After hooking the delicate lace panty mask around my ears, I breathe and blink in the darkness, breeze tappin' the blind against the wooden frame. Her room's a comfort, in a way. Familiar. It must have been my room as a baby. Just a feeling I have; faint memories of Momma holding me in here. Rocking me to sleep. The door’s always shut unless we have company staying over, and this company’s mighty pretty. Annabelle’s her name.

My heart hammers too loud in the peaceful room. Enough that I fear she’ll wake. 

I inhale deeply again. Every breath is her. Every breath tells a story. Scented atoms steep the cotton gusset that's touched her body all day. Makes me harder in my Iron Man jockeys, tugged aside so one hand can cup and massage my balls. They tighten, cock throbbing in the other hand as the trapped musk of a day's activity swamps my senses.

The rhythmic shuffle of skin on skin cuts through the silence. I know I should stop, but can't. My hot, hard cock swells in my grip.

My breath catches at the tang of her perspiration. It ain't sweat. It's exertion from the yoga stretches and workout. All the girls are into yoga. Earlier this afternoon, I’d pretended to read my magazine on the front porch, but I actually watched Annabelle’s sideswiping hips flexin’ in the afternoon rays. The sleek lines of the autos in American Car didn’t hold a candle to her panty line under the stretchy lycra. Each move deformed the material, capturing her natural perfume that now rolls up my nostrils and makes my dick swell.

Faint traces of lavender-scented detergent float alongside snatches of daily aromas. Sixteen hours of everything a girl does condensed into a few inches of fabric. I dare to poke out my tongue, jolting as if that hot, clear stream itself was cascading over its tip. The shiver takes me by surprise, my mind flashing with forbidden stills. The dark musk of her behind drifts, and I lose myself in energy that knots my stomach.

One mouthwaterin' smell slices through all the others. Her essence. Her pussy. Excitement grips my heart as tightly as my fist around my straining cock. A dot of pre-come oozes, the gentle lap of the skin's motion penetrating the quiet. The only other sound in the room is her rhythmic breathing against the pillow and the occasional deeper snore.

A sound down the hall stops my heart. Daddy! I replay his barking voice in my head. “Stay away from them girls!” Words he’d repeated over and over. If he catches me in her room, I’ll have no hide left, so still gripping my cock, I take a few steps to the doorway, poke my head outside, and listen. Whew! Snoring like a freight train. There ain’t nothin’ waking him now. Ever since I was knee-high, I was the one shaking him awake to head to the cellar when those awful summer storms hit.

Relieved I’m safe, I return my attention to sweet Annabelle. The sight of her turns me into one of those poets I’d read in Literature class. Moonlight catches her form. The curve of her calf, one leg bent, leads all the way to the hem of her plain nightgown that's ridden up over the contour of her bare ass. I can’t take my eyes off that soft rump where her panties have been nestled all day, soakin’ up the glorious scent of a freshly fucked girl into the threads that cover my nose. Freshly fucked. Thinking about what else coats this thin fabric makes me shudder. I inhale and lap the mixture, her scent releasing in thick waves for my body to process.

The panty mask. I didn't invent it, but I remember the lead-up to its discovery clear as day.

… … …

It all started that time Mary Kate’s sweaty panties fell outta her gym bag. I happened to be behind her and picked them off the floor. The fabric itself was the first thing I noticed as it ran past my fingertips. The flutter of cotton sent a jolt through me. Then their warmth registered and my heart raced. The moment my fingertips played over the damp gusset, something powerful took over, and I was hooked on panties.

That was all it took. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, nor why. Just knew how it made me feel. How I shook with excitement. And fear. Somehow I knew it was something I should keep secret.

Hearing about the loosened brick 'round the back of the girls' locker room opened a whole world of exploration. I spent many afternoons jacking off. Watching naked bodies climbing in and out of silky underwear that I longed to touch and kiss and sniff. Loved the fizzin' inside when I glimpsed that pretty stain between their legs.

'Course, the peepin' didn’t last. I was caught. Hauled in front of Principal Davies. He called me all sorts of names. Thought I was lookin' at the girls. Gave me licks with his thick wooden paddle to thrash the Devil outta me, and then sentenced me to scrub the nasty school toilets once a day for a month.

Even after all that, the need never left.

