All black

His response hit like a boot to the ribs: *Black. Always black.* The certainty burned. *The kind that leaves imprints on skin if you wear it long enough.* My pulse stuttered—the image of his fingers following those marks later, mapping the indentations with rough fingertips. *Especially when it’s damp,* he added, and the crudeness sent a shockwave through me.

I wrenched open my lingerie drawer, tights and mismatched socks spilling onto the carpet. The black push-up bra was buried beneath sixth-form leavers’ tees—scalloped edges, underwire digging into my ribs the second I clasped it. The matching thong was practically dental floss. I twisted to check the mirror: the bra hoisted my tits into obscene cleavage, the thong’s lace vanishing between my cheeks. Perfect.

Flash on. I arched over the bed, one hand fisting the sheets while the other angled my phone. The shutter captured every detail—the way the underwire bit into pale flesh, how the thong’s seam disappeared into the crease of my thigh. I typed with my thumb hovering over send: *Damp enough for you?*

His reply came before I could exhale: *Christ. Perfect.* The words seared the screen. *Every fucking detail. The way that lace cuts into your hips. How your tits look spilling over that wire.* The typing bubbles convulsed, vanished, then erupted: *Wish you were bent over my desk right now. Wouldn’t even let you take it off—just peel those pretty panties aside and lick you deep while you clutch the edge.*