FRENCH-CUT PANTIES, an erotic thriller, is the first in a series. Publication date to be announced.
Regina Caldwell—young, horny, and gorgeous—wants out of her small town so bad she’s willing to do just about anything to afford college tuition and that includes robbing jewelry stores. Her plan works perfectly until she meets an anti-terrorist operative who changes her life in a startling way. Does she accept his offer to join the organization? Can she save a major city from obliteration? Will she ever overcome her sexually depraved mind?
FRENCH-CUT PANTIES, a page-turner filled with twists and sizzling sex, will keep you up in more ways than one!
a novel by Manhattan Minx
I suppose something about myself is in order. I’m 5′ 9″, freshly graduated from high school, and my breasts are so large they constantly threaten to escape my blouse. My stomach is hard from my daily regimen of crunches and my legs are slender and gorgeous, if I do say so myself. My name is Regina Caldwell and I am normal in every way, save for . . . well . . . all in good time.
Although my parents believe otherwise, my sexual depravity started before I diddled myself with my father’s nine iron. What they don’t understand is the filthiness that reeks from the depths of my soul began a week earlier, precisely two days after I robbed my third jewelry store.
That was the Sunday I got up early and went to morning Mass to watch the young priest play the piano. Father Darius had gorgeous black hair, even more gorgeous brown eyes, a jaw that belonged in the movies, yet my gaze locked on his fingers. Long and nimble, they danced over the keys, stroking here and there, almost playful in their synchronized symphony. As the music darted, flitted, soared through the sanctuary, I felt the notes touch me, a caress that wrapped me in its embrace and left me tingling inside.
Closing my eyes, I fantasized I was his instrument and those sensual fingers darted across my pussy, an image that left me with a throbbing clit and soaked panties. A flush warmed my cheeks, the blush of my embarrassment, yet I couldn’t force my mind in a different direction. For the first time in my young life, I felt my sexual inhibitions fall away—almost as though his beautiful notes had unfettered me one button at a time—an undressing that had, at long last, revealed my core. I marveled at the pureness of my feelings, the clarity of my thinking, and had only one thought.
I was a very horny young lady.
The following day I wore a skimpy dress to confession and made sure Father Darius saw my legs before I entered the cubicle. Dressed in a white shirt and black pants, there was nothing sexy about what he was wearing, but his fingers, those gorgeous digits, were in plain view. I sat my bottom on the hard little seat, tugged at my thong so it quit riding up my pussy, and we got the standard stuff out of the way—Bless me Father for I have sinned and all that crap—then I told him I had a secret. His voice seemed exceptionally small, and I made a mental note to suggest he work on his projection.
“I’ve always wanted to have sex with a horse,” I said.
I didn’t want to screw a horse, only threw that out there to shake him up.
“There’s something about long penises that get me excited.” I smiled at the sound of his zipper on its way down. His voice came, raspy and quick.
“My Daughter, you really should think other thoughts when—”
“These seats are hard, Father Darius. They hurt my pussy bone if we’re being totally honest with each other.”
Silence, then the sound of sliding fingers on his prick, least that’s what I thought I heard coming out of the rectangular window between our common wall.
“I’m sorry about the seats,” he said. “I don’t know why we insist on hurting ourselves during confession.”
I scooched my dress up my legs and probed my pussy. “I’m scared to tell you what I really want. I know it will send me straight to purgatory but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
A gurgle and more sound of flesh rubbing flesh.
“What’s that?” I said. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Ummm . . . it’s probably best, you know, to get these things out in the open. Kick them around, so to speak. God forgives us for our sins. It’s the greatest gift in the world.”
I brought my finger to my nose and sniffed my pussy juice, then hooked my nails into the screen. Wondered if he smelled me.
“See,” I said. “This is the deal. I spend my nights thinking about Jesus’ penis, and I think it must have been perfect in every way.”
“Nine inches long,” I said. “Thick as a rolling pin, never goes soft, a Marilyn Monroe mole halfway up, that’s my vision of perfection. . . . What I’m saying is I want to pop Jesus’ cherry and wonder if you can arrange that for me.”