Once the groundskeeper patched the hole, I soon found it wasn't just the underwear I craved. Not only the fibers, but also the scent of the woman who had worn it. I’d never forget the musty smells coming from Mary Kate’s panties as long as my heart’s still beatin’.

Buying used panties off the Internet seemed more righteous than trying to steal them from girls’ gym bags, so that’s what I did.

I loved that uncontrollable shaking when the padded bag arrived, my name and address scrawled messy-like across the front. Racin' to my room and tearing it open, I’d carefully unwrap the plastic baggie to unleash the trapped scent. Lift it to my nose, eyes rolling back. I’d lose myself in thoughts of the everyday acts she'd performed. Going to the store. To the gym. The toilet. Sex. Masturbation. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know who “she” was. The magic of that creamy strip clamped between her thighs, slidin' over her pussy, held me captive.

Sometimes, they were dried out. With those, I'd stroke the firm ridge before burying my face in it. Licking helped unleash the flavors, burstin' onto my tongue and swamping my nose as I snorted and drank in her core, imagination soaring. Brunette, blonde, short, dark, fair, shaved, natural. Housewives, lawyers, personal trainers, I had no idea. My mind created their stories based on scent alone.

One day, I came home to find Daddy in the living room holding one of those bags that had just come in the mail. Figures that the one day Daddy gets the mail, I have panties arrive. On the table was also my prized bag of panties I’d hidden in my closet.

He snatched them up and stomped toward me, the veins in his forehead bulging like they were gonna burst. One of his calloused hands gripped the back of my neck, steering me outside where he had a fire going.

“No boy of mine plays with girls' underwear!” he roared.

“Daddy, let me ex—“

“No! Not a word! Burn ‘em with the rest of the trash!”

He dug in the bag and threw me the first pair—a silky black panty. 

I held them tight, aware he was watching my every move.

“Toss ‘em in!” His eyes were wild, red with fire. I didn’t dare disobey.

I swallowed my guilt, twisted and numb, and threw those panties on the fire, and a part of me burned with them. Thankfully, Daddy shoved the bag at me and walked away before the first tear fell.

“Burn ‘em all, boy!” he yelled over his shoulder. “And get a haircut!”

That last part had to do with Momma. I must look more like her when my hair grows too long and starts to curl a bit. I’d never seen a picture of Momma on account of him burning everything she’d left behind after she ran out on us. I figure since Daddy has light, stick-straight hair, my dark, wavy hair must have come from her.

I didn’t like Daddy mad at me, seeing he was the only parent I had left, so I kept tossing them on the fire, one by one, cringing as the soft fabric melted. Sad the smoke was killing all the scents they’d held. Those used panties told stories that I’ll never hear again.

I came across a see-through pink pair. Two tiny triangles held together by strings, and the crotch was coarse to my touch.

Her username had been faith_101. I’d never forget her. The first girl I’d had the courage to interact with instead of just adding the pair to the cart. She did requests for a few dollars more. So with shakin' fingertips, I’d opened the chat and asked if she’d touch herself wearing them. Stroke her pussy. Tease herself as long as possible until she was soaked, then come in them.

Nope, they were special. I just couldn’t burn those.

Making sure my back was to the house, I wadded them up and stuffed them down the front of my pants before swearing not to order any more off the Internet.

Trouble was, the need never really went away. Always bubbled beneath my skin, dyin' to escape, night after night cooped up in my room with just my right hand as company.

My resolve crumbled when I landed the job at the gym. All those mesmerizing butts in tight yoga pants. Bouncing balls of flesh that left tantalizing pheromones on the seats of the equipment I had to wipe down.

When my boss wasn't looking, I stole sniffs. Seemed a crime to destroy the heady aura of a woman, but I had to man up and do my job. Spray and wipe while my cock continued to swell in my sweatpants. Oftentimes, I had to go beat off in the changing rooms, her anonymous scent lingering in my nose as I replayed her workout.

Losin' myself in a stew of hard heat and ungodly thoughts was how I coped; kept a crooked lid on things. Draining myself temporarily released the tension. Left me dizzy and buzzin' as I held my breath and jerked, splashing gobs of hot spunk on the floor.

I prayed for absolution and cleaned up my sins, of course. Well, at first.

One time, I'd been in such a frenzy after inhaling one of the regulars from the exercise bike that I didn't notice I'd stumbled into the female locker rooms. Double shift. Coverin' for Randy. It was late. As usual, I sealed myself in the stall, pulled out my already straining erection, and jerked off. She was incredible. A deep musk with overtones of some kind of blossom. Like she'd jogged through a field of corn and sunflowers. Real pretty too, for an older lady. Big brown eyes and long natural lashes.

