In the box is a tangle of red string.
What?
I hold it up.
Realize… it’s lingerie. Barely counts as lingerie, but it’s there.
I’m standing on a cliff, the point of no return, and I definitely don’t like heights.
My pussy does, though.
In the silver light of the moon, I shuck the socks, pull off my shorts, chew my lips.
The breathing on the phone is steady.
I want to hear his voice. Want some encouragement. Want to hear him say I’m pretty.
My phone pings with a text message.
Unknown:Shy?
Unknown:Be a good girl and let daddy see what you look like.
Damn.
My pussy’s dripping down my legs. My nipples feel like they’re going to pop. I rub them through the thin sleep-shirt fabric.
I’m rewarded with the start of a growl in the breathing.
“You like that, don’t you?” I whisper in the dark, glad he can’t see my face.
I reach down, grab the hem, and pull the sleep shirt off my head. Then immediately kick myself when I don’t do it sexy enough.
I do not send nudes to men I date.
Not to mention, the few times I’ve been with a guy, I don’t let him see me standing up. It’s like those English gardens—you aren’t supposed to be able to see the whole thing. Need to leave some mystique.
But now I feel completely stripped, standing there in front of the window.
I grab the scraps of fabric from the box. If I practiced, I probably could put them on in a marginally sexy way, but I just settle for getting them on as quickly as possible.
Squirming as the thick string pulls against my throbbing clit, I pull the panties up. My stomach flip-flops when my own fingers brush my sensitive nipples to adjust the triangles of red lace over them.
Now what?
My pussy aches.
I don’t do displays of sexiness.
I’m not like those girls who really get off on their own sexuality.
Is he even watching?
Unknown:Your pussy making you all messy?
Unknown:Let me see you touch yourself.
The string of the thong—or whatever the technical term is—slides in the wet slit of my pussy as I tug it, the breath escaping out of my lips as I give in to the pleasure.
