Mom you're the only person I masterbate to. It started when I started masturbating to aunt Amy. Imaging her give me head. Then one day I while I was masturbating to a picture of aunt Amy and for some reason images of you giving me head kept going through my mind. I didn't like it at first but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I ended cumming thinking about you and I felt disgusted with myself. That night when everyone was asleep I couldn't stop thinking about you so I went into the laundry room and grabbed a pair of your clean panties and started masturbating with them. Then I saw your dirty panties and picked them up and smelled them then I saw on the crotch of the panties dried up crusty stains that came from your vagina and I put the crotch of your panties in my mouth and sucked on them getting all of it in my mouth now knowing how your vagina taste. I ejaculated in your clean panties and put them back. From there I masterbated to you more and more now you're the only person I masterbate to and I want more than to fuck you. I want to make sweet passionate love to you and I want you to look me in the eyes when I cum and shoot my seed inside you filling you up. I honestly want a relationship with you. I want to marry you and make love to you every day multiple times a day. 

The mall was a shithole, its flickering fluorescent lights buzzing like a dying wasp nest. Alex, 19, fresh off volleyball practice, strutted into the Victoria’s Secret PINK section like she was daring the world to fuck with her. Her father, Greg, trailed behind, cursing under his breath. He’d lost a stupid-ass bet—naming every goddamn Pixies song—and now he was stuck in this neon-lit cesspool of lace and cotton, his boots scuffing the grimy linoleum.Alex had just showered at the gym, her skin still slick, her hair dripping with that cheap coconut body wash that smelled like a tropical dumpster. But the shower didn’t scrub away the raw, feral energy of the court—her eyes fucking burned with it, sharp as broken glass. She zeroed in on a rack of PINK thongs, snatching a pair so goddamn skimpy they looked like they’d disintegrate if you breathed on them: hot pink, strings thinner than dental floss, with a cotton gusset that was more of a suggestion than actual fabric. “These,” she snarled, tossing them at the cashier, some dead-eyed hag who rang them up like she was already half-buried.Back home, Alex vanished into her room, the door slamming like a fucking sledgehammer. Greg collapsed onto the couch, the TV spitting static, the air in the house thick as shit, like something was breathing down his neck. He tried to shake off the mall’s sickly glow, but it stuck to him like sweat.Hours later, Alex sauntered out, her volleyball spandex shorts clinging to her thighs—black, glossy, so fucking tight they were basically see-through, the hot pink thong’s outline taunting him through the sheer fabric. She flicked something onto the living room floor: the PINK thong, crumpled, soaking wet, its strings frayed like they’d been chewed up by something alive. The cotton gusset was stained dark with sweat and grime, smeared with a yellowish muck that made Greg’s stomach lurch. The smell hit him like a punch to the face—musky, primal, a fucked-up mix of coconut body wash, volleyball court sweat, and something darker, like wet earth mixed with sweet, rotting fruit. It wasn’t just dirty; it was alive, burrowing into his lungs, making his head spin like he’d snorted something bad.Alex leaned against the doorway, her spandex shorts glinting under the flickering lights, the pink thong’s outline mocking him. Her lips curled into a smirk that screamed fuck you, her eyes glinting with something too goddamn sharp. “They’re fucking wrecked,” she said, her voice low, like she was laughing at the universe. “Practice was a bitch. Gonna need more.”Greg’s jaw clenched. “Alex, what the fuck? And where’s your goddamn homework? You think you can just skip that shit and leave your nasty-ass laundry everywhere?” His voice cracked, but his eyes were glued to the thong. The frayed strings twitched, the smell growing thicker, sweeter, pulling at something sick and wrong inside him. He wanted to scream, to throw the fucking thing out, but his body wouldn’t listen, his breath hitching as the scent clawed into him.She didn’t answer, just stood there, smirking, her see-through spandex shorts a fucking taunt. The room felt like a furnace, the walls sweating, the air pulsing with that smell—coconut, sweat, and something that wasn’t fucking human. Greg’s hands shook as he grabbed the thong off the floor, the strings slick and frayed, the gusset heavy with that rotten, intoxicating scent. He couldn’t stop himself. He brought it to his face, the smell flooding his senses—musky, sweet, metallic, like a fever dream you can’t wake up from. His mind screamed what the fuck are you doing?, but his body didn’t care.Then, rage kicked in. Alex’s smug-ass smirk, her skipped homework, the way she stood there like she fucking owned him—it was too much. He spat on the thong, a thick glob hitting the stained gusset, mixing with the wet grime. He tossed it back to the floor, cursing under his breath, thinking she hadn’t seen. But the smell didn’t fade; it got stronger, mocking him, curling around him like a noose. Alex turned and walked away, her spandex shorts glinting, leaving the thong there like a fucking landmine.The next day, Alex wore the same goddamn thong. Greg didn’t know how she didn’t notice the spit, the grime, the way it was falling apart. She strutted around in those see-through spandex shorts, the pink thong’s outline glaring through the fabric, wet and clinging like it was part of her skin. She went to volleyball practice, came back, and tossed another ruined thong on the floor—always wet, always stained, always reeking of that same sickening smell: coconut, sweat, and that sweet, decayed earthiness that made Greg’s head swim. Her smirk never faltered, her eyes glinting like she knew something he didn’t.It became a fucking ritual. Every day, Alex would shower, pull on those see-through spandex shorts, and leave a new PINK thong on the floor—wet, frayed, the strings curling like they were alive, the gusset soaked with sweat and grime. And every day, Greg would pick them up, cursing her for skipping her homework, for being such a reckless fucking mess. But he couldn’t stop himself. He’d sniff them, the smell hitting him like a musky, sweet, metallic, rotting, alive—pulling him deeper into something he couldn’t name. He’d spit on them sometimes, furious at her, at himself, but the thongs kept coming, always wet, always reeking, always there.One night, Greg stood over the latest thong, his hands shaking, the smell so thick it felt like it was choking him. Alex stood in the doorway, her spandex shorts glinting, the pink thong’s outline a fucking curse through the sheer fabric. “You’re so fucking pathetic,” she whispered, her voice echoing in his skull, layered with something that wasn’t her. The room tilted, the walls dripping, the thong’s strings writhing on the floor. “Keep sniffing, Dad. You’re already fucked

