You wear it because I want you to.

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 noncommittal tone I’ve ever heard.

But that’s just the start, right? It all comes back to that fucking band of fabric curving along your slit. 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 divide pushing against the strands. God, do I fucking need to see that little valley between your lips where the fabric sinks in. Wanna push my tongue against it and lick.

That black thong is gonna get wet. And don’t I just want me to feel it against my tongue? Of course you fucking do. That’s why your hands run through my hair, holding me tight until the cotton goes translucent and all you can do is whine like such a poor little thing. Been deprived, eh? Need more, hm? Wanna feel my tongue firm and pointed and pressing hard. Pushing it in. Pulling it back with my teeth. Letting it go.

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 rip it apart with my pinky if I wanted. Twist it up and pull it against your nullah, make you grind against the friction while you beg me to “please just fucking shove it inside me.”

It being the operative word. Gee, what could you be referring to? My tongue’s already been inside you. Fingers too.

Oh.

Could it be?

That thick, pulsing thing straining against my chinos? Really? Is that what you fucking need? Need to feel fuller, huh? The tease just isn’t enough. You know, I could do that. Pull that thong over your hip and stuff it inside you. Let out that inflationary gasp as you feel it all push inside.

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 pussy’s a touch…let’s say imprinted. And I like it that way. Blame it on my lizard brain.

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 to shreds eventually. How many have we been through at this point? Good thing they’re cheap. Because when I tear that soaking shred of organic cotton off you it’s going straight into your mouth. And you’ll taste how wet you get for me. Tastes differently than when you play with yourself, doesn’t it?

Know why, sweetheart?

Because I bring out the desperation. The utterly searing longing.

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 the warmth swelling in your core.

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

Uh-huh. Thought so.

Now, be a good girl and show me.