Inspired by the wonderful gift that is Exhibit A‘s December Dick Fest, which for those of you who haven’t come across it yet (and if you haven’t, I thoroughly advise that you do go check it out) is a “filthy phallic advent calendar”. It contains some fab photography and some high quality (in my opinion anyway) dick pics. Door number six, however, opened to reveal a photo of a guy wearing some very pretty knickers. This is a sight that I should inform you makes me make a strangled sound of oh god this is very hot. Once I could think coherently again, the idea for this story was born.
I catch your eye across the room, and smirk. You grin back at me.
Are you going to wear something pretty for me tonight? I’d messaged you earlier in the day.
Yes, but I’m not going to tell you what. You’ll to guess what I’ve put on. Your response came quickly, and sent shivers through me.
I’d flicked through some of the photos you’d shared while I was getting ready, pondering the possibilities. Lace, maybe, sheer material stretched tight. Or something frilly, ruffled and cute.
Fine, but you’ll have to try and guess what I’m wearing too.
Bring it on.
Now you’re grinning at me, and I can tell you know exactly how desperate I am to push my hand down the front of your trousers and see what knickers you’re wearing. No, to feel what knickers you’re wearing. I want the sensation of lace or satin, of ribbons or ruffles, against my hand. I want to gentle squeeze your dick, and feel it start to get hard in my hand.
I excuse myself from the group conversation I’m engaged with, and make my way across to you. On the way, though, I’m ambushed by an acquaintance I haven’t talked to yet this evening. I try to focus on them, as we exchange greetings and they ask me what I’ve been up to, but out of the corner of my eye I see you slip out of the room.
By the time I’ve escaped my interceptor, you’re back in the room and at the centre of another group. I curse internally, certain you’re doing this on purpose. My curiosity, as well as enthusiasm for you wearing panties, gives you the upper hand.
I refill my glass of mulled wine, and slump down on the sofa. A friend soon joins me, interrupting my thoughts of tearing the knickers off you and stuffing them into your mouth while I worked a butt plug into your arse and fucked you with it. I do my best not to glance your way again while I talk to her. Your turn to be frustrated for once, I think smugly to myself.
My plan clearly works better than I expect, because I find myself genuinely engaged in the conversation I’m having and forget to think about you – and your prettily wrapped up dick – for at least five minutes. When I do look over at you, you meet my eyes with an unashamed of ok, you win, I want to know what you’re wearing. I smirk again, turning back to my friend.
Later, I manage to get you alone. And I’m looking down at your dick, which is encased in sheer white lace. I can’t stop smiling, and not whimpering is hard.
“Do you like?” Your voice shows the confidence of someone who knows they’re going to get an enthusiastic yes.
“Hell yes,” I say, looking up at you. “They’re so pretty I feel almost bad about wanting to rip them off and gag you with them.”
I get the reaction I’m hoping for, namely a slight twitch of your prettily wrapped up dick.
“However, it would be fun to just pull them down a little, so your knickers are trapping your hardening dick while I lube up a dildo, ready to push it into your arse…”
This time I’m rewarded with a tiny choke.
“As for me?” I continue, “I’m not wearing any panties at all…”
I grin at the look on your face. “I’ve already said goodbye to Lucy,” I tell you, referring to the party’s host, “so I’m going to run and catch my bus now. This is for you.”
I hand you a small parcel, tied with a red bow. “Open it later,” I tell you, “Merry Christmas!”
Planting a quick kiss on your cheek, I slip out of the room and down the hall, finding my jacket and calling another goodbye to Lucy. As I step out into the cold night I grin to myself, knowing that inside the parcel you’ll find my red-satin black-lace thong. The one I’ve told you several times, very explicitly, that I really want to make you wear.
In my coat pocket, where my hands are hiding from the chill, I cross my fingers. I know what I want a photo of for Christmas.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.