Who likes my wife’s stained little black panties/thongs?

I have always been obsessed with anal sex, and no, I am not gay. It all started with my first gf, I just wanted to try everything, so I somehow convinced her to this. To say that it was a disaster, would be an understatement. I had no idea how much lube this requires, it hurt her like hell, I was too fast and too eager that it must have felt awful for her (I had no idea what I was doing), and even some shit stains were involved, so, it was a debacle, and we never tried it again.

Many years later, I was with a woman, who did want to oblige to this wish of mine, after so many refused. We did it, and it was ok. It was obvious she wasn't a fan of this, but I learned some stuff, or should I say we did, together. But, we did it very rarely, and I didn't really like the fact that she was obviously not into it, that we stopped all together.

I attributed my experience to the fact that such deed must be reserved for porn only, and no woman actually enjoys it.

Now, a little digression, I am 42 at the moment, never been married, but I have been a serial monogamist, had quite a few relationships, lasting from few months, up to six years (the longest). I have never been alone, and the most time I was without anyone was three months, or something like that. When my last relationship ended (the longest - six years), I realized that things have changed for me, with aging, and that finding women interested in me wasn't as easy, as it was before. I was alone, for over a year.

Then I met her. Ten years older than me, but I had no idea that that was the case, until we started dating, since she looked my age. Beautiful woman, divorced, with large fake tits, which she did hide under her sweater, that somehow didn't mach her character. She is a uni professor, a lady, and she has two grown sons, who moved out of her house.

She was so open, it was obvious she liked me, and we hit it off perfectly. Only after we started dating, and having sex, she told me all about her. She got divorced, since her husband found another woman. After that, she had the big C, so she had both of her breasts removed (thus the fake boobs), it was a hard healing period, but after she went through it, and her sons moved out, she decided to start a new life, and I was in it.

I don't know what it is, if it's an empty nest thing, blow to self esteem that she suffered from her illness and divorce, or something else, but she became so obsessed with me, so clingy and loving, and caring, that I am about to marry her.

Now, this confession is not about my future marriage, it is about the thing, my obsession, I mentioned at the start. I knew she will do it with me, she would do anything I ask her to, it is not that, it is the fact, that she enjoys it.

At first I thought that she was faking it, but no... I can't go into details, cause this would be too long to read, but let me just tell you, that she is definitely not faking it.

And that's it. I guess the moral of this experience is, that there is someone out there, that shares our kinks, but it is just very, very, very hard to find that person.

A few years back, I had an affair with my younger coworker. Hot blonde, single, career oriented, was 35 at the time. I smelled that she is one of those, who would do many things to get ahead in life, so I tested the waters with some texting. I am very into feet, so I was texting how I like her shoes, and if she could borrow me a pair, and I would get them back the next day, under a condition that she must wear them.

I took a huge risk there, but it payed off. When she took them back, she noticed the stains on the black suede. She played it cool, so, I started giving her some things, here and there, pushing her forward in the company. After a while, I would jerk off in front of her, and cum on her feet, while she was wearing shoes. She seemed indifferent, but ok with it.

Eventually, she started giving me head, and I would reciprocate from time to time, but she didn't wanna let me fuck her. The hottest part was, at least for me, that it was so obvious that she didn't enjoy it.

This lasted for over a year, until she rose far enough, not to need my backing any more, and moved to a different sector.

In today's climate, trying to repeat such a thing, with someone else, seems suicidal, so I will never do it again, but I have my memories.

Another pair of my wife’s stained panties from a long day in work… I wonder what, or who, gets her so sticky in work?