey. One foot at a time.”
You obey, lifting a foot as June holds the panties open. The soft fabric glides up your legs. You step into the other side, and together they pull them up to your waist.
The sensation is alien—a tight, smooth hug around your hips and rear, a gentle, snug fit cradling your erection. The grey fabric is dotted with tiny white dots. You look in the mirror.
You look absurd. You look… transformed.
“Oh, those are adorable,” June breathes. She adjusts the waistband, her fingers brushing your skin. “Turn around, let Marie see the back.”
You turn. The cheeky cut leaves the lower halves of your buttocks bare.
“Perfect fit,” Marie declares. “No bunching. Very cute. But let’s try the boyshort. Gives a different look.”
“Mmm, very nice,” June murmurs. She’s standing close behind you, looking over your shoulder at your reflection. Her breath is warm on your ear. “You look so sweet in these. Like a good boy.”
The words go straight to your cock, which twitches visibly in the tight blue fabric.
A voice comes from outside the curtain. “Everything okay in there, Marie? Need a second opinion?”
Marie pulls the curtain open a little wider. A woman in her thirties, holding a bralette, peers in. Her eyes widen for a second, then crinkle with a smile. “Well, hello. New customer?”
“Just getting him fitted,” Marie says smoothly.
The woman doesn’t leave. She looks you up and down, her gaze thoughtful. “The blue is good. Classic. But the black ones will be sexier. More of a statement.” She winks at you. “You’re rocking it, hon.”
Another face appears beside hers, younger, with bright red hair. “Oh my god, those polka dots are so cute on him! They’re cheeky, right? That’s the style I always get.”
You are now the center of a small, smiling crowd of women clustered at the fitting room entrance. Four, maybe five of them.
They’re all looking at you in your panties, commenting, evaluating, their tones warm and approving.
“He’s blushing!” the redhead giggles.
“It’s charming,” June says, her hand resting on the small of your back. “He’s being very brave.”
“Let’s see the black ones,” the first woman suggests.
Marie has them ready. The black lace cheeky panties replace the blue. This is the pair June held first, the pair she said Chris loved.
The lace is delicate against your skin, the waistband a thin, elastic ribbon. Your erection juts out sharply, the head dark and visible through the sheer front panel.
A collective, soft sigh of appreciation comes from the doorway.
“Oh, yes,” Marie says, her voice hushed. “That’s the one.”
June is looking at you in the mirror, her eyes dark. “You see? You see how good that looks?” Her hand slides from your back to your hip, holding you there. “That’s your pair, bestie. That’s what you’ll wear.”
You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. The attention, the warmth, the sheer certainty of these women—it’s a feedback loop of arousal.
Your balls feel tight, heavy. A droplet of precum beads at your tip, darkening the black lace.
Marie sees it. She makes a soft tsk sound. “We need to adjust the front a little,” she says, her voice practical. “The lace is catching.”
She steps in front of you, her fingers deftly touching the fabric where it strains over your head. She tugs it gently, smoothing it. Her thumb, accidentally or not, brushes directly over your the head of your cock.
You jerk, a gasp escaping you.
“Shhh,” she soothes. She doesn’t move her hand away. Instead, she cups you through the lace, her palm applying a firm, steady pressure.
“It’s okay. We just want them to fit perfectly.” Her hand begins to move, a slow, rhythmic rub through the thin fabric. Her eyes are on yours, calm and encouraging. “Just relax. Let me get the fit right.”
It’s a lie. It’s the most transparent, beautiful lie in the world. She is not adjusting anything.
She is stroking you, in a Victoria’s Secret fitting room, with an audience of women, while your best friend watches with a pleased, possessive smile.
June’s lips are at your ear again. “That’s it,” she whispers. “Let her help you. You’ve been so brave. Just be good boy.”
The friction is exquisite. The lace, her skilled hand, the utter impossibility of the moment—it shatters your last shred of control.
Your hips buck involuntarily into her palm. A low, choked sound tears from your throat.
“There he goes,” someone at the door murmurs kindly.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave, blinding and total. You convulse, your back arching, as pulse after pulse of hot release spills into the black lace panties.
Marie’s hand works you through it, milking every last drop, until you’re sagging, trembling, supported only by June’s arm around your waist.
The room is quiet for a moment, save for your ragged breathing. The air smells of sex and vanilla.
Marie slowly removes her hand. The front of the black panties is soaked, a warm, sticky patch clinging to your skin.
She examines her work with a critical eye. “A perfect fit,” she pronounces, her smile genuine. “They’ll need a rinse, of course, but they’re yours now.”
June kisses your sweaty temple. “Good boy.” She looks at Marie. “We’ll take this pair. And a matching pair for me.”
“Of course.” Marie gathers the other two pairs. She picks up your discarded jeans and, from the pile, your boxers.
She holds the plain cotton boxers between two fingers, as if examining a used tissue. “And these?”
“Throw them away,” June says, her voice final. “He doesn’t need them anymore.”
Marie nods and disappears with them, leaving you standing there, spent and exposed in your cum-filled panties.
The women at the door are drifting away now, back to their own shopping, throwing you last smiles and nods of congratulations.
June helps you pull your jeans back on over the damp, clinging lace. The sensation is intensely intimate, a secret you’re carrying out into the world. She zips you up, buttons you, her movements tender.
A few minutes later, you’re at the register. Marie hands June a small, discreet pink bag.
“The matching pair is inside. And he’s wearing the other.” She winks at you. “Come back anytime, honey.”
June takes your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. “Ready?”
You are. You follow her out of the store, the bag swinging from her free hand, the warm, wet lace a constant, thrilling reminder against your skin.
The sun is still shining. The mall crowd still flows around you. Nothing has changed, and everything has.
She squeezes your arm. “That was fun, wasn’t it? Now you have your own pretty panties to match mine. You can wear them whenever you want. Whenever you’re thinking about me and Chris.”
She says it like it’s a gift. And it is. She’s given you a new truth about yourself. A new uniform. A new way to be her bestie.
You walk through the mall, her arm in yours, the panties snug against your skin. You feel exposed. You feel seen. You feel chosen.
This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a best friend, his observant bestie, a Victoria’s Secret fitting room, and the beginning of his life in lace.
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