I pressed one hand to the stall door and tipped my head back as I pictured that dark oval forming in her underwear. Imagined my nose drawing signals from the fabric, my tongue tracing its shape. My cock was thick and raging as my fist blurred, seconds from painting the stall when the outer changing room door banged, footsteps approached, and I froze.

My fogged brain couldn't process it. The only man in the place was Ty on the front desk, and he was cashing up. My mistake only fell into place when she began humming as she undressed a few feet from where I was trapped. Nothing I could do but pray.

The faucet squeaked. Water sprayed. The shower cubicles opposite the stalls had no doors. No way I could escape undetected.

The strawberry scent of her shampoo rose above the hiss of the shower and her humming.

I squeezed my eyes shut, thoughts unchecked of her spicy panties nestled in the pile of clothes barely two feet from my position. If I crouched, I could probably reach out and grab ‘em from the floor. Pull them to my face and inhale as I finish off. Rub her scent over my nose and cheeks and then put them back before the water went off.

The shower gel cap clicked. She soaped, lather splattering at her feet.

I held my breath and massaged the head of my throbbing cock. Began to crouch. Crept my free hand lower and lower on the stall wall. Beneath it. Beyond. Searching. I brushed her clothes and crept over 'em, electricity arcing as I made contact with the fibers of her panties, seeking that central strip, still warm.

Jackpot. Tacky juices skimmed beneath my fingertips, and I traced the damp line, willing myself to snatch them.

The water shut off, and I withdrew my hand sharply. Shook with a combination of terror and excitement. I brought my fingers to my nose and inhaled as deeply and quietly as possible. Tried to hold back, but the thoughts tumbled faster than I could deal with, and I came, ropes of release slashing against the bottom of the chipped door.

I must have snorted or something because she stopped moving. Approached, her shadow breaching the two-inch gap beneath the stall wall.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

I panicked, cock still leaking strings of come. Had no idea what to say or do. If I moved, I'd be done for. My heart pounded, and I prayed she couldn't hear it. Then her voice again, from lower.

"Jackson? Is that you?"

It took a moment to realize she'd bent down and spotted my shoes.

Fuck.

"Uhhh, yeah."

"What are you doing in there?"

"I'm uhhh… cleaning."

"Oh. Didn't see your cart outside, sorry."

Adrenaline spiked. Maybe I'd get away with it. "It's not you. I left it upstairs. Sorry. When I heard you, I figured I should keep quiet till you left. Didn't want you to think that I… y'know."

She paused. "Okay. Sorry again. I'll be out of your way in a few minutes."

"No worries."

I stood, tucked my limp cock away and grabbed a few squares of tissue from the hopper, wadded them, and wiped up my spunk from the door as she rustled. Tossed them in the toilet and flushed.

She began humming again. Toweling off. A spray of aerosol, the acrid combination of propellant, and some engineer's guess at what a meadow smelled like.

She called out. "I'm decent."

With a shaking hand, I slid the bolt back and stepped out.

She was far from decent. Just panties. Fresh red ones. I dropped my gaze to the floor. To her pile of clothes. Roved them. Her pale pink underwear was there, a dark stripe of sweat and the day's juices upward. A place where, minutes earlier, my fingers had been.

I couldn't tear my eyes from them as she continued dressing. "What is it, Jackson? You don't seem the bashful type. Does my body not… interest you?"

I shook my head. Then realized it could be taken the wrong way and nodded. "I uhh. I mean. Yes, it does. But I c… can't…"

As she pulled her top over her bra that struggled to contain her big tits, I gave up trying to talk. Casting one lingering gaze at her underwear, I just stumbled out.

Over the next few weeks, we became friendlier. Nothing more than idle chit-chat or a quick wave from across the gym, but I gradually felt more at ease in her company. A few times, I suspected she caught me about to lower my nose to the bike seat she'd vacated, but she said nothing.

Then one evening, she returned from the shower as I was shutting down the machines for the night. "Jackson! Glad I caught you."

I looked up. "Hey, Sandy." Her hair was wet and a much darker shade of brown than when dry. She smelled of coconut.

"I've been watching you."

"Oh." My heart sank. Maybe what I thought was conversation was her working out how to report me to management.

