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
