Abby Winters

Natasha M.

HNT

Remains of a spontaneous summer night: depleted condoms, shredded panties, leftover limes, empty tonic and one-third of the feet implicated.

Abby Winters

Annabella

Abby Winters

Corelle

Abby Winters

Natasha M.

Abby Winters

Freya

Abby Winters

Cordelia

HNT

Panties!

Abby Winters

Erinn

Abby Winters

Kate S.

For Broke

I looked into her eyes as my fingers traveled up her leg. I caressed slowly; she spread her thighs slightly as my hand vanished under her gingham dress.

I had changed my mind about sex with her that night.

I’m perfectly happy to have sex on a first date. As my finger slipped inside her panties, it was clear she didn’t object either.

Even so, I hoped I wasn’t making a mistake. Leah was smart and beautiful, and I liked her. I was fortunate to have met her. So as much as I might enjoy sex with her that night, I didn’t want to risk leaving her with “slut remorse,” that morning-after realization that maybe you went too fast too soon. If she had regrets, Leah might not want to see me again. I would have much preferred postponing immediate gratification if having sex meant sacrificing the opportunity to get to know her better.

Mind you, gratification was an immediate opportunity.

“Let me see what’s going on under this dress,” I said, raising her hem. “Oh look, you wore very pretty panties.”

“You have good tastes,” she smiled.

“I do, I really like them.” I slipped a second finger into the crotch of her panties and rubbed the fabric against my thumb. “Very sheer, but sturdy. Quality goods.”

“A girl’s got to know how to shop,” she nodded.

“I can imagine,” I agreed, feeling the texture of lace on my fingers, and wet flesh on my knuckles. “Me, I’ve never been much of a shopper, though I do appreciate quality merchandise. Do you mind if I take a closer look at these?”

“Be my guest,” she invited, waving a hand.

“Oh, thanks.” I retrieved my fingers and ran my hand to her hips. She lifted herself, turning slightly as I slid the panties down her legs. “These are very fine, aren’t they?” I asked as the panties cleared her knees. She held her ankles aloft. “Where did you find something so fine?”

“Hmm, I think those came from La Perla,” she mused, watching as her panties made their way down her legs. “La Perla or someplace.”

“Don’t know that establishment,” I said, weaving her panties passed her arched feet. “See what I mean? I’m no kind of shopper.”

“I’d be very surprised if you shopped there.”

“Kinda girly, huh?” I said. My voice trailed as I held the panties in my hand, looking them over. “Such delicate seams . . . ,” I admired.

“You seem to have a thing for ladies undergarments,” she observed.

I lifted the panties to my nose. I inhaled deeply, and exhaled.

“Nah,” I grinned, tossing the panties aside. “They are nothing to me. Merely an obstacle to be overcome.”

She laughed.

My fingers ran up her calves and thighs to her dress. I lifted it again and gazed down at her bare pussy. The edge of a tattoo appeared under her gingham dress.

Without another word, I took her cunt in my mouth.

As my tongue parted her flesh, I realized we had yet to touch lips. This was our first kiss.

I vibrated my tongue on her clit, listening for her sigh. She breathed it out in staccato cries.

I sat back on my heels as her breathing slowed.

“Incredible,” I murmured, fingering her labia. “Even your pussy is composed.”

She opened her eyes and looked down. “Huh?”

“Look.” I tugged two small flaps from her labia. “See? It’s like two petals . . . and they are symmetrical.” I pushed the folds back against her skin. The folds slowly retracted back into her. “No, babies,” I whispered. I licked my fingers and wet her petals. I tugged them back into place, tacking them against skin. They stayed put.

“Hmmm.”

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” she said, settling back.

“Very much,” I smiled.

“Quality merchandise?”

I nodded. “Quality merchandise.” I stood and held out my hand. “In fact, let’s go back to the dressing room. I want to try you on for size.”

She sat up. She took my hand. She made a joke about an “undressing” room.

I kissed her quiet.

I fucked her so well that night.

I pinned her legs back and pounded her cunt. I bent her over and fucked her ass hard. I grabbed her hair and used her mouth as my fuck hole.

Leah went limp with submission. She moaned and twisted before giving herself over as my rag doll. I threw her all over my bed. I gave no concern to the time; now that she was mine, she was mine to do as I pleased. I wanted to savor her. She could catch up on her sleep at work the next day.

I had to have her, and all of her.

Now that we were fucking, there was no turning back. I may have squandered my chance for a second date by having sex on the first. If she felt slut remorse in the morning, I needed to make the most of this one opportunity with Leah that might never come again.

I went for broke.

The next morning, I woke to find Leah looking at me. I felt her hand on my cock.

“I’m sorry,” she shrugged sheepishly. “You were hard, and I just thought . . .”

I grinned and reached for a condom.

I noticed Leah's gingham dress draped carefully over a chair.

Ron Harris

Annabelle

Abby Winters

Pool Girls

I’ve lately been perusing the catalog of Abby Winters, as you may have noticed from all the pictures recently popping up here. Winters is a photographer based in Australia who—along with other photographers in her network—focuses on young amateur models, with an emphasis on capturing real people in casual environments.

Now, I’ve got nothing against professional models—they need loving too, you know—but there’s something to Winters’s approach with amateurs that I find enormously appealing. She’s not after a perfect type. Hair is mussed and freckles are not retouched. Awkward poses abound. You can imagine the models cringing at times, asserting, “You can’t use that one! I look ridiculous when I laugh.”

Rather, Winters goes for moments when people are people—as in the photo above, which just happens to feature my girlfriend Marla Jo in the center. Hi, Marla!

This gives her photography a certain intimacy, as when she captures two women together.



