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Wait a sec… I see something. Not tights, but possibly even better. Although also a bit creepier if I think about it too deeply.
I hurry over to the chair on which I’ve spotted the item—an article of clothing known in this industry as a dance belt.
Except it’s not an actual belt.
Designed for ballet dancers with external genitals that can flop about during vigorous jumps, this undergarment looks suspiciously like a thong.
I fan myself.
Just picturing The Russian wearing this butt-floss without tights makes me want to re-enable my vibrating panties.
But no. No time for muffin buttering right now.
I pick up the thong—I mean, dance belt. It feels nice and soft to the touch.
Must be made of boyfriend material.
I peer at the dance belt like I’m trying to charm a snake inside of it. A snake named Mr. Big.
Am I really going to do this? And if I do, does that mean I’m like one of those peeps who buy worn underwear online?
No. I don’t have an undies-sniffing fetish, more like the opposite.
Yeah. If anyone asks, that’s my excuse.
With determined movements, I rip the filter from each nostril and bring the dance belt up to my nose.
Here goes.
I take the Big Sniff.
