The Game, Part Five
Part Five
Abigail was actually doing it. My sister was intentionally spilling her drink on me in the middle of church.
I gasped as the cold coffee hit my chest. The surprise and the temperature almost made me scream, but I managed to bite my tongue and keep it to just a sharp inhale. For a moment, I was simply in shock. That gave Abigail enough time to dump the whole thing out; half a grande Starbucks cup, ‘accidentally’ poured on me. She even gave a tiny shake at the end, causing a few smaller pieces of ice to escape from between the cup and the partially removed lid. I suddenly wished I had somehow removed my bra, as most of the ice fragments got stuck in my cleavage after the short fall.
However, I barely registered the ice, as I was already dealing with a lot of other sensations. The coffee had funneled between my breasts and flowed down my stomach, and the hem of my skirt wasn’t nearly enough to stop the stream. In a matter of seconds, the coffee worked its way underneath my skirt. I tensed up as the cool liquid washed over my most private area, and everything that hadn’t soaked into the skirt on its way down ended up pooling underneath my rear until a small puddle of coffee was soaking into the back of my skirt as I sat in it.
But we were still in church.
A less proper girl would immediately jump up and excuse herself, or slap her sister across the face, or do a million other things in response to what Abigail just did to me. But I did none of that. For a long few moments, I simply sat in the cold coffee with a dropped jaw. Before looking at Abigail, I looked down at myself. The bottom half of my white blouse was damp, discolored, and clung to my stomach, and the skirt was wet all over from how the hem caused just enough resistance for the coffee to both flow around my waist while also finding its way between my thighs. The cold burning on my chest drew my peripherals to my boobs, and I quickly plucked the larger pieces of ice from my cleavage and dropped them onto my already wet skirt. What difference would a little more water make? Better my skirt than my breasts.
Slowly turning to Abigail with a death glare, I tried to find the right words to hiss. It wasn’t that we were in church. It wasn’t that the coffee would stain. It was much simpler than that—you don’t pour COFFEE on your SISTER. Or anything on anyone, for that matter.
“Abigail,” I hissed. The smug smile on her face already told me that she wasn’t going to take me seriously. Not in my current state, and not with Kate’s muffled giggling on my other side.
Before I could get another word out, the sound of organ music filled the room. Was the sermon over already? Apparently, I spent the entire message removing my underwear and bickering with my sister over the finer details of her dare. The good news was, it was time to stand up and sing a hymn. That’s the ideal time to excuse yourself if you have to, as leaving while everyone is standing and singing is less noticeable and more acceptable. Abigail’s lecture would have to wait. As much as I wanted to bite her head off, cleaning myself up took priority now that the music shook me out of my appalled haze.
Rather than grab a hymnal like usual, I simply stood up and prepared to push past my sister. The middle aisle would be embarrassing, as a lot of people were about to see me and assume I was the biggest klutz in the world, but I didn’t have a choice. Going the other way would mean squeezing past others in wet clothes, and that would be all kinds of rude. I may have been very much done with my sister and her BFF, but I wasn’t about to take out my frustrations on others.
Alright, time to move. The moment the music introduction was done and people started singing, I turned towards Abby without a word. She’d figure it out. Pushing forward, I roughly squeezed between her and the pew in front of us, not wanting to give her a chance to be bossy or argumentative. I should have been home free, save for one crucial mistake. I didn’t keep my eyes on my sister.
Just as I was stepping out from the pew and into the aisle, WHOOSH. I didn’t feel Abigail’s hands, but I very much felt the momentary resistance the skirt around my hips gave against the downward tug. There was no zipper. The stretchy waistband was the only reason I was able to get away with subtly tearing my underwear off. And now it was a huge weakness against something just as audacious as dumping coffee on me. In one swift, fluid motion, my skirt was whisked down my legs, all the way to my ankles.
Before I could even react, Abigail gave my now bare ass a quick slap, then shoved me. Hard.
I stumbled forward, and the skirt caused the same result that two shoes tied together might have. Worse, actually. Slipping out of footwear was easy. Trying to deal with feet tangled up in a long skirt? Not so much. The only reason I avoided fully face-planting was thanks to one of the pews on the opposite side of the aisle. My hands instinctively shot forward and I managed to catch myself after totally losing my balance and falling forward for a moment. Though my reflexes prevented a total wipe-out, they also caused an enormous problem.
Abigail just sent me stumbling into the exposed aisle after pantsing me! I didn’t have my underwear to protect me, nor did I have my hands for a few seconds. I was bottomless in the middle of church. Literally. Middle pew, middle aisle.
I gasped in horror as I realized that half the congregation behind me was facing forward.
And I was half naked.