Little Lace Thong
He had a thing for my underwear, dirty underwear, specifically. Fireman would slide my little lace thong or briefs off before we had sex, then shove them in his pocket or under the pillow and refuse to give them back.
One day, I asked him: “Why do you do that? Keep my underwear?”
“Have you smelled your underwear after you’ve worn it? It’s really hot,” he answered.
I hadn’t ever smelled my underwear, unless you’re counting the is-this-clean-or-not sniff test. I’d never ever considered smelling my underwear. It had never entered my mind. Why would I?
“What does it smell like?” I asked, intrigued and confused rather than annoyed or disgusted.
He grinned. “Take yours off. I’ll show you.”
It was my time to grin. “Take yours off, too.”
He started undressing without answering, so I followed suit. Our entire relationship had been about experimenting – finding out what we each liked and disliked between the sheets… or, you know, everywhere around the house. This day was a prime example.
Now naked, he handed me his boxers, and I handed him my thong. He raised it to his nose, then inhaled deeply twice, mumbling something into the white lace. My eyes were drawn to his cock, which had started to harden almost instantly, and I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows.
“I told you,” he smiled sheepishly.
Discarding his boxers, I climbed on top of the bed. “Keep smelling,” I said, completely incapable of tearing my eyes away.
Each inhale made his cock bob and stiffen a little more, a truly addictive sight. I think that was the day I realised that I wanted to be sexually objectified. I saw the power I could have over a man simply through a smell, a glance, a knowing look. And it turned me on more than I could possibly explain.
I sat and watched as he threaded the lace through his fingers, then took another long sniff. He held them out to me next, so I leaned forward and inhaled just the same as he had. I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d expected, but the musty, sweet scent was every bit as hot as he’d explained… and showed me.
Climbing on the bed, he cupped my cheek with hands that always seemed too big for him. I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He leaned in and kissed me, lowering me down onto the bed at the same time.
He kept on kissing, leaving my mouth and planting them on my neck, collarbone, breasts, nipples, ribs, stomach, belly button. Each kiss sent a jolt of electricity through my core, growing in intensity the closer he got to my sex, and I dropped my head back, preparing to enjoy the ride.
He fell to his knees just as I’d predicted, still planting those kisses on the inside of my thighs, labia, even down to my ass. Those kisses make me jump, unsure of where his tongue will go next. He knows my limits there, though, and I trust him enough not to cross them.
Rolling his tongue in wide circles around my cunt, avoiding my clitoris entirely, he added one finger, doing that come-hither-to motion that I’d taught him. We didn’t know about the g-spot then, but we sure managed to find it regardless.
My hips bucked up to meet his mouth, eager to direct him to exactly where I needed him. To my surprise – and disappointment – he pulled away. Not for long, though… and he returned with a little something extra.
“Tell me if you don’t like it,” he muttered into my cunt.
Then, I felt something pushing against my entrance. Something rough, unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant. I lifted my head and peered down to see him slowly but surely pushing that little lace thong inside me.
Oh, okay…
Relaxing back into the bed I pondered the new sensation. The more he stuffed inside me, the more aroused I became, and I almost lost my mind when he gently sucked my clit into his mouth. It was almost too multi-sensory – his mouth on my clit, my lace thong inside me, his hands gripping my thighs so hard that I was sure I’d find bruises the next day…
The first stirrings of my climax appeared within minutes, and I think we were both surprised by just how quickly I dug my nails into his shoulder – my little sign that was as romantic as it was unromantic.
As I arched my back and fell into my pleasure, he yanked that little lace thong out of me… and I genuinely saw stars. That one motion, one yank, intensified and extended my orgasm in ways I’ve not been able to replicate since. An inhuman noise escaped my mouth, and I dug my nails into his skin so hard that I drew blood.
I struggled to catch my breath as the final waves washed over me, leaving me in an almost drunken state of euphoria. I’m not sure I could’ve even recalled my own name in that moment.
No one has ever done that to me since: using that little lace thong as a sex toy.
I’m kinda glad, to be honest. Some memories are best left as memories. Recreating it would only be a disappointing affair, I’m sure.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: That Time I Tried to Pee On My Boyfriend.
If you want to skip the sex [fail,] you can go straight to this one instead: That Fucking Pager.
Thank you so much for reading my little blog today! 🖤
You can read all about The Fireman, from start to finish, right here.
If you’re in the market for something else to read, why not take a peek here:
