Black Panties (a story)

Sir insists that I wear black panties every day. G-string, boy cut, bikini – the style doesn’t matter much (although lace is particularly appreciated) but the color is mandatory. At first I just thought that was because, you know, black underwear = sexy, but I quickly learned that there’s more to it than that.

He makes me wear black panties, because it helps him know how much of a slut I’ve been that day. Because if you’re a slut, and you’re wearing black panties, you can’t hide it. If you’ve been wet, just the slightest bit wet, the evidence – a stain of white marring the smooth black – is right there for anyone who looks.

And he looks. When we’re together (sadly not often enough) he examines them every time I change them. Which, with the things he does to me, and how wet they make me, can be pretty often. But when we’re apart, I have to send him a nightly panty photo to inspect.

Inspection is like a game I can’t win. Too much evidence of wetness and it’s “You slutty little girl, what have you been doing with yourself today? Weren’t you supposed to be working? What would your boss think if I showed him these nasty panties? Maybe I should have you send them to him in the mail.” Too little, and I’m chastised for not keeping him in my mind and or being ready to be fucked at any moment he should need me (never mind that he’s 500 miles away).

Someday maybe I’ll figure out how to achieve the perfect happy medium. But probably not, since the game is rigged. Are sopping wet panties really *my* fault when he’s ordered me to spend the day with a butt plug in my ass and smart balls in my pussy?

Sometimes inspection leads to punishment. On a too wet day, he might tell me to ball up those dirty panties and put them in my mouth while I masturbate on my knees for him, bringing myself to the edge over and over without being allowed to orgasm. A too dry day, and I might have to prove my arousal to him by coming within a time limit, or in an unusual place or position.

And in the end, it doesn’t really matter. He owns me, owns those panties, owns that wetness. My inability to control my wetness, the evidence of my wetness, just reminds of that. That I am his slut, that I need to be owned and controlled, because obviously I can’t control myself, or control the desire I feel for him. The desire that oozes out of my cunt, leaving its mark on my black panties, just as he has left his mark on my heart, mind and body.