“if God wanted us to be naked, why did he invent sexy lingerie”

  • Sue at 20


    Stolen forbidden glances through the slanted blinds,
    Sue at twenty, flushed with summer heat,
    bare legs gleaming like polished ivory
    as she pads across the sun-hot floorboards.
    In whisper thin white cotton hipster panties that I wish were mine,
    high-cut, clinging where sweat has kissed them, soaking her arousal moulded around her softest lips
    and a frayed tank top, once snow-white,
    now translucent in places, damp and surrendered.
    but braless ,
    Her breasts hang soft and heavy,
    full moons cradled in stretched cotton,
    twin boiled eggs swaying in silk handkerchiefs,
    each step sending them into slow, liquid rolls
    that tug the fabric taut then loose again.She crosses the room and the gentlest tremor
    ripples through her ass—
    plump, sun-warmed peaches wrapped in taut skin,
    the kind of roundness that begs gravity to linger.
    When she stops to adjust, thumb and finger
    hook the elastic waistband, dragging it down
    an inch, then two
    the pale lower curves spill free for a heartbeat,
    and there, catching the late-afternoon gold,
    a fine mist of golden down,
    those delicate, almost invisible hairs
    standing like the fuzz on a just-ripe apricot,
    shimmering as though lit from within.
    My throat closes. I forget how to exhale.She bends to retrieve a fallen magazine
    and the panties ride higher,
    wedging softly between those full cheeks revealing and outlining every dimple and swell.
    When she straightens, the flesh jiggles once
    a single, innocent quake
    then settles with a dreamy heaviness
    that makes the blood roar behind my eyes.Now she sinks onto the couch, legs folding beneath her,
    leans far back, arms stretched overhead.
    The tank rides up, baring the smooth, shallow bowl
    of her navel, the faint trail of peach fuzz
    arrowing downward until it vanishes
    beneath the rolled-down band of cotton.
    Her breasts lift with the stretch,
    nipples tightening into sharp little peaks
    that stab against the damp cloth like rose thorns,
    dark shadows blooming wider as she breathes.
    They sway forward when she exhales
    slow, pendulous, hypnotic
    then drift back, brushing the inside of the shirt
    with the softest friction.She reaches for the water glass on the sill,
    torso twisting, one breast sliding sideways
    to press its full, warm weight against her ribs,
    the other rising higher, straining the seam.
    A single bead of sweat rolls from collarbone
    down the valley between them,
    disappearing into shadow.Sue, twenty and untouched by shame,
    you move through ordinary light
    and make it tremble.
    Every careless tug, every languid shift,
    every flash of that golden, forbidden down
    is a theft I hoard in silence,
    a gallery of stolen breaths,
    of skin that glows like heated marble,
    of flesh that yields and recovers
    with the lazy certainty of ripe fruit
    finally falling into waiting hands
    that will never dare to touch.

  • pertaining to all Women

    They’re never just fabric, are they?Not to me. A whisper of lace caught at the hip,black silk clinging like a secret I was never meant to keep. Cotton that’s softened from too many washes still carrying the faint warm signature of where you sit all day things pressed together when you drive to work, crossing and uncrossing in a meeting, standing too long at the copier while someone talked about deadlines. I think about the elastic kissing the small of your back, the way the waistband leaves the gentlest red ghost-line I’d trace with a knuckle if I were allowed behind you right now. I imagine the crotch is already darker than it should be, not from an accident, but from the slow treason of your own body listening to a memory of my voice or the brush of denim against itself when you shift in your chair. You’re reading this at your desk, aren’t you? Breath shallow, pretending to study a spreadsheet.Thighs clenching once hard then forcing themselves apart again like good girls who’ve been told to behave. But the pulse between them doesn’t listen. It answers in Morse code: yes yes slower don’t you dare stop reading I like them peeled down just enough, still tangled at the knees, so I can see the damp proof that poetry can be a weapon when it lands inside someone trying to stay professional. Keep scrolling, sweetheart. Let the words settle low. Let your panties ruin themselves a little more while you pretend you’re only checking email. I’ll be here, quiet, collecting every tremor you won’t let show.She  has to lock her screen now. Probably has to press her lips together and remember how to breathe through her nose. Probably hates me a little. Probably doesn’t

  • You’ve got Mail!

    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.

  • While she showered

    He knocks twice, polite, professional, waits on the welcome mat like a good guest should. She calls through the door ..”five minutes, just a quick rinse, make yourself at home” .  The apartment smells of her morning: coffee gone cold, vanilla candle, warm skin. He steps inside. Carpet muffles guilt.Down the short hall her bedroom door stands ajar,light spilling soft across the floorboards.There crumpled at the foot of the unmade bed,a small pale pool of cotton and lace still holding the exact shape of her hips,still radiating the heat she left behind.He tells himself he’s only looking. Tells himself it’s nothing, just fabric, Just laundry, just curiosity wearing thin excuses. But his fingers already know the lie.They reach. They close.The cloth is damp in places,shockingly alive against his palm— not wet from water, but from her,from the private pulse of walking, sitting,breathing through another long day.A faint musk rises, intimate, unapologetic. He brings it nearer, presses the warm crotch to his face like a man trying to remember prayer.His breath snags. Blood hammers behind his eyes. He is careful, so careful— does not tear, does not stain, only buries himself in the ghost of her body while real water drums against porcelain ten feet away.He inhales her like evidence, like contraband oxygen, like the last secret he’ll ever be allowed. The shower runs and runs. She hums something off-key, oblivious, clean, becoming new again.He folds the panties exactly as they were, places them back in the same careless heap. Steps backward into the hallway. Smooths his shirt. Check his watch. Becomes once more the man who arrived on time.When she emerges her  hair dripping, towel tight, smiling the smile of someone who still trusts , he says the party starts at eight, we should go.She nods. Grabs her bag. Never notices the way his knuckles stay white all the way down the stairs.