No words, just a faster and faster rhythm in the adjacent room. I had him right where I wanted him, and it was time to catch him in the act. I slipped out of my cubicle, careful not to make a sound, yanked on the adjacent knob and opened his door. Father Darius swiveled my way with a startled look. I stared downward and frowned at the coat over his lap, watched him pull up a pant leg and scratch his calf.
“Poison ivy,” he said. “I must have contacted it when I was weed-eating my yard.”
I blushed and ran down the hall, rounded the corner and paused. There was no way he was scratching a rash, absolutely no way. Retracing my steps, I tiptoed to the cubicle and heard the same thing as before, along with a barely audible “fuck me.”
I flung the door open and yanked his coat off his lap. He slumped against the corner and stared at his erection, as loathsome a gaze as I have ever seen. I knelt and took him in my mouth, and he slid his hand under my dress. His fingers massaged my pussy and I shivered a moan, a sigh, a barely audible groan. I loved the feel of his skin on mine.
“Jesus,” I said.
“I want you to fill me with your perfect cum.”
I sat on his prick and humped him so hard I held onto his legs to keep my balance. He sucked my flesh and jammed his prick deep into my slippery heat. We went at it for I don’t know how long, then the priest got off so violently the back of his head banged the wall. My climax started with a stutter and built until my body jerked to its animal rhythms. I sank all the way down, bottoms of my thighs on the tops of his—wondered if this is how Virgin Mary felt when she fucked Joseph—then came all over the priest’s holy prick.
Father Darius shoved me away and brought his legs to his chest. His look, one of regret and sorrow, was so pathetic it made me see how things really were. There was nothing holy about this joining. This was carnality, pure and simple, and that thought made me sick inside.
My hook up with Father Darius changed me in ways I couldn’t possibly imagine. The first clue that something was different came five days later, during a date with my boyfriend.
Brian arrived at seven o’clock that Friday night. I invited him into the living room and tried to ignore my mother, who stretched out on the couch and sipped her ever present cocktail. She preferred martinis, two olives, shaken, not stirred.
“Your father wants you back by 11:00,” she said.
My mother, who had turned thirty-four this year, had stopped watching her weight and had the beginnings of a double chin. She’d quit putting on makeup and wore the same gray dress day after day. I hated that dress, thought the color was beyond ugly, and I hated her and her frowzy hair. Most of all I hated how she invoked my father’s name to enforce her rules. I wished she’d come out and say that she was setting a curfew.
I guess I should have been less harsh on her. She was concerned about me and told stories about girls who wound up pregnant and couldn’t follow their dreams. I had not told her I was on the pill and didn’t plan on it. Let her worry. That’s why mothers were put on this earth.
Brian whispered in my ear.
“I want to try something different tonight.”
I raised on my tiptoes and whispered back. “My pussy is already wet.”
“Remember what your father said,” my mother intoned. “11:00, no later.”
Brian and I walked outside, down the sidewalk to his red Civic parked in the drive. My boyfriend slid behind the wheel, me in the passenger seat, and he drove through the neighborhood. He turned onto Molson Avenue, and we rode past a weedy lot that contained four rusted cars. The windshields had been broken out, thanks to kids with rocks and nothing to do, and the vinyl seats were so sun-beaten they had lost their colors long ago.
Behind the cars, the town water tank rose into air on four rusted legs, a hulking behemoth that had once proudly announced Hallsville, Pennsylvania. The letters were faded, ghosts of their former selves, and the paint that remained clung to the metal like determined scabs.
On the sidewalk, a woman who grimly pushed a cart filled with canned goods kept her head down as we drove past. Her shoulders were slumped, her movements mechanical, and I resisted the urge to scream at her, to say something, anything that might make her forget her desperation and loneliness.
“I hate this place,” I said.
“It’s not that bad.”
Brian was one of the few kids who didn’t fantasize about leaving Hallsville. He was happy here, planned to return and build a house once he graduated from college.
“People don’t even mow anymore,” I said, as we passed yard after scraggly yard. “It’s like they don’t care about anything.”