"Yes. And I think I know what it is you want."

I stared. "Y… you do?"

"Ah-huh. Remember that day in the locker room? You barely looked at me. Well, I think I've figured it out."

She stepped in closer and lowered her voice. "You missed a spot, by the way." My blank expression prompted her for more. "On the stall door."

I colored. Looked away. Wished the ground would open up; a shortcut to Purgatory, where I belonged.

She squeezed my right bicep and then softly moaned. “How old are you, Jackson?”

“Seventeen,” I answered, still unable to make eye contact.

“Well, I’m thirty-one, and like I said, think I’ve figured you out.”

I finally looked at her, and she smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with having a fetish. Why, I bet your mom and dad have a few,” she winked.

Without thought, I blurted. “Momma ran off when I was three, and Daddy hates women now.”

She knitted her eyebrows, and I regretted over-sharing, but then she pressed her hand to mine. Where I expected skin was fabric. Warm. My pulse began to thunder, and I gazed at my palm and then into her eyes. "Are you… sure?"

Sandy spun and walked away, calling over her shoulder, "Hundred percent."

I couldn't drive fast enough as my F-150 flew over those country road bumps. Once home, I raced upstairs and sat on my bed, staring at the folded parcel in my hands. Trembling, I unfolded it to reveal the sticky centerpiece. Ran a finger pad over it. Lifted and breathed deeply.

My cock surged, and I fumbled to release it as I buried my nose in her sexy scent and fell back to the bed. I tugged at my length, furiously pumping, a thousand images whirling of her working out and touching herself to create the intoxicating incense. Nothing existed except her underwear and my fertile imagination. I came long and hard, clamping her latent juices to my face as my hips bucked off the bed and I striped my belly with thick streaks of boiling white.

Basking in the afterglow, I had time to think, and learned more about what it was I needed. It wasn't enough to have the panties. I needed to know where they were from. That connection to fuel my head. And Sandy sure knew how to do it.

Over the weeks, she provided me with panties after each visit. Some still warm and damp. Others sticky, as if she'd masturbated in the locker room and brought them straight up. She toyed with me. Whispered what she was gonna do in 'em. Pushed us, spiraling deeper into depravity, and I held on for the ride of my life. 

When I held her used panties, I felt like I had a girlfriend. She was a part of my life… in the room with me. On me. Swaying her hips over my face as I lay, mesmerized by the way the material hugged her pussy.

Sandy surprised me one day, handing me her panties with the crotch drenched with stains. Dripping because she'd pissed through 'em in the shower stall, taken them off, masturbated to completion, and wiped herself with the soaked fibers. I sucked everything from the fabric and beat my invigorated dick to my own nirvana.

I never questioned her motives. She seemed to revel in exhibiting herself in this manner, and I was more than happy to receive. I didn't think twice when she wrapped her phone number in the sticky parcel. It just said CALL ME. So I did. She made me narrate every touch as she played with herself on her end of the line. Told me to beat myself off into her panties and make a terrible mess. Then, bring them next time so she could put them on during her workout. She gave them back to me after.

Sandy brought out some of the wildest thoughts I'd ever had during our late-night phone chats. Told me that she thought of what I'd be doing to her panties when she "made them" for me while her husband was out. How she imagined me lapping her up as I stroked. She suggested the panty mask, hooking each leg hole around an ear so the wet gusset lay taut across my nose, allowing two-handed masturbation. That was a game-changer.

Everything was better than fantasy. Thrilling. Two-way. Months of bliss, until she got a new job upstate and had to move away. We tried long-distance chats but couldn’t risk her mailing panties to me. Our phone sex wasn't the same without the panties. She was often too busy or tired to play, and the calls became sparser, then tailed off.

But… the need never went away.

My most intense craving was panties laced with pussy juice. That sweet top note filled my mouth and nose as the earthier undercurrent spread through my shuddering frame. I needed that connection. That heat. My moods came and went as I adjusted, but it was hard. Real hard.

One day, I was struggling more than usual with the loss of Sandy—and her used panties. I hadn’t heard Daddy come in, and I was sitting at the kitchen table, playing with the leftovers on my plate.

“Boy, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been moping around for a week. You ain’t coming down with something, are you, ‘cause I need you to—“

“I’m fine!” I answered louder than intended, but my nerves were raw.

I rose from the table and tried to brush past Daddy, but he grabbed my arm.

