CHP 2 — IN WHICH MICKY BUYS SOME MORE DIRTY KNICKERS FROM ROSY, AND SOME TIGHTS, AND A FEW PICTURES.
Life continued ever on at the hateful biscuit factory; biscuits being baked and me pretending to watch over them as they slept – frankly I no longer gave fuck one about those artificially twice cooked coasters; they tasted like shit anyway; nobody who worked at the factory ever ate them; they weren’t even served at the weekly sales meetings; in fact it was a mystery to all why weekly sales meetings were even a thing.
In truth the only thing that kept me from throwing myself in the oat hopper that strange diseased autumn was the smell of Rosy’s cunt, and indeed the scented memory of the smell of Rosy’s cunt — aided by the retention of her titchy little knicker’s as a sort of ever fashionable ornament to my otherwise uniform washing line; weirdly, it felt somehow disrespectful to just throw them out in the trash.
Ah Rosy! The only place in the whole universe I wanted to be.
Looking up from my phone, held fast in the grip of my womb-like sofa, nodding off in front of my mammoth wall screen TV, I suddenly caught a glimpse of sweet Rosy Glow, standing in the centre of the floor, legs together, arms stretched to the ceiling, jeans and black tights pulled down to her knees, perfect peachy arse strung with a basic plain green cotton thong, black vest pulled up high, completely exposing her firm young breasts and totally concealing her unknowable face – an outfit I’d seen Rosy wearing in a recent posting on her website; additionally I imagined her tiny undoubtedly ticklish feet to be coated in dirty little pale green ankle socks.
Standing in front of her, I lean down and press my face into her armpit, breathing in the heady fragrance of her sweat, ravenously licking tiny angelic wisp’s of soft salty armpit hair, tasting her nervousness, drinking in her unexpected excitement; at the same time I run a hand down her opposite arm, until I reach her breast, holding her spilling flesh in my squeezing hand, my rough thumb brushing her tightening nipple, my palm encompassing her ripe warm abundant flesh. Soon my tongue arrives at Rosy’s other little puffy teat, both nipples tenderly stress tested with the gentle application of teeth and untrimmed nails, until, without a word above the gale of her breathless veiled moan’s, I stand back, pull the waistband of her G-string forward with the tip of a finger, and then with my other hand thrust down deep between her glistening thigh’s, mixing her up and lifting her off the ground with the frantic action of my wild flexing finger’s; her cum soon dripping from my wrist.
Rosy is a good girl though, she maintains her composure, and lets the waves of unbearable pleasure surge throughout her spuming body without altering her pose — indeed, she just sort of shivers, letting out increasingly high pitched squeals and cute little grunts. Keeping my right hand hard at work down the front of Rosy’s draw’s, I release the waistband with a stinging wet thwack and move my left hand to the small of her back, steadying her and pushing her firmly down onto my merciless digits. Rosy’s cries have caused a wet patch of saliva to darken the material of the vest stretched taut across her straining unseen face.
I withdraw my hand from Rosy’s thong, leaving a thick smear of pussy cream on her still pulsating belly, and then fall to my knees, reaching round and grabbing her buttocks, pulling her ravaged cunt towards my face — spreading her cheeks and teasing her arsehole with my fingertips, as I grind my mouth into her cotton sheathed vulva, pushing my tongue under the soggy material, deep into her burning wet vagina, as she drips and spits her clear milky cum into my eager mouth. Standing, as Rosy trembles, I further lift her vest and expose her mouth and nose, kissing her deeply and greedily; making her face sloppy with her own cum . . .
The only reason I hadn’t contacted Rosy re: the sweat off her vagina, and immediately ordered another pair of intoxicating knick-knicks, was the covid. Manchester had become a virus hotspot. A delayed spike in the skewed data putting the blame unfairly on students.
Although it had been over a week since I first got a sniff of Rosy’s delightful undies, and in spite of the fact I had so far remained symptom free, in light of the remote possibility of catching the pox, I decided that any further purchases of cummy knickers from Manchester would have to wait for a few months — sad face.