We rode past the town pool, or what was left of it, and I gazed at the concrete cavity that had once held water and splashing children on summer afternoons. The town had cut back on all services—even the library was shut down—and what remained was as bleak and forlorn as a nuclear landscape.
The city limits came into view, marked by a weather beaten sign, and I willed the car forward, wanted Brian to stomp the accelerator to hasten our exit. He proceeded at the same slow pace, and it took forever to put the town in the rear view. The act of simply crossing that line, an almost infinitesimal change in geographic location, was always a relief for me. My mood changed and I slid my dress up my thigh, stopped an inch short of exposing my panties.
“I want to suck your cock,” I said.
My boyfriend frowned and cut his eyes toward me.
“What’s gotten into you?”
How could I tell him it was a young priest’s prick?
“While I finger your balls,” I said, ignoring the deepening ridges on his forehead.
I grinned. “I want to suck your cock while I finger your balls.”
“Balls? Cock? What’s with the language?”
“You don’t like it?” I said.
“I guess I’m a little shocked.”
“I thought you wanted to try something different.”
Brian shifted into fifth and merged the Civic with traffic on the interstate. In an adjacent field, spotlights lit up a Sonny’s Barbecue billboard, which is the restaurant where we ate when we went out.
“I was talking about driving up to Harrisburg to Red Lobster,” he said.
I lowered my chin and studied my shoes like they were the most interesting pair of high heels in the world. Brian had told me he wanted to try something different, and my depraved mind had interpreted his desire as sexual in nature. Chagrin came over me, along with a disappointment that I hid behind a bubbly voice.
“Red Lobster is a great idea,” I said. “Good call.”
Brian was one of the hottest guys around, and last semester our graduating class had voted him Best Hair of the Year award. Blond and wavy, his locks fell over his forehead and stopped just above his eyes, a brooding, almost shy look that I’d hoped held a promise of a little spice in the bedroom. We’d been together exactly once, a liaison in the backseat of his mother’s Plymouth, an uncomfortable experience because my head was squished against the door. He’d groped my breasts, sucked my earlobe, stuck in his prick and gotten off almost all in the same motion, a hookup that was over before it started.
Swallowing a sigh, I slid my dress hem toward my knees and for the next half hour receded into myself and didn’t say much. Mostly I stared out the window and wondered how to get out of this relationship.
“Why do you keep looking over there?” Brian said.
He swiveled toward the corner of the restaurant, where a couple sat at a square table and dipped crab legs in melted butter. They were gorgeous—him the tall lanky type—her a cute blonde with close-cropped curls—and they were taking turns feeding each other. The woman wore a short dress with lacy hems, and whenever her legs parted I had a view of her panties. Pink and skimpy, they barely covered her pussy, and I couldn’t help but stare. A woman making me horny was a first for me, and my pussy was so wet it was all I could do not to dip my hand below the table.
I ate a bite of sautéed scallop, marveled at the buttery garlic taste, sipped water, and dabbed my mouth with a napkin. Brian ate a fried shrimp, tail and all. He chewed fast when he was jealous, swallowed the shrimp and speared another.
“What’s so great about him?” Brian said. “He looks kind of average to me.”
“What’s so great about who?”
“That guy you keep staring at!”
The blonde glanced at me, and a smile played across her lips. Her legs parted again, wider than before, and her hand crept under her dress. Her middle finger slipped under her panties and disappeared into her mound. The finger went in and out for what seemed like forever, then she brought it to her mouth and sucked all the way to the knuckle. My clit was one big throb, and I almost came right then and there.
“I was just thinking about what a cute couple they are,” I said. “Like you and me, honey. Don’t you think we look good together?”
My boyfriend’s top lip rolled inward, then outward. He spoke, words a hiss that barely escaped his mouth.
“Do you see me staring when we go out?”
I hissed back. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Like crap,” he said. “You’re so turned on I wouldn’t be surprised if you went over and gave him oral sex, or, as you would put it, sucked his cock.”