“Hey, you better check your tone with me. Now, what’s eatin’ at you?”

I don’t know why I did it, but I was tired of keeping secrets and holding in my pain. “I know you told me not to, but I got a girlfriend, and she left me. I’m just missing her, is all.”

I bravely met his eyes, and there was something different there. Troubled, but not like he was about to cut loose on me. 

In a softer voice I rarely heard, he said, “Now son, thought I told you not to go messing around with those girls.”

“I know you did, but I’m not you, Daddy. You know Momma left me too, which kinda scrambled up my insides, but I still like girls.”

He released my arm, looked at me, and his eyes turned watery. No more words were spoken, but I swear we had a moment of something between us. Then, as soon as it happened, it was over, and he stalked off, mumbling, “Just stay away from girls.”

That proved hard, especially weeks later when Aunt Ali dropped her daughter Veronica, and best friend Annabelle, off to help out on the ranch for the summer. I was ripe with need. Crawling the walls at night, beating off to each hollow conclusion. Fulfilled, yet empty inside without that spark.

I know I told myself that stealing underwear wasn’t right, but rifling through the laundry hamper for Annabelle’s used panties was the only hope I had to feel better. Alive. That thundering heart rate returned as I rummaged, checking over my shoulder so I wouldn't be discovered. The excitement spiked as my fingertips connected with the silky fabric. Coursed my veins. I loved the way the lump formed in my throat at the same time as the one in my shorts when the silvery streak came into view. I’d missed it.

Veronica bringing a friend with her had been a nice surprise—and it turned into a real nice surprise. 

The first few weeks were exploratory, familiarizing myself with her scent. I laid back on my bed when everyone was asleep, her underwear draped across my mouth and nose as I visualized her day. Imagined how the car journey to the store had rubbed her juices into the fabric beneath her denim cutoffs. How the change in temperature from house air-con to sweltering fields had affected its strength.

I imagined the stories behind every contour and crevice drenched in her syrupy heat as I kissed and rubbed the fibers. Licked her very essence and shook as I erupted in my fist night after night. Pair after pair. Each time, craving more. Hungering for that connection, my jittering pulse threatening to burst my heart.

Then, something happened that drove me even crazier, if that's possible. I saw Veronica and Annabelle sneak into the barn where the Lawson twins, Jimmy and Johnny, were working. 

I squinted between the crack in the barn door and saw the four of ‘em head up into the hayloft. Daddy’d run to town on errands and wouldn’t return for a while.

Cracking the door wide enough, I snuck inside and hid in a stall below them. They chatted shit, then everything went quiet. The moans and creaking of the boards began, and I knew they were fucking. I lingered until their cries peaked and then left, waiting outside with the chickens. Annabelle and Veronica came through the barn door giggling, and I had to assume they were wearing their sticky panties.

I fantasized about those panties the rest of the day, then all through dinner, and could hardly wait until Annabelle showered before bed and tossed them into the laundry basket. On my way outta the bathroom with her dirty panties stuffed down my boxers, I heard giggles coming from Annabelle’s room. 

Sneaking down the hall, I pressed my ear to the plaster in the corridor and tuned in.

Veronica giggled, “No, I do not think he’s hot… being my cousin an’ all.” She paused, then continued, “Just big and dumb,” and giggled again. 

Annabelle protested. “I like he’s big. Boy’s got muscles rippling all over. And he’s not dumb! Just shy, maybe.”

“If you haven’t heard him talk much, you don’t know he ain’t dumb.” 

“Oh, I’d know.”

They grew quiet, and I shifted my ear slightly to hear Annabelle saying, “I like it when I catch him staring at me. Wonder what he’s thinking?”

I smiled in the darkness, thinking about her words. I like, no… more than like, that Annabelle likes me looking at her. She’s cute and fiery. Petite, except for that well-rounded backside.

When their conversation turned to comparing jewelry brands, I quietly padded back to my room down the hall. Climbing on top of the covers, I lightly stroked myself, imagining all sorts of things about sweet Annabelle. Ran my fingertips over her panties on the bed beside me.

And there I’d stayed, stroking, touching, until finally, Veronica bid her friend goodnight in the hallway.

I waited a while longer until I presumed they were both asleep, then crept back down the hall, carefully avoiding the creaky old wooden floorboards on the left, and stopped outside the room where Annabelle was gently snoring. 

The door was ajar.

