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“Are you wearing them?” Veronica demands.
Betty can’t help her grimace. “Don’t flip out, I am not,” she says, and at Veronica’s aggrieved expression, “I tried! And I know what you said, Vee, but I kept feeling like I’d gone the wrong way up the rollercoaster. I couldn’t — sit still, I couldn’t —” The idea of walking down the hall with her books clasped innocently in front of her and the lace underneath her dress, against her skin, was too much to take. She practiced at home in front of her vanity, but every time her breath drew in, she felt the slight constriction of all that boning and nylon, and it made her cheeks pink, her skin warm. She’s already a live wire; it would have been like showering in gasoline. “How do you stand it?”
“Betty,” Veronica says severely, “how will you ever get used to lace panties if you don’t wear them every day?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Betty says, somewhere between petulant and morose. “Maybe never. Maybe my mom’ll send me to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy after all and I’ll do penance for the rest of my life, wishing I’d had the guts to wear a lace bustier to home ec, but —”
Veronica sighs dramatically, appraising Betty from crown to kitten heels. “Betty, life is too short not to do what you want. Come with me.”
“Where?” But Betty’s already being whiplashed down the hallway, Veronica gripping her wrist, past classrooms and bathrooms and utility closets and finally into the locker room, empty at the moment, where Veronica briskly bolts the door behind them. They only have fifteen minutes left in their free period.
“You’re lucky I aways keep a spare set,” she says. “You never know what might happen during a school day. Now, take off what you’ve got on.”
Betty stares at her. “What?”
“Whatever nylon blend your mother buys at Riverdale’s premier department store, lose it.” Veronica has started to rifle through her locker, emerging with a garment bag from which she triumphantly plucks a handful of unidentifiable fabric. “Come on, Betty, don’t keep a girl waiting.”
Veronica’s busy untangling whatever she got her hands on, not even paying attention to Betty. She stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Kick off her shoes? Unzip her dress? Reach under her skirt and slide her panties off, then wait there bare under her crinoline for Veronica to give her something new to step into?
Betty’s skin prickles. She does it — gathers her skirt by the hem until it’s at her knees, short enough to get under. She has to unclip the attached garters from her stockings before she can get her fingers under the elastic of her boring everyday panties, white with a pink rosette at the waistband, and skim them down her legs. She shifts her weight, thighs pressed together, aware now of all the skin between stocking-tops and skirt, the itch of the crinoline magnified as it brushes against her, making her feel more naked than naked.
Veronica turns, a black-and-lavender something in her hand. “No, all of it. You can’t break up the set.” She smiles a little. “Like you and me.”
“Vee,” Betty says, not scandalized but something close, boggled maybe. It’s different from Veronica’s bedroom and that was embarrassing enough, but at least it was all soft bulbs and champagne, a screen to hide behind.
“Oh, fine, start with these,” Veronica says, brandishing some of the lingerie at her. “Then we can negotiate.”
It’s a new pair of panties of such delicate black mesh that she can see her fingers through it, with a gusset of lavender overlaid with black lace that forms a triangle right over — well. At least that part’s not sheer.
Veronica waits expectantly, arms crossed, and thus prompted, Betty gets down to business. It’s an uncomfortable little shuffle under Veronica’s gaze, managing how much she shows or doesn’t; what’s hidden by the fullness of her skirt as she hops from one foot to another, rolls the fabric up and over her hips. Once it lies flat she can feel the contrast of the cool expensive fabric, thin enough that it’s not much better than naked. She remembers suddenly that the panties are Veronica’s, that Veronica has worn them, and maybe in one of Betty’s thousand stolen glances she’s even seen Veronica in them — the hint of her body beneath the mesh, the triangle of lavender at the apex of her thighs.
“Oh, shoot,” Veronica says. “I forgot the garter belt.”
She goes to the garment bag and returns a moment later to hand it over. Betty’s used to girdles with straps, efficient and girlishly pretty, decided by her mother so they walk the line of practicality without ever crossing over into lasciviousness. The delicacy of the garter belt, its dainty ruffles and little silver hooks, feels — indulgent.
“Here you go,” and without warning Veronica’s hands are under Betty’s skirt, clipping the garter belt around her waist. She feels its little squeeze, the soft stretch. Veronica’s fingers are slightly cool and matter-of-fact as they work each suspender clip open and closed again over Betty’s stockings, chatting pleasantly while Betty’s head rings, wondering when the fantasy will escalate or end — usually it’s accompanied by the squirm of sitting in class while her mind takes her body elsewhere, it couldn’t possibly be happening for real, right here, after she’s thought about it so many times.
Betty swallows hard, one big gulp.
“Now, a black stocking wouldn’t be amiss, but I’ll admit, a little much for school — not for me, obviously, but I’ve had practice — and you’d look just fab with that long line down the backs of your legs… I always say it’s best to draw the eye where you want it to go. You want people to look but you want to control how they do it. Okay.” Veronica steps back with the satisfaction of a master at work, claps her palms together before putting her hands on her hips. “Show me.”
Show her? What’s Betty supposed to do, lift up her skirt and give Vee a peek, right in the middle of the banks of lockers with the sun streaming in from the high windows? Tease-o-rama right here where they get ready for volleyball?
