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Panting, he stops to look at them.
I wasn’t lying when I said that he’s obsessed with my panties.
He’s obsessed with how feminine and delicate they are. All lacy and pink.
How they always have little hearts or dots or kittens and little flowers.
He’s obsessed with how they smell too and like always, he brings them to his nose to take a whiff. To take a lick too. Right on the crotch, right where my pussy sits cradled, making a mess of them. Because let’s face it, all I ever do these days is think about him and so my panties are always wet and sticky.
And he loves to lick it up.
To taste me.
He also loves to make me taste myself.
So when he’s done snorting my panties like a drug, he brings them to my nose. He makes me smell my musk before nudging my lips open. And staring into his fiery eyes, I do it. I peek my tongue out and lick the fabric and his nostrils flare.
Then, he pushes them in.
He pushes my panties in through my lips, filling my mouth with them. “You know why I’m doing this, don’t you?”
I nod, biting on the damp fabric, squirming under him, rubbing my bare pussy up and down his still jean-covered dick.
“Because we don’t want anyone to hear.”
I shake my head firmly, because we don’t.
He comes down to plant a kiss on my filled-up mouth. “We don’t want your daddy to hear that you’re not alone. That there’s a bandit in your room.” Still planting soft kisses all over my face and my stretched mouth, he goes down to work on his jeans and take his dick out —Oh, thank God— as he rasps, “Who’s going to pound his little girl’s pussy. Who’s going to make his little girl squirt all over his big Bandit dick. While he floods her cunt, hoping and praying that her tiny birth control pill doesn’t work. Because you know I’m hoping for that, don’t you? I’m so fucking hoping, Bubblegum.”
I moan.
And whine.
Because he makes me crazy with his body, his words. Because that’s all I can do anyway.
Slowly, he pushes inside and I arch up, digging my nails into his biceps. “And because it’s not as if I’m gonna stop, is it? Fucking daddy’s little girl. Even if he comes running into her room and stands over this girly, pinky bed with a gun to my head. I’m still gonna keep fucking her. I’m still gonna blow my load inside of her while I make her come. Because she’s not daddy’s good little girl anymore, is she? She’s my good little girl now. My good little whore. And then it’s just gonna be awkward for you. Getting fucked and maybe even bred in front of your daddy. So you hold on to those panties, all right? Don’t make a sound and let me hit that pussy.”
And he does.
He hits it like he hasn’t in days.
When he only had it, had me, two hours ago. By the lake. Where he took me to on his bike.
But then that’s how he is.
That’s how I am and that’s how things are with us.
We can’t keep our hands off each other. We can’t be apart for more than a few hours. We start to get sick. We start to crave and go crazy.
Ever since the funeral a week ago, we’ve met every single day. And every single day it’s the same thing.
He comes for me when everyone’s asleep.
He texts me to be ready and stands outside my window while I do. I always wear a pink dress and pink lipstick, plus his anklet. He helps me climb down from the window because he knows how much I suck at climbing. And then we take off on his bike. We usually ride for a couple of hours before always stopping at the lake. Where we do what we did that night, lie on the cool thick grass and stare at the stars.
We also talk.
God, do we talk.
