Lingerie hunting

I went hunting for lingerie that promised trouble, the kind that whispers fuck me the second it hits skin. Candy had outgrown the pastel teengirl act. She wanted something that screamed wicked, a sin-soaked siren with nothing innocent left in her smile. I pictured the lace biting into her hips, straps snapping against her ass every time she bent over for another sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. That same lace disappearing between the slick folds she now demanded I worship, tongue dragging slow and greedy until she came wet and loud. Nothing floral or soft anymore. She wanted leather, see-through panels, a crotch that peeled aside so my mouth could land directly on hot, pulsing cunt. The salesgirl raised an eyebrow when I described what my girl was craving: proof she was hungry, obscene, dripping between her thighs at the mere thought of being licked until she shook. I bought it anyway. Twice.