Betty doesn’t mean to make a show of it, but Veronica’s looking at her, and she feels seen. This isn’t giving herself a once-over in the mirror with Vee at her shoulder — she’s not doing it for her own eyes but for Veronica’s, and so the skirt comes back up slowly, slowly, until it clears her stockings and she feels air caress her skin, the little bit left exposed between the complicated framework of lace and mesh.
Veronica whistles, low. She draws in without obvious intention, her fingertips landing on the ruffled stretch of the garter belt. “Well, wouldn’t you make a wolf want to howl. Don’t you feel sexy?”
Betty’s about to go off like a rocket. “Do I look sexy?”
“Betty, I’ve been telling you that since I got here,” Veronica chides. “These Riverdale boys should be crawling on their knees after you.”
And you? Betty wants to ask.
“I mean, just look at you.” Veronica is. She touches, too. “I knew that color would be…” Her fingertip slips under one garter strap, the cool lacquer of her nail coasting up Betty’s thigh. She touches the scalloping at the edge of the panties, over Betty’s hip and down into the crease.
“Betty,” Veronica says, and she sounds breathless. “You’ll ruin them like that.”
Betty gaze drops just as the pad of Veronica’s finger touches the gusset of the panties, where a small spot has darkened with Betty’s arousal. She’s had daydreams like this. When does the bell ring and knock her out of it? Veronica’s hand shifts and slips between Betty’s legs, curving over her; a little arch of the wrist and the heel of her hand grinds against Betty. And she’s watching herself do it, rapt.
Betty’s eyes widen. “I’m not sure that’s gonna help.”
“Do you have a handkerchief?”
“Huh? Sure.” Confused, Betty fishes it out of her sweater sleeve and hands it over, skirt slipping a little. Veronica wipes her lipstick off in one hasty swipe, leaving a dark berry stain that drags out a little at the corner. Betty’s never seen Veronica even slightly askew. “Vee?”
Veronica folds, smart little black heels scraping the floor as she kneels, careless of scuffs or runs in her stockings, and puts her mouth right against Betty, her — she doesn’t know what to call it. Kingsley’s Guide to Human Sexuality had been so clinical, and there was something erotic and precise about that kind of language, but it doesn’t feel very clinical now with Veronica’s mouth fixed between her legs, a lipstick kiss imprinted on lavender and lace. Veronica’s tongue against her — her vulva, her cunt, hot through too much fabric but working against the barrier until, with impatience, she jerks it aside.
Betty thinks about pinching herself but doesn’t really want to; instead puts her hands in Veronica’s smooth, neat hair, lets the strands slide through her fingers. When she looks, she sees the lingerie has formed a kind of wicked and delicious frame for her cunt, the pushed-aside panties and garter belt making a lacy border for what has Veronica so enthralled — her eyes closed, a tiny notch of concentration between her eyebrows.
Veronica’s tongue is moving where only Betty’s fingers have been, her lips open in a dirty kiss, not shy at all. She tugs the panties further out of her way, threads snapping, and it almost hurts, the way their seams cut into Betty, strain against her; seem to draw her harder against Veronica, but that’s what Veronica wants — she pushes Betty’s thigh out roughly, angles her head differently, her nails biting into the back of Betty’s thigh as she presses closer, closer.
Her sharp, pretty jaw moves with the persistent flutter of her tongue but Betty can only see glimpses, the flash of ruddy pinks and plum reds, Veronica lapping and Betty swelling for her, tingling, the connection between watching and feeling making it all so much more. There’s lipstick on the inside of Betty’s thigh despite Veronica’s best efforts. She’s so wet she can see the glisten of it on her skin, on Veronica’s.
Betty’s palms are damp. She’s melting against the lockers, not comfortable but not concerned, her shoulders digging in as her hips angle out. Veronica’s hungry, her tongue soft and then hard, her lips drawing on Betty; more sensation and a greater variety of it than Betty thought was possible even when she lay in her bathtub, faucet going hard. Just like everything worth a damn, they tried to pretend this was obscene, and Betty is impossibly smug getting what she wants no matter who tried to keep her from it.
She dissolves on Veronica’s tongue like candy.
“Who taught you that?” she asks, once her breathing has returned to normal. “Tallulah Bankhead?”
“Don’t be silly, Bee. Though a girl can dream.” Veronica rises carefully, one heel clicking then the other. Her makeup is more than wrecked, visibly disheveled in a way Veronica never is. Even her base is half rubbed off, the tip of her nose reddened. Betty has to kiss her. “I just wanted to. I wanted to very much.”
Betty touches Veronica’s cheek lightly. Her lips look like she’s been kissed for hours and when Betty lets herself touch them, too, she feels the faint warmth of Veronica’s breath against her fingers. At last she feels a little like Veronica said she would: relishing in her body and what it can do to someone else. Betty would like to slide her hand between Veronica’s thighs and see what she finds.
Veronica is the one who leans in. Her lips brush Betty’s neck first. “You ought to wear them tomorrow,” she says. “Though of course I’ll have to check to make sure.”