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Key Words: Breakup, Boyfriend
Word Limit: 350
Forbidden Phrase: Walk of Shame
Bonus Words: She’s a good church girl most of the time.
(I’ve claimed another 200 for doing this!)
Extra Credit: Oh crap, these aren’t my panties!
The breakup was brutal; her former boyfriend posted the intimate videos online, and the links to her church community. She retaliated, introducing a baseball bat to his prized possessions: his computer, his car, his testicles. Her loathing of men was intense; she had been betrayed and discarded: her intimate secrets spilled.
I met her a week after that event. Her flatmate, and my ex, had turned 25 and I was invited to her party at a local nightclub. I was introduced to her, we barely knew each other. She drunkenly ranted how twisted my gender was. Eventually her blood/alcohol ratio was within dancing range and I enticed her onto the dance-floor. We intoxicatedly swayed to the beat, laughing as we shamelessly flirted.
“Lucy says you’ll give me a night to remember. But says you’re not like any other man,” she shouted in my ear over the music. “But she won’t tell me why.”
I said nothing.
She found out my secret an hour later as we frantically undressed each other in my bedroom. She giggled at my pink underwear, bought from the finest lingerie shop in the town and smirked at the stockings I had concealed underneath my trousers.
“Women’s underwear is so sensual,” I admitted and blushed, as I carefully stroked the delicate cotton briefs. “And I like being dominated by women. It’s so … natural! And … do you want a massage or not?”
“Sure, but keep them on!” I was always going to: her giggling ceased when my oiled hands soothed her naked body, caressing her stresses and strains away until her skin glistened radiantly. I gently nibbled the inside of her thigh with my lips, working my mouth around her crack until her whimpers demanded sexual attention; my tongue swirled against her clit.
She groaned and cried. My mouth worked her into a desperate lather, and she succumbed to a multitude of orgasms. Her body rocked as climax after climax smashed into her and drove her arousal to demand more and more satisfaction.
Her cries echoed with the glass dildo, the vibrator made her breathless. She wanted me in my lace teddy for some of our play, my chastity cage and nightie for some more. She enjoyed tormenting and degrading me as my sex toy drawers became exhausted. Every single toy I possessed was used on the insatiable party animal through the night until she collapsed, fatigued at dawn. Spent and satisfied.
She left as the sun poked through the curtains a few hours later, hurriedly scrawling her phone number on a notepad. “Church,” she squealed. “I’ll be late! Vicar is already pissed at me. Ring me later.” She pocketed the key to my chastity cage in her handbag. “Or else I might lose this!”
I promised I would ring, waving her away from my town centre flat in a pink negligee with a pang of regret. I wanted her to stay, and returned to my bedroom to clear up from the night’s activities.
“Oh crap, these aren’t my panties!” I muttered as I picked up the cotton garment from the floor; she was four sizes smaller than me. I text her; she text back. My underwear was falling around her legs as she ran to church.
“Come to my house later, pantyboy. With all your toys. And then you can have access to yours.”
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