I thought I was doing a good job hiding my passion, so I didn’t know how he knew what he knew. Maybe my face was blushed. That was probably it, given I could feel the heat on my cheeks. I glanced down at my dress and realized my nipples were hard.
“Honey, the high beams are on because I’m chilly,” I said.
His time between bites slowed, and we small-talked in low tones. Smells of cooked seafood wafted through the restaurant, along with cologne and perfume. A murmur of conversation hung in the air, dampening the tinkle of forks and spoons on plates, and I was doing my best to concentrate on my lover. His right eye was larger than his left, something I’d never noticed, and I couldn’t make up my mind if I liked that or not. He ate a bite of my scallops and butter dripped onto his shirt. I wet a napkin and dabbed at the wet spot, then leaned his way to kiss him, and his hand came up between us.
I’d forgotten that Brian disapproved of public displays of affection.
“I have to pee,” I said, and dropped the wadded napkin to the table.
In the bathroom, I ran a brush through my hair and adjusted the straps on my dress, a move that rubbed the fabric against my nipples and sent a tingle to my pussy. A toilet flushed and a stall opened, and a gray-haired lady came out and washed her hands. She had an elegant figure, and I wondered if I’d look that good at her age.
She exited, a swing of the door that brought in the restaurant noise, then it was quiet again. I tried to think of reasons Brian and I should stay together, and the only thing that came to mind was we were a pretty couple. That might have been enough if we were still in high school, but things were different now. Still, he was a good looking guy and maybe the sex would get better over time. There were books he could read, movies he could watch—
The door swung open, and the blonde walked toward me. She had this slinky way of putting one foot in front of the other, and I felt my insides go wobbly. Heat rose up my neck to my scalp, a warmness that spread over my ears to my cheeks.
“I’m Josselyn,” she said, “and I’m going to lick you until you come.”
She backed me into a stall and I stared into her eyes, inhaling her sweet perfume and wondering if this was really happening. Then she kissed me. I’d never experienced a sensuality that mirrored my own, and I reveled in the softness of her touch. She nibbled my neck and worked her way to my earlobe, sucking ever so gently while her hand lifted my dress and her fingers slipped under my panties.
The restroom door opened, and I tried to push her fingers away. Her thumb found my clit and I heaved a sigh.
“Babe?” a man said.
“I hope you don’t mind if Andre joins us.” Josselyn, fingers still in my pussy, looked out of the stall. ”Lock that door, will you, sugar. We don’t need anyone walking in on us.”
A distinct click, then the sound of footsteps. The woman took my hand and led me to the counter, where I hopped up and spread my legs. She slid my panties to the side and licked my pussy and I almost screamed, then swallowed the dick pointing my way. Andre had a nice circumcised seven inches, and his pre-cum tasted a little like vanilla, as though he’d eaten ice cream recently.
He handled me rougher than his lover, pinching my nipples with such ferocity it made me wince, and I egged him on with my gaze. The dual sensation of his roughness and her softness was like nothing I’d ever felt, and I was so into it I never wanted it to end. I didn’t know how long we went at it, only knew I was working on my third orgasm when Andre pulled out of my mouth and came on my breasts. Josselyn, palm on my pussy, massaged Andre’s balls and licked his cum off my skin.
That’s when I think we all became aware someone was knocking at the door. A man announced himself as the manager and asked if everything was okay, added that he was two seconds away from calling the police.
I straightened my hair and adjusted my dress, held my chin high and exited first. Every face in the restaurant, including my boyfriend’s, turned my way. I walked down the aisle and sat at the table and ate a bite of chocolate cake like nothing was going on, watched Brian’s gaze go to my chest. I glanced down at the cum streak and sipped my water. Then I wiped myself clean.
“Liquid soap,” I said.
Josselyn and Andre exited the restroom and headed for the front door. I was so greedy for more of her that I almost got up and asked for her number, could not move under the weight of Brian’s glare. He spoke in a terse voice. “What was going on in there?”
I could only ignore his question for so long.
“She’s epileptic,” I said. “She was having a mild seizure and her husband came in to help.”
