NSFW. Fantasy. 18+

For my muse in Savannah

It was a nice thick mailing envelope, perfect for this purpose. She waited patiently on line, behind the elderly woman with a parcel for Bettendorf, or so the label said. She fancied the woman was sending something to her grandchildren or even great-grandchildren. Certainly possible these days.

The woman put the parcel on the counter, answered the clerk’s questions, paid the clerk with a card of some sort.

Now it was her turn.

“Are you sending any flammable liquids?”

No.

“Firearms or ammunition?”

No.

“Drugs?”

No,

He quoted the price. “Insurance?”

No.

Was the clerk looking too intently at her? Did he notice her nipples hard and pointed beneath her tee shirt, whose graphic was that lewd Rolling Stones tongue. Pokies, the English called them, randy sods that they can be.

She paid. In cash. He took the mailer envelope.

She walked back to her car. As she walked, she felt the rub of the seam in her jeans against her, well you know, cunt.

But she did it. Obeyed Him. Mailed her panties to Him. She made sure they were nice. Date Night Panties. Smooth silk with lace on the edges, a seam down the back, defining the globes of her ass, that ass she thought was too big, but the ass He loved. She could even feel the memory of a swat He would give it, just because He could.

And she drove home. Went straight to the bedroom, took off the jeans, and that tee shirt, lay down on the bed. And masturbated.