I don’t keep underwear for best, just wear whatever takes my fancy. White, lace-trimmed thongs to the gym. Red french knickers under my unflattering work trousers. I grind my cunt against the corner of the kitchen table in black woollen tights and cotton smalls of peach and black and turquoise and violet and every colour besides. I wear them and wear them and wear them again, til their hems fray and their elastics slacken and if the moths take an interest in chewing holes through each and every pair of undergarments I own, I only smile and worry at them with my fingers in idleness; that hole in my tights that you can use to access the salty, succulent aura of my cunt.
There is a hole in my knickers right now. A curl of hair springs out, but you cannot see the plump flesh beneath. She slides the sharp nail of her littlest finger into the gap. Stitches rip. Her touch is delicate, yet precise. Her touch is cold and here I am warm and damp and the scent of me permeates in no time at all, lingers on her fingertips long after I have left her.
She rubs. Runs her fingers up and down this soft and sodden part of me, reading the bulge of my labia, the springy bounce of my thigh. She knots her fingers in the hair and pulls. The pain makes me flinch into her, my mouth against the crown of her head and I shudder and still her fingers search and search for another hole, another chink in the armour and I shudder again and fret that she never finds it, but of course she finds it.
Of course she finds it, that second breach in a pair of greyed and unravelling briefs. Unappetising to some, maybe most, but certainly not me, and certainly not her when all she wants is to press and penetrate me. She held me at arm’s length for a moment, but only to make me watch her slide the fingers into her mouth and remove them wetly from between her parted lips, smearing spit and lip gloss against my skin as the fingers invade, insinuate and fill me.
I breathe and moan into the tropical flower scent of her hair and she fucks me with the fingers of her left hand; my body draws her in, and all the while the tears and holes in my lingerie widen, and her breath comes harsher just below my neck, and she feels for my breast with her searching right hand, grabbing the fat, gripping until the pain is almost too much to bear with the regular, almost brutal thrust of her hand between my thighs.
My knees buckle. My mouth is dry, but close at the lips where they meet the dampening of her hair in her exertions. We should stop, but I whisper nothing but yes. Yes. Oh! And nothing approaching a complete, coherent thought. My arm is about her shoulder, I feel her siphoning the life and pleasure from my body until with quickening pace and her sharp teeth and her hand, her delicate, unassuming hand – I gush, I drip, I shake, I bruise and I buckle.