We were all out drinking—me, Aaron, and his wife, Lydia. Nothing wild, just a typical night out. Aaron had a little too much, and when it was time to go, I offered to drive them home.
I pulled up to their place, expecting to say goodnight from the driveway, but Lydia lingered at the passenger side, her hand resting on the edge of the door.
“You're not going to come in for a nightcap?” she asked, her voice low, soft. “Just one more drink.”
I should’ve said no. But I didn’t.
Inside, Aaron barely made it to the couch before collapsing, face-first into the cushions. Lydia gave a quiet laugh and tugged a blanket over him, then disappeared into the kitchen.
“Whiskey okay?” she called out.
“Yeah, perfect,” I said, trying not to feel out of place in their living room.
She came back with two glasses and sat beside me on the couch. We talked for a minute—nothing deep. Just winding down from the night, letting the silence stretch in between words. Her knee barely touched mine. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it wasn’t.
Then she stood up and glanced down at me.
“Come here,” she said, her voice soft and steady. “I want to show you something.”
I followed her down the hall.
She stepped into the bedroom and flipped on the closet light, slipping inside like she was looking for something. I sat on the edge of the bed, still holding my drink, not sure what this was or what it was becoming.
Lydia stepped into view just enough for the light to fall across her. She was still in the overalls she’d worn all night. Without a word, she slid the straps off her shoulders, letting them fall. Then, slowly, she pushed the fabric down until the whole thing dropped to the floor around her ankles.
Underneath, she wore only a thin, cropped white shirt—and a pair of thong panties.
The shirt clung to her just enough to tease what was underneath, the outline of her breasts clearly visible in the soft closet light. The curve of her hips, the way the thong rested against her skin—it was all there, deliberate or not, impossible to ignore.
“Lydia…” I whispered again, but it didn’t stop her.
She didn’t speak. She just stood there, watching me.
Then, with the same calm, steady grace, her fingers moved to the straps of her crop top.
She slid them off her shoulders—one side, then the other—just like she had with the overalls. Then slowly, she peeled the shirt down her body, revealing her breasts. She let it fall to the floor without a word.
Now she stood in front of me in nothing but her thong panties.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Everything inside me screamed to get up, to say something, to stop this before the line got any thinner. But I just sat there, frozen, staring, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked quietly.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t have the words. I didn’t even know what the right words would be. I was thinking, "What about Aaron?" But I didn't say it.
Lydia took a single step forward. Her eyes never left mine.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Because she looked like that.
Because I didn’t know how to stop her.
And because deep down, part of me didn’t want her to.
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