You wear it because I want you to fucking wear it.

You wear it because it looks damn fine on that pearlescent peach of a perfect ass. That thin band of hybrid cotton fabric cleaves those plump cheeks flawlessly apart–giving me two glorious ovoids to palm. And you do fucking love it when I palm that pristine fucking ass, don’t you? Grab it from the bottom, cup it like a basketball, pull it up and dig my fingers in. Let out a lil yelp. A cute little squeal. Put your hands against my chest and say “staaaawp” in the most unconvincing tone I’ve ever fucking heard.

But that’s just the start, right? It all comes back to that fucking band of fabric curving along your cunt. And–god–let’s talk about that for a moment, hm? Like the way it looks when I push your knees up against your chest and see that divine pussy pushing against the pathetic cotton strands. God, do I fucking need to see that little valley between your lips where the fabric sinks. Wanna push my tongue against it and lick.

That black thong is gonna get wet. And don’t I just need to feel it against my tongue? Of course I fucking do. Until the black goes translucent and all you can do is whine like such a poor, needy little slut.

I know you love it when I slide my tongue up and down and find that spot where your clit is hiding. Push against it. Twist the fabric in a little swirl and suck. And, you know, it’s so fucking easy to slip a finger–or two–beneath that band and start to finger you. Just a little bit at first. A slight tease. The knuckle of my index finger dipping in and out and dragging wetness along your lips. That thong–that black thong–getting wetter and wetter and wetter until I could snap it with my pinky if I wanted. Twist it up and pull it against your cunt, make you grind against the friction while you beg me to “please just fucking shove it inside me.”

It being the operative word. But we always know what we mean when you say that, don’t we? That thick, pulsing thing that practically has a mind of its own. It makes you feel so fucking full. So, yeah, of course I’m going to stuff it inside of you. Pull that thong over your hip and stretch your fucking pussy.

Funny. You thought it wouldn’t fit the first time. Sometimes I still think it won’t. God. You’re fucking tight, you know? But I think I’m making progress. I think your cunt’s a touch…let’s say imprinted. Guess I’ll leave my marks inside and out.

But let’s be honest: as much as I love the way this thong straddles your ass and slit, barely hiding anything, I’m going to rip it off eventually. How many have we been through at this point? They’re basically single-use now. Disposable. But at least it won’t go to waste. Because when I tear that soaking shred of a clit-hugger off you it’s going straight in your fucking mouth. And I’ll tell you to fucking taste how wet you get for me. Like that, huh? I bet you love the way your pussy tastes after I’ve been teasing it. Tastes different than when you play with yourself, doesn’t it?

Know why, sweetheart?

Because I bring out the desperate fucking whore in you.

And you just taste so much better when you’re out of control. When you can barely think. Or speak. You’re reduced to nothing more than your limbic cortex when I’ve got one hand around your throat, another etching wet circles around your clit, and my cock shoved so far in your slit that you can feel it in your core.

Anyway, is that enough of an explanation for why I told you wear your black thong under that skirt today?

Uh-huh. Thought so.

Now, be a good girl and show me.