Fallon and Naomi E.

Each model is described with biographies, including handwritten autobiographies, which flesh out the person whose flesh you are oogling. They are often presented in relaxed “as you are” situations, as in this image of Axelle.



Axelle

Axelle is certainly cute in her panties and piercings. But more, there’s something so endearing about the fact that she really needs to vacuum her room—or is that just me? (Axelle, please write. You need me to take care of you, honey.)

For those who care about such things, Winters takes care not to exploit her models. If for any reason a model decides that being naked for the world was not the right decision, she is removed from the catalogue and people who have posted her image (people like me, for example) are contacted and asked to do likewise.

For this reason and others, Winters is very selective about where her photographs are permitted to be displayed. I’m glad she allows me to post them here for you.

Take her tour and get to know her work. Set aside some time, as there's so much on her site. And remember, if you subscribe through the links provided here, you support One Life, Take Two.

Enjoy!

Hegre

Keity

Fleshbot and Edges

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot eavesdrops on the true confessions and shocking secrets revealed in blogs whose names promise . . . well, confessions and secrets.

Speaking of confessions, I have a secret of my own.

I have been skirting close to a dangerous edge. I face risky consequences due to a filthy, inexcusable blind spot that I could readily diminish, and yet I fail to do so.

The edifice of my life could come tumbling down—and all because of underwear.

See, I hate to do laundry.

Mind you, I do keep up with essential items. The towels are always fresh, washcloths are always available for post-coital birdbaths, and the sex sheets are washed after every use.

I take special pride in the latter: it doesn’t matter whether the sex sheets were used for a spontaneous threesome or an all-hours splatter-fest orgy. They are always promptly washed, folded and put away, ready for next time.

When it comes to laundry, it’s the clothing that gets me down.

My own laundry isn’t much trouble. Being an apartment nudist, I don’t really wear clothes when home alone—at most, I wear pajama bottoms, maybe a t-shirt—so my clothing can survive many brief outings without much wear.

This is not true of my children. For the boys, no day is complete without tossing off clothes at least once. My daughter Lillie has more costume changes than Cher.

This distinction in my laundry came home to me about a month after school started, when Jason complained that he was out of underwear.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Did you look in the back of your drawer?”

“Dad . . . ,” he said. He opened a closet. The children’s hamper was overflowing. My son stood next to a pile of laundry nearly as tall as himself.

“Oh my gosh,” I exclaimed. “How did this happen?”

“Uh, Dad,” Jason rolled his eyes. “We wear clothes. You wash clothes. We wear clothes again. It’s called ‘laundry.’ Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

I looked at him. It was early October. I realized that I had not tackled laundry since June.

This was bad, but not as bad as it sounds.

In June, I had washed everything, putting away school clothes and packing to take the kids to visit my family Down South. Until mid-July, they lived in swimsuits that my grandmother secretly washed when she woke before dawn.

When we returned to the city, the kids went off with their mother, and I wore clothes only when demanded by the requirements of work, errands and travel. At home, I was nude, whether alone or . . . entertaining.

The summer passed. I washed the kids’ shorts when they were with me, and the towels and sheets as needed. They worked their way through a seemingly endless supply of tank tops and t-shirts, casting the dirty ones into a nearly vacant hamper.

When school resumed, the hamper began to swell. It might have grown until Thanksgiving if Jason hadn’t developed an adolescent’s interest in daily changes of underwear.

Bitch can’t go commando, I muttered, lifting armful after armful into my cart.

Collie and Lillie were excited to help me with the laundry, exhilarated by the sheer novelty of visiting the laundromat.

They loaded the washers and added soap. I dropped thirty dollars into the machines.

We finally emptied dryers into carts and began folding. I have never cared for folding clothes. I like it less now that the children help. As I fold, I have to keep them supplied in clothes that they can also fold—clothes that I must later fold again, without the children noticing that I’m undoing their work.

My children are beautiful geniuses, but they are lousy laundresses.

Collie dug for socks, as he specializes in matching pairs. He looked up. “Hey Dad, what’s this?”

I looked over. He held something bright red. It was too small to be a tank top.

Thong.

“Oh, let me have those,” I said, reaching out a hand. Collie handed over his red palm. I stuffed the thong into a pocket and returned to folding shirts.

“Uh, Dad, what was that?” Lillie asked.

“Nothing,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t blushing. “Just some . . . see, I had visitors this summer. I guess someone forget her . . . their underwear.”

“Ew, that was underwear?” Collie scowled. He wiped his hands on his pants.

“Girls’ underwear?” Lillie laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, you know, whatever,” I said.

We folded.

“Dad?” Lillie asked. “Why do you have so many girlfriends?”

“Dad doesn’t have ‘girlfriends,’” Collie corrected. “Dad has ‘friends who are girls.’”

“All of Dad’s friends are girls,” Lillie said.

“I work with a lot of women,” I said, looking for shreds of plausible deniability among the pants in the cart. “And some of them are my friends. So, yeah, ‘friends who are girls.’”

“See?” Collie said.

“I know!” Lillie replied. “Duh.”

“Okay, okay, let’s fold clothes. Collie, take those other socks. Lillie, you’re in charge of your shorts.”

“Duh, they’re mine.”

That evening, the kids’ cabinets and drawers were packed full of clothes. Jason acted like it was Christmas morning.

Later, I told this story to Mitzi. “You put the panties in your pocket?” she laughed. “That’s practically an admission of guilt!”

“I know, I wasn’t thinking.” I shrugged. “Just reacting.”

“Well, if you’re lucky, they will think the panties belong to you.”

I looked up. “I hadn’t thought of that.”