But then again – I ‘reasoned’ – perhaps sniffing the antibody rich gusset of a frighteningly fit nineteen year old student straight out of the plague zone might have a prophylactic effect; sort of homeopathic sex magick. Instantly I did some research — finding many internet agencies willing to stake their reputation’s on sweat and cum being covid secure, unlike piss and shit which will give you a dose. Imagine, a panty sniffer catching covid from sniffing pants, and in consequence losing his sense of smell; no more beautiful Spanish pussy aroma for you Mr Sniffspantison. It was a gamble, alright. Dirty panty roulette.
In reality I didn’t have to worry about it for too long, as the whole question became moot when Rosy posted a new picture of herself — lying on her side on her bed, naked except for a pair of black tights pulled down to her knees, with compact cotton G-strung bum neatly exposed – and that was that.
M: “Hola Rosy! I hope you are well and in the mood for a bit of business. I’ve been checking your page and I’ve just gotta say, you are without a doubt, by far, the hottest woman on the whole damn internet, utterly flippin seriously! And that’s before I even mention the knickers you sold me, which hit me like a fucking bomb! Whatever you did to make that happen, I want it again! And a bit more . . . I wonder if I can ask you how much it would cost to supply the following (I’m gonna be specific because I can’t help myself).
“Presuming you are not on your period (if you are, I’ll gladly wait), I want you to wear a pair of cotton briefs exactly like the previous pair but white, under a pair of black tights, for forty-eight sweaty hours. And just before you take them both off and package them up together, I want you to rub your pussy to orgasm through the tights and knickers causing the gusset of the tights to become visibly wet (not soaking, just noticeably damp). And when you take them off I want you to roughly roll them down those most lickable legs of yours and package them as they are; don’t separate them.
“Additionally I want four photographs: one when you first put the knickers and tights on, bent over with your legs wide apart; and one on your back with your legs spread as wide as they will go; with the remaining two focusing on the removal of the tights and knickers — both halfway down your thighs, both with your legs wide enough apart that the tights are stretched taut, both clearly showing the gusset of the knickers; one from the front (including your beautiful belly button), and one from the back (including your devastatingly cute butt).
“Anyway, see what you think, give me a price, and if I’m lucky you might be able to do this for me tomorrow, for postage soon after? So that for a few delirious days I can escape this mad infected world and drift upon a hazy dream of perfect Spanish teenaged pussy; the finest pussy there is. It’s truly an honour to smell your scent Rosy. Kindest regards, Micky.”
R: “Hey baby, I’m not on my period and will be pleased to do some tights, panties and pictures for you, for £35 baby, let me know what you think . . . (I don’t do pussy pictures) x”
M: “That was a quick response! I think £35 sounds fabulous Rosy. Not really looking for pussy pics, just some sweet angles with your legs wide apart wearing them. And some with the tights pulled halfway down, similar to the recent photos on your page? How’s that sound? X”
R: “That sounds marvellous baby.”
M: “Thanks Rosy – I’ll pay you this very minute. Really looking forward to seeing some amazing pics tomorrow and experiencing that magical perfume. You’re wonderful! Micky x”
R: “You too baby. Thank you so much!! Lots of love, Rosy x”
Following this brief textual flurry I awaited Rosy’s awesome tights and knicker combo in a daze; scheduled to arrive three days’ later on a Tuesday morning — delivery via the trembling hand of another embarrassed postal worker — when I planned to indulge myself with the panty sniffing equivalent of the finest skunk weed. Oh boy!
Thoughts of wild pussy rubbing leapt like flaming tongues into the foreground of my burning soul. Rosy relaxing on my bed — face down, legs casually parted; her eager little nylon armoured cunt battling with my hand as I stroke her into a squealing bucking frenzy; holding her head firmly against the pillow by her soft perfumed hair; shamelessly kneading her crotch into a state of total creamy filth; her cries like the cosmic whimpering of a star about to go super nova . . .
The next day I received an email from Rosy with four attached images. Oh my fucking OM fucking G!
The images that naughty Miss Rosy Glow created at my smutty behest had been on my mind forever, and now there they were, right in front of my boggling eyes!
The first image of Rosy, kneeling on her bed, face buried in a pillow, arms tucked up against her constricted tits, bending over with her knees in different time zones, her bum like a lesson in sacred geometry, immediately filled me with an unquenchable desire to grab her hips and massage her pussy and arsehole with my face; breathing her holes through wet cotton and nylon; the overwhelming stank of her sweaty little vulva transporting me to a recovery room beside the gates of Saint Peter . . .
