*“What are you wearing right now.”*
You don’t even bother to add the correct punctuation, and that assertion of your dominance alone makes my lips press together in a mix of frustration and arousal.
You don’t want to hear that I’m curled up on the couch in a big t-shirt from an ex while I finish up some work emails. No, not at all. The obscure logo on the front of the oversized treasure does nothing for you. But you don’t want me to lie to you either. No ‘Oh nothing, just lying around in my thong’. What you want to hear about hides in the details— doesn’t it?
I’m sure that you want to hear about the way my hair is tied up. A few fringe pieces in my face, framing my feminine features and full lips. The rest is collected high on the top of my head, tied into a ponytail that holds the dark curls from the day in a lackadaisical bunch. You want me to tell you how badly I want those curls to wrap around your thick digits while you pull my head in the direction you choose. Up. Down. Back. Whatever you want. I’ll behave. For now.
And I would bet that you want to hear about the way my nipples firmed up when you texted me. The way my body stole blood from my brain to sit on high alert and crave your teeth sinking into them. Or how I’m not wearing a bra, but my heavy tits are sitting high on my chest with my nipples swollen. They continue to push into the off-white material of the aged cotton tee and feel like thousands of nerve endings are firing off when I sit up a little straighter to take inventory of myself. And I’m positively sure you want to know how I’m sitting. That my legs are folded over one another like a pretzel, and my hips are stretched out just a touch on either side of my rapidly dampening lips. It would excite you to know that the lace of my thong is sitting high up on my hips, and that if you grabbed me by the waist at this very second, your pinkies could tickle the detailed material and follow it around my smooth skin until you reached your prize. That very same material is feeling more and more intrusive as I push my hips down a bit and realize I wish your fingers were already snaked inside me, taunting me to beg for you.
But… something tells me you’re in the mood to wait. You’d rather me explain to you that I slipped on some knee-high socks to keep my toes and legs warm. That the tan wool blend is creeping just above my knees, my eyes soaking in the contrast of my softly tanned skin to the light brown of the knit. I drag my manicured finger over the seam and break out in chills when I touch my own skin. It feels like I’m misbehaving— you would much rather tell me what to touch and when than have me explore my body without commands.
But I’m not always good for you. Actually— I seldom am. I think that’s why you always come back.
So, I reply, before I get ahead of myself… because I *absolutely* will:
*“It’s a damn shame I’m wearing anything at all.”*
Because it is.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/jviige/fm_what_are_you_wearing_right_now