Pink. Frilly. The kind of set that looks innocent on a hanger and filthy on a body, and mine is the body. I keep passing the window glass and catching myself in it, brown hair a wreck from the damp air, tits sitting high in lace that cost too much, and every pass I look better and I get meaner about it.
The bra bites. That’s the first thing you’d learn if you were here. The underwire holds me up like it has opinions, and the lace edge runs right across the tops of my tits where the skin’s gone thin and warm from an hour of my own thumbs. The straps keep sliding. I keep fixing them. It’s a little game between me and the elastic, and I’m losing on purpose, because every time I hook a finger under a strap and drag it back up over my shoulder, I get to touch myself again.
You’d be on your knees already. Don’t lie. You’d be right here on these cold floorboards with your hands behind your back because that’s where I’d tell you to keep them, and you’d keep them there, because everyone does what I say when I’m wearing this.
I pace because sitting still means feeling it, and feeling it means finishing it, and I’m nowhere near done. The floorboards are cold under my heels. The room smells like salt and old wood and the lavender I rubbed into my skin this morning, back when I thought tonight would be quiet. I’ve worn this set exactly twice. The first time I never made it out the door. The second time is now, and there’s nowhere to go anyway, just four walls and the weather and a bed I keep not lying down on.
Rain hits the glass sideways. Out past it the ocean is black and white and furious, tearing itself apart on the rocks, and my ass bounces in these ruffled panties with every step I take. The frill is doing exactly what it was built to do. Some designer knew. You don’t put a ruffle over a girl’s ass unless you mean it.
If you were here, you’d be in the chair. The chair, not the bed. The bed is mine, and I’d make you sit on your hands in that chair with the storm at your back while I walked the room. You’d watch the lace ride up every time I turned. You’d look at my tits, then the frill, then the floor, eventually, because looking at me too long would get you in trouble, and the trouble is the whole fun. That’s the kind of mood the weather puts me in.
I stop at the window because the glass is cold and I’m not. My reflection hangs over the black water like a second girl, and I watch her palm her own tit through the pink frill, thumb dragging slow over the nipple until it stands up hard against the fabric. Feels good. Feels better knowing you’d be crawling by now. The lace is scratchy and perfect and I keep the pressure on, rolling, until my breath fogs the window and the other me disappears into it.
My hand goes down my stomach. I’ve been circling this all night, and the satin front of these panties is already damp, and not from the spray leaking around the frame. From me. From pacing, from the glass, from the thought of you over there doing nothing about it because I haven’t given you permission. I press two fingers against the fabric, right where the seam sits, and drag. The ruffle shifts against my hips. The elastic at the leg bites and gives, bites and gives, and the wet spot spreads under my fingers while the thunder rolls up the cliff and into the floor and into me.
You want to know what I’d let you do? Nothing. Not yet. I’d make you say please first, out loud, to the empty air between us, and I’d stand three feet away with my hand inside my own panties and my tits aching against the wire, and I’d decide if your please was good enough. Most aren’t. I’m fussy when I’m wet.
The storm hits its worst right around midnight. The whole cabin shudders, the lamp swings, rain hammers the roof like it’s counting on me to be scared. I’m not scared. I’m twenty-three and flushed and my reflection has its mouth open. I pull the bra down, just enough, and the lace catches under my tits and holds them up higher than the wire ever did, and the cold draft off the window slides over my nipples and I make a sound nobody gets to hear. That’s mine too.
If you were here I’d take it back. I’d say it into your ear, up close, so close you’d feel the heat off my skin, and then I’d walk away again, because watching you not touch me is the whole point. I pace. I touch. The frill rides, the lace scratches, the satin soaks through under my fingers, and the storm spends everything it has on a cabin that doesn’t open.
By the time the rain quits I’ll be on my bed, legs over the edge, hair stuck to my neck, panties pulled to one side and two fingers working my own pussy slow, and I’ll think about the chair. The empty chair. The one you’d be in, hands behind your back, saying please to nobody.
Say it anyway.
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