The second image had Rosy on her back, cropped to exclude her face, her legs completely spread; her tiny cute black nylon-ed feet just aching to be scratched with a sadistic thumbnail; the taut gusset of her white cotton knicker’s almost see-thru with cum, beneath the near splitting crotch of her rudely stretching tights. Whilst contemplating this image, it occurred to me that the ruthless application of a heavy-duty vibrator, held immovably against Rosy’s slippery little fuck hole, might produce just the kind of pleasing effect that a dirty old biscuit fiend like myself would enjoy — I pictured Rosy’s genitals convulsing against their wet restraint; a pulsating emission of creamy discharge dripping gently towards her no doubt twitching anus; her abdomen dancing beneath my steadying hand; a deep guttural growl silenced by a filter of gritted teeth; a face unseen in a grimacing blur of orgasmic release . . .
The third image caused me to cry out ‘God’s bollox!’ as the enormity of its exquisite revelation took hold of my every neural pathway and lit me up like a fucking seizure! Rosy was really casting a powerful spell with this configuration of saucy little pixels. There she was — the photo taken from her point of view, looking down at her midriff and legs, knees up, lying on her bed – knickers and tights half way down her lightly tanned thigh’s – the underwear separated to allow for a full view of the extensive cummy staining coating the gussets of both — with a carefully arranged hand covering her hairy little cunt, her belly button screaming out for the tip of a tongue — truly I was almost reaching for the fire alarm! . . .
The forth image, taken from the rear, saw Rosy kneeling up on her bed, with the sun shining through her legs and illuminating perfectly a juicy patch of cum on her tights; her bum cheeks clearly exposed as the gateway to a land of ambrosia and unrestrained screaming. I imagined slipping my cock between those trembling cheeks, edging into Rosy’s sopping wet pussy hole and thrusting up deep against her quivering cervix; pounding her tight little Spanish honeypot with my dirty English fuck-prod; filling her with cum and then having her suck the filth off my cock . . .
Knowing that those very knickers and tights, all sweated up and girlie wanked in, would be appearing on my face within forty-eight hours, still damp, and reeking of that perfect little hairy teenaged fuckhole, sent me into a great joyful spiral of explosive lust; sparking off an indoor fireworks display of rarest proportions! This girl was simply just fucking amazing!
So there I found myself, grinning like an idiot, dead centre in the previously unimagined, never dreamt of position, whereby, for a small fee, I could request a fabulously hot nineteen year old girl to wear all the kinds of tight intimate items that never failed to get me hottest, and have her photograph herself in the most graphically revealing positions from the most graphically revealing angles, whilst all the while manipulating herself in whatever depraved ways I chose. How far could this movie go? I wondered hard.
Quickly I decided that in the nearness of future I would make an inquiry regarding exactly what Senorita Glow might be willing to do for her art; probe her limits a bit, and then maybe go just a step beyond? — also, I decided to tell her about the GPS data on her photos; I wasn’t sure about saying something but I didn’t want any weirdo’s on her case; except respectful weirdo’s . . . like me . . . err . . .
To my shame, armed with the few scant details I knew about the greatest dirty underwear seller since sweaty vulva began, following a fevered couple of hours rummaging about on the internet, I slyly discovered, with a high degree of artful probability, that Miss Rosy Glow was actually one Carla Regaliza Vargas, 19, from Malaga. Also I found a single low resolution photograph of the cute little minx, standing beside an Andalucían fountain wearing the most immodest black leggings and grinning like a Cheshire cat sitting on a sex machine.
It’s hard for me to describe the effect of seeing Rosy/Carla’s face for the first time — let’s stick with Rosy for now – in that near unresolvable photograph. It felt as though I was looking at an image of someone I knew from the beginning of time, someone beloved who had gone away and had now returned. I felt as though I somehow knew that face. How could that be?
And then the tights and knickers arrived.
Presuming I could remain symptom free for the next two weeks, I figured I should be in the clear, and in the meantime, all I needed to do was take a deep breath.