Brian’s gaze burned into my eyes, as though the very act could strip away my lie and expose the truth, and
I stared right back at him. I must have convinced him because he told me I looked beautiful tonight. I blushed and picked at a nail.
I’d fucked a priest and a woman all in the same week. What was next for me? Taking on the goddamn football team? I was mad at my pussy and mad at myself. Giving into my desire was fun, but the shame I felt afterward made me feel dirty. Just once I wished I could have sex and not come away feeling like a whore.
Several days after banging the couple in the Red Lobster bathroom, I tried to quietly slip out the back door of my house. It was a nice day out, very balmy, and I wanted ride my Yamaha.
“When I was your age we didn’t run around with our boobies and bottoms hanging out,” my mother said from the kitchen. “We conducted ourselves with decorum.”
I’d seen a picture of her when she was a teenager, and she was dressed in a mini-skirt and see-through blouse. The words, “full of crap,” came to mind, although I kept my mouth shut. My mother loved to paint the illusion that she was a chaste and wonderful child, and she never tired of the comparison. What she failed to point out was she had me when she was sixteen and unless she was Mother Mary reincarnate my father’s penis introduced itself to her vag while she was still a minor.
“Mother,” I said, and poked through the laundry on the kitchen table. “Don’t you have a martini to mix?”
She gave me a huffy look. “Don’t try to change the subject. You know how your father feels about you going out in those kinds of clothes.”
I pulled my halter-top up and my mini-skirt down. She had a point about things hanging out.
“The AA number is on the fridge,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be calling your sponsor or something?”
When she was irritated her eyes narrowed and she craned her neck forward, all of which reminded me of a hawk zeroing in on a mouse.
“Hey,” I said, “Skylar and I are driving up to Allegheny College to check out the campus. Maybe on Friday.”
Mother folded one of my father’s shirts and stacked it on a pile. She was cooking lasagna, and the sauce simmering on the stove smelled delicious. Our family lived in a modest house, cooked and cleaned for ourselves, tried to cut corners whenever possible. My father worked as shift supervisor at Ranger Steel and lived in constant fear of layoffs. My mother worked thirty hours a week down at Pilchard Enterprises, where she sold the occasional plumbing fixture at minimum wage.
She opened a drawer, pulled out a pamphlet, and handed it to me. I handed it back and crossed my arms.
“I wish you’d consider it,” she said.
“I wish you’d reconsider it.”
“I am not attending—”
“We can’t afford to pay your tuition at a four year, out of state college,” she said, and lowered her head. “Between the mortgage and the cutback in my hours and the cost of living going up. . . .”
I was one of those middle class kids whose parents made too much for me to get grants and too little to pay for my college. If I’d been smarter about my future, I would have applied myself in high school and secured a scholarship, but I’d been all about fun and very little about homework.
“Your father and I have talked it over,” she said. “You will attend Pennsylvania Community College in the fall and live at home to save expenses.”
The thought of living in Hallsville for the next two years left me nauseous, and I winced at the bitter taste in my throat.
“I hate this goddamn town,” I said.
My mother’s head snapped upward. “Watch your language, young lady. You know how your father feels about taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
I’d heard my father swear thousands of times, so this was another one of her rules.
“It’s after 3:00,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be halfway through your third by now?”
She motioned down the hall toward my bedroom. “March your smart mouth back in there and put on something decent. I can’t believe you’d even think of going out like that. It’s obscene.”
I spun around and headed down the hall to my bedroom, where I plopped in the chair in front of the mirror. If I’d told her how I was paying for school, she would have had a heart attack. That or she wouldn’t have believed me.
And who would have blamed her? I was a middle-class girl raised in a two-parent family, no significant drug history, no arrest history, and I lived in small town USA. Girls like me melded into society without a whimper. We got out of the stream and walked around the rapids, a never ending parade of bikinis and one pieces intent on making our way through lives with as little excitement as possible. We married busboys and sold insurance, we walked our dogs in the park and we raised our babies in childproofed houses with welcome mats at the doorsteps. We bought Focuses and Priuses and seatbelted ourselves before exiting the driveway. We lived and died without ever feeling adrenaline powerful enough to buckle our knees.
