Some men love to see sexy, slinky thongs stretched over a woman’s backside. And who can blame them? It’s certainly a hell of a view — one I love to admire, too. The difference is when I take a woman’s thong off, I like to slip it on and wear it myself while I get her off.
Thongs for men simply don’t suit my taste. I enjoy frilly, feminine, totally decadent confections. The more lace, the better. I want sparkling spangles to decorate me from my dick all the way around to my asscrack. I want a string of pearls to sit between my cheeks, sinking into my crevice. And if it had recently been worn by a lover? Well, even better.
My friend Gia shares a similar taste in lingerie. We shop together all the time. After every trip, we model our purchases for one another. Our private runway shows often take a dirty turn, ending with us in bed together.
But one afternoon, we didn’t even make it to the store. Gia showed up at my place in one of her skimpiest getups to date. Her barely there miniskirt hung low on her hips, the hem hitting just under the curve of her ass.
When Gia bent down to drop her purse on the floor, the waistband of her skirt dipped to reveal her hot pink thong. The silky ribbons that sat on her hips connected to the elastic that bisected her ass. At the very top of her crack was a tiny, silver heart with a sparkling diamond at its center.
Unable to help myself I said, “Hot G-string, Gia. How do I get my hands on one?”
“Why? You want it in your size?” she asked playfully.
I shrugged and answered, “Yours or mine. Either way, they’ll look good on my bedroom floor.”
“How about you borrow mine?”
With that, Gia reached up under her skirt and grabbed hold of the garment. She wiggled her hips and ass as she shimmied the tiny scrap of fabric down her thighs to her knees, then she let the dainty undies drop to her ankles.
Gia offered me a coy smile, then she dipped down to pick up the panties. The thin band of elastic hung off her crooked finger, the super-fine fabric so light it fluttered in the spinning ceiling fan’s breeze.
Before I could reach out to grab the panties, Gia slipped her fingers into either side of the waistband and stretched them tight like a slingshot, aiming them right at me. She pulled back, straining the elastic, then she released the lacy projectile, which hit me square in the chest. I caught the fabric as it slapped against my pec.
“Someone’s feeling feisty,” I said.
Gia watched intently as I tucked the fabric into my fist and reached down to pop open the button on my jeans. To let the suspense build, I slid the zipper down slowly to reveal the bright purple pair of panties I’d put on that morning.
“Very nice,” Gia murmured. “You have excellent taste.”
“I’ll trade you,” I teased.
She extended her hand greedily and said, “OK, give them to me.”