I couldn’t let a Kink of the Week prompt about panties pass without writing something, but today has been a busy. So instead of the essay about how I attach sentimental value to my knickers, or a story about how I have one pair of panties I keep specifically for piss play scenes, here is some short, smutty snapshots.
They tell me to pull my panties down and bend over. I know what’s going to happen – that’s why they do it. They make me wait, anticipating the moment before the first hit. It’s hard to relax, to prepare my body to accept the pain, because I have no idea how long they’ll make me wait like this. Braced and exposed and vulnerable, yet growing wetter with every second I stand there with them watching me. I flinch when they bring their belt down on the sofa-arm next to me, but my jeans and knickers are around my legs so I can’t run – even if I wanted to. (I don’t.)
They don’t wait for me to remove my panties before fucking me. They just hitch them to the side, and their thick fingers dive into the wet folds of my cunt. Those fingers are replaced quickly by their cock. They use me hard and fast – I have been teasing them all evening, and this fuck is to put me in my place. Right now, all I am to them is a fuck-toy, and why should they bother taking the time to undress a fuck-toy before they use them? They bite down on my neck when they come, and the elastic of my knickers is cutting into my left butt-cheek.
They push my panties into my mouth while they torture my poor, desperate clit. I couldn’t stop begging, pleading with them to let me come. They’ve been denying me an orgasm for almost a week and they have been using their fingers to bring me to the edge again and again and again until I want to scream. The first time they make me come, pressing the Doxy against my cunt, all I feel is relief and pleasure. However, by the third orgasm my clit has begun to feel over-stimulated, and when they rip the fifth from my body I am begging them to stop. But my knickers are still in my mouth, and they grin as they interpret my whining and grunts as requests for them to keep going.
They cut my panties off me. The delicate material is no match for the knife in their steady hands, and the lace surrenders to their lust. There is something deliciously hot about the control they have – not only over me – pinned to the bed beneath them – but over themselves. They are calm and take their time: methodically preparing me for the fucking. I shiver, because I know that when they do fuck me it will be as overwhelming and efficient as this moment is.
They pull my panties back up when they’re done fucking me. They’ve come inside me, and they want me to remember how they used me (and told me what a dirty little bitch I am) when their come slowly drips out of me, into the gusset of my knickers. We’re going to the theatre together, and later when I squirm in my seat they will look at me and smirk, knowing that every second I’m wearing those knickers I cannot forget that I haven’t come yet – and I won’t do it until I’m on my knees for them later, my fingers rubbing my clit lubed with a mix of my arousal and your come.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a freelance journalist, sex writer, and professional transsexual. His work focuses on dismantling shame and queering sex.