What we didn’t do was steal to pay for our college educations. And that was the beauty of my scheme. As long as I didn’t get greedy, which meant sticking to my plan—four stores, one for each year of my college tuition—I would never get caught. I was simply too young, too well-raised, too smart, and the wrong gender for the police to consider me a suspect.
I’d often fantasized how my confessional conversation would go with my mother.
“I’m a thief.” – Me.
“Eat your green beans. You know your father doesn’t approve of you riding your motorcycle on the interstate.” – Mother.
“I only have one more job and then I’m done. Finito forever.” – Me.
“I hate what you’re wearing. Don’t you own a bra?” – Mother.
“I was forced into the criminal life because my parents are mortgaged to their eyeballs.” – Me.
“Forced into what, honey?” – Mother.
“Christ! Aren’t you hearing me? I rob jewelry stores.” – Me.
“That’s terrible. Now eat your green beans.” – Mother.
My shoulders and neck were tense and so were my hands, which had turned into fists sometime in the last few minutes. Yes, stealing to come up with my tuition was wrong—very wrong—but I wanted out of town so bad I would have done much worse. I was not going to get pregnant, marry a guy who worked in a steel mill, and spend the rest of my life in this hell hole.
Regina Caldwell was not going to become her mother.
I scooted my seat closer to the mirror and studied the young woman staring back at me. She may have not made the best choices but at least she was trying, which is more than I could say for most people in Hallsville. I brought a foot up, propped it on the seat close to my bottom, and my panties stretched tight over my mound, a look that was so sexy I couldn’t help but forget my worries and caress my thighs.
The transformation on my face—the lust, the desire, the wantonness in my gaze—was such a turn on that I wanted to do something brand new to myself. That was the only excuse I had for sneaking to the garage, then returning with my father’s nine iron.
I sat in the chair, panties down at my ankles, and rubbed my labia. The grip was black and hard, and the dimples felt so good on my slickness. I slid the handle in, and my pussy swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. God, I had never felt anything so delicious. I took it slow, watching my pussy lips pull at the grip as it went out, almost as though they did not want to relinquish their pleasure. My sex scent filled the room and so did my moans, and that’s when I should have gotten up and double-checked the lock on the door. Instead my legs straightened and I arched my back, never taking my gaze off the mirror—
My head jerked toward the door, where my mother’s head poked around the jamb.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I said.
The door slammed, footsteps retreated down the hall, and I slumped over with my father’s nine iron in my pussy. Eventually, I pulled out the club, wiped it off, then dressed in baggy jeans and an even baggier shirt. In the garage, I jammed the club back into the bag. The nine iron sat perfectly upright, a rigid reminder of my filthy mind.
Although I still wanted to ride my motorcycle, I wasn’t about to leave without feeling out my mother for how she planned to deal with this situation. I tracked her down in the kitchen, where she layered noodles in a rectangular pan.
“Are you going to tell Daddy?” I said.
She was making up her mind—I could see it in how she sucked on her bottom lip—and the more she sucked the more worried I became. I sobbed a few times and wrapped my arms around my chest, desperately hugged myself.
“I’ve been so depressed,” I said.
“I’m going to get you an appointment with that new priest. You know the one that plays the piano during morning Mass? He’s close to your age so he can identify with what you are going through.”
The irony of my mother’s suggestion was inescapable. I squeezed back a laugh.
“I know I need help,” I said, “. . . but does Daddy need to know about this?”
Her gaze hardened and the phrase “I’m screwed” came to mind, in a bad way. Not that my father would say anything to me. He wasn’t that kind of guy. Still, whenever I looked into his eyes I would know he knew.
That’s when I heard the insistent beeping and noticed the phone off the hook. My mother seemed to notice it at the same time and plopped it into its cradle.
“That was Brian,” she said. “He said he’s been calling your cell. . . .”
My mother turned her back and the conversation ended. I retired to my bedroom and sat back in the chair.
In the last week I’d fucked a priest, a couple, and a nine iron. Sure, I was young and experimenting, but even I thought that was a little excessive.