I wake up to find the following e-mail: “Which panties shall I wear today?” she asked, and included a picture of eight pairs of panties laid out on her bed. Thongs, boyshorts, bikini briefs; plain colors, patterns; cotton, silk.
Now this is my kind of multiple-choice question.
I tell her to wear the white floral thong, cotton, and to send me a picture of her once she’s put them on. Moments later, I receive a picture of her, recumbent, her legs spread slightly, her hand reaching down those very same panties.
I can taste her cunt, just looking at the picture. I can imagine the slickness her fingers are encountering. I can hear her heavy breathing as she’s bucking her hips up, slightly, to meet her fingers, to increase the pressure.
As I’m lost in my reverie, my phone rings: it’s her.