Chapter 3: The Wedgie Standoff
The retaliation had been simmering for days. Leo’s phone, now sporting a lockscreen of two blinded, topless women stumbling in golden light, was a constant provocation. Indira had said nothing, but her silent smiles over the rim of her coffee mug were more threatening than any decree.
The plan formed in the quiet hour before dawn, in the hushed language of shared glances and suppressed grins.
When Margot finally emerged from her room, the pale morning light slicing through the blinds in sharp lines, she was a sleep-soft creature. Her fiery curls were a chaotic nest, her eyes half-lidded. She wore soft, heather-gray pajama shorts that hugged the curve of her ass and a faded, threadbare Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt that had long ago surrendered its shape. She shuffled towards the kitchen, a yawn cracking her jaw.
She didn’t see Leo, perfectly still behind the high back of the leather couch, or Indira, a shadow nestled beside him.
Her hand was on the fridge handle when they moved.
It was a coordinated strike. Leo came from behind, his arms snaking around her, pinning her own to her sides. In the same fluid motion, he gathered the back of her t-shirt in his fist and yanked it upward. The worn cotton slid over her head, over her face, trapping her arms and blinding her in a familiar cocoon.
“Wha—Leo, you fucker!” she gargled, the sound muffled by the fabric.
Her bare back met his chest, her breasts freed into the cool morning air. Before she could even begin to struggle properly, Indira was there. She dropped smoothly to her knees in front of Margot as Leo held her steady. Indira’s fingers hooked into the waistband of the gray shorts and pulled them down in one swift, decisive tug.
The shorts pooled at Margot’s ankles, leaving her in nothing but a thin, black lace triangle of panties.
“Oh, come on!” Margot shrieked, laughing already, her body writhing against Leo’s grip. The sound was bright and loud in the quiet apartment.
Leo maneuvered her, stumbling over the fabric at her feet, towards the couch. He pushed her forward so she fell face-first into the soft leather cushions, then immediately sat on the backs of her thighs, his weight pinning her legs. Her ass, arched slightly in the air, was barely covered by the flimsy lace.
“Court is in session,” Leo announced, his voice a lazy drawl. “The charge is unauthorized use of personal property for blackmail. How do you plead?”
“I plead for you to get your bony ass off my legs!” She twisted, but he had her secure. The shirt was still over her head, her protests hilarious and garbled.
Indira knelt beside the couch, observing with serene interest. “The evidence is damning,” she noted, tapping Leo’s phone which lay on the coffee table, its offending lockscreen illuminated.
“Sentence is to be carried out immediately,” Leo said. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her black lace panties at the small of her back. He paused for dramatic effect, feeling her tense, then giggle involuntarily into the couch cushion.
He pulled.
The elastic stretched with a soft, precarious sound. He gave a sharp, upward yank, digging the thin lace deep into the crevice of her ass with a practiced, merciless efficiency.
Margot let out a high-pitched, strangled yelp that dissolved into wheezing, helpless laughter. The wedgie was severe, the fabric pulled taut, riding up so high it practically vanished. The morning light illuminated the full, freckled expanse of her now-exposed cheeks, the lace a mere dark, straining line.
“Truce! Truce!” she managed to gasp, her voice hiccupping with mirth.
“Truces are for the defeated,” Leo said, but he was laughing too, his body shaking slightly atop hers.
Indira reached out and gave the straining lace a playful, snapping flick with her finger. “The sentence seems proportional to the crime.”
“You’re both monsters!” Margot cried, but she made no real effort to dislodge Leo. Her laughter was pure, unadulterated joy, vibrating through the couch and into his bones. Her skin was warm under his hands, the intimacy of the assault so ridiculous it circled back to being affectionate.
Leo finally relented, rolling off her and pulling the bunched shirt back down over her head, setting her arms free. She lay there for a moment, panting, her hair a wild spectacle, her shorts still around her ankles, the severe wedgie still in place.
She pushed herself up, wincing as she theatrically peeled the lace out of its uncomfortable position. “That was a hate crime,” she declared, rubbing her backside. Her breasts swayed with the movement, utterly unselfconscious.
“It was justice,” Leo corrected, flopping onto the other end of the couch.
Indira handed Margot her shorts. “You look good in a wedgie. Brings out your freckles.”
“You’re diabolical,” Margot said, pulling the shorts up. She didn’t bother with the shirt, just left it hanging around her neck like a bizarre cape as she collapsed between them on the couch. She smelled like sleep and lavender lotion. “I can’t believe you sat on me. You used tactical positioning.”
“Oldest trick in the book,” Leo said.
They sat in a comfortable, breathless silence for a moment, the three of them pressed together on the worn leather. The cat, Mochi, jumped down from the entertainment center and padded over, leaping into Margot’s lap as if to inspect the damage.
“He’s a witness to my humiliation,” Margot said, scratching behind the cat’s ears.
“He’s an accomplice,” Indira replied. “He didn’t meow a warning.”
The sun climbed higher, the blades of light warming their bare skin. The prank hung in the air, a settled score. But Leo caught the look that passed between the women over Margot’s tangled red curls. It was a flash of silent, gleaming conspiracy. A new seed, planted. He felt a familiar, pleasant dread uncoil in his stomach.
The game never ended. It only ever paused for breath.