It all became too much. The decision to steal into her room and wear her panty mask wasn’t a conscious one. It was driven by pure need. Inevitable. My daze was so great I stepped inside her sanctuary almost on autopilot, startling myself at her sudden closeness.

… … …

I soak up the atmosphere. Her scent. The tang of her panties. Standing here, I imagine how the sweet musk that filled the fabric had formed. Whether it would have had a different flavor if she hadn't been shaved bare. It fascinates me to consider if pubic hair could affect the essence and whether it would strengthen or dilute. How her cycle alters the stickiness of her chemistry.

She breathes. I do too. It’s impossible to stay in sync; almost two of mine to every one of hers. I swell in my underwear. It’s all I’m wearing apart from a John Deere T-shirt. And her panty mask.

Peeling my jockeys aside to free my full cock and rolling pre-come over its shiny bulb is as natural as water to fish. Bringing my wet fingertips to the stretched fabric and smearing my essence over hers releases a burst of flavor for my heightened senses to devour. I stand alongside her bed, inches from her sleeping frame, and pump my twitching cock. Honestly, I hadn't thought much beyond peeking in to kick-start my imagination, just as Sandy's workouts had intensified our endorphin-fueled nights.

She'd had a rich stripe of delicious cream the night before—presumably the result of playing with herself. An undercurrent of that aroma is still present tonight, but it's mixed with something saltier: Jimmy's or Johnny’s come.

My toes flex against the synthetic rug as the imagined scenario of them fucking swims through my mind again. Rivulets of her cream coating his fat cock as it plowed her hairless snatch. The shrieks ringing out over the rafters when her orgasm gripped and drizzled into the lime cotton now stretched over my nose.

Without warning, everything starts to close in, and I panic. I let go of my cock in an effort to prevent my eruption surging to the surface. It bobs in the cool air, jolting of its own accord, and I'm weightless for a few moments. Then mouth a silent curse word, rooted to the spot as I lose control. Jets of thick come rocket from its engorged tip to stripe and pepper Annabelle’s exposed butt and upper thigh.

She moans in her sleep, the angled leg scissoring shut then returning, my come drizzling over her skin and oozing towards the sheets. My dick has a mind of its own and seems on a mission to beat some spurting world record, but eventually wanes and dribbles, my breathing ragged. Each sharp inhalation is laced with her pussy.

I'm petrified she'll wake, yet elated at the climax. A strange mixture of emotions. Would it be worse if she finds my come encrusted on her body in the morning? Should I just leave? I have nothing that would help clean up. No tissues. The only possible avenue is to wipe the mess with her panties and return them to the hamper. Will she wake at the touches? Is she a heavy sleeper?

I tuck away my wilting cock and remove the panty mask, breathing fresh air still tinged with her delicious arousal from where it clings to my upper lip. Folding the flimsy garment, I tentatively reach out to make contact with her thigh. As gingerly as possible, I trail the panty material across her milky skin, using the moonlight as a guide. She twitches a few times—it probably tickles—and I wipe up one stripe, leaving only a thin film of come in its wake. Best I can do.

As I fold the material smaller and reach to tend to the longer slashes on her upturned butt, she swishes her hand, nudging my wrist before I can move it out of the way.

"Jim-meeee," she mumbles.

My heart's pounding like a long-distance runner. I debate leaving, hoping she'll turn over and wipe it on the sheets in the night. But there's so much of it, glistening pools of inky oil reflected in the shaft of moonlight. I have to do something, or I'm fucked.

I swallow. Maybe if she thinks I'm Jimmy…

I play out the scenario in my head. What I'll say if it backfires. Excuses. Plausible reasons. Flimsy but workable if she stays mostly asleep.

Sinking to my knees, I lean over the bed without touching it. Hover my lips above her silky skin, its heat burning my cheek. Can barely believe what I'm about to do.

As I extend my tongue, I glance at her face and gasp…

…her eyes are open and watching me, cheek flush to the pillow.

She doesn’t react. Doesn’t scream like she should. Doesn’t tell me I’m a filthy no good for nothin’ animal with faulty wiring. She just stares, the moonlight catching her irises as the blind flutters behind me in the breeze.

The heat of her skin radiates against my lips. I have no idea where this is going next. But there's one thing I know for certain as I clutch the sticky ball of fabric in one hand and dare to dust fingertips of the other up her thigh.

The need hasn’t left.