I was moving across the country with a man I had fallen in love with only a few weeks before. He needed assistance writing a poem for his church newsletter: an acrostic tribute to a deacon in his church. As I helped him compose a few lines, he asked where I was going.
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. They make me wait, anticipating the moment before the first hit. Braced and exposed and vulnerable, yet growing wetter with every second I stand there with them watching me. They just hitch them to the side, and their thick fingers dive into the wet folds of my cunt.