They aren’t underwear to me anymore.They’re evidence.A crime scene I want to ruin further.Right now your black lace is probably already clinging,soaked through at the gusset because your cunt decided hours ago it was done pretending to be professional.That thin strip of fabric is dark, heavy, sticking to swollen lips every time you shift in that cheap office chair.You feel it drag. You feel it pull. You’re trying not to rock your hips forward but your body keeps voting yes in tiny, shameful pulses.I picture the waistband cutting into soft flesh above your pubic bone, red indentations I’d tongue later like apologies I don’t mean. The leg holes biting the crease of thigh and groin, trapping heat, trapping slick, turning every crossing of your legs into slow torture. You’re clenching right now, aren’t you? Kegels you never asked for, rhythmic, involuntary, milking nothing  while you stare at these words and pretend to read the quarterly report.Scroll slower. Let your thumb tremble on the screen.Let your nipples pebble under the bra you chose this morning thinking it would keep you safe. It didn’t. Nothing keeps you safe when I’m inside your head telling you exactly how wet you’re getting at your fucking job.I want them yanked to mid-thigh later, still attached, stretched taut, so I can see the glistening string that snaps when I spread you. I want the crotch peeled away slow enough to watch your clit twitch under cool air, already so engorged it hurts to look at. I want to smell you on them first musky, desperate, metallic with arousal before I press the ruined silk to my tongue and taste how badly you fought losing control in a cubicle surrounded by people who have no idea you’re dripping for a stranger’s poem.Breathe through your mouth now, quietly. Don’t let the person two desks over hear it. Don’t let your thighs rub together again or you’ll come right there, small, silent, shameful, panties flooding while you fake-focus on a pie chart.Keep reading. Let it build. Let your pulse hammer between your legs until every heartbeat feels like a tongue flicking your clit. You’re not allowed to touch. Not yet. You’re only allowed to sit there and let me fuck your mind until your underwear is obscene and your composure is a lie.When you finally stand to leave for the bathroom— when you feel the wet slide down your inner thigh and know you’ve left a dark spot on the seat think of me smiling. Because I’ll know. I always know.Now lock your phone. Wipe your palm on your skirt. Try to walk like you’re not already ruined.You’re not fooling anyone, least of all yourself. She probably just crossed her legs again hard. Probably just felt the fresh gush. Probably hates how much she needs the next one even more.