You text Brad.

"Fine. Your place or mine?"

"Bring your tight ass back at the penthouse. I'm gonna nuke you into orbit tonight, babe".

Sex scene involving the Victoria's Secret outfit. I'm bored with it right now, though. Feel free to write it unless I do it soon.

You're not sure how it happened, but you wake up the next morning, your pussy sore and gaping, late for work, since Brad always sleeps till noon, and without a clue when it comes to the whereabouts of your underwear. As to your suit, it's covered in cum and what appears to be coconut juice and rum. You don't have a choice. You know Brad keeps a stash of clothes: ex-flames, ex-girlfriends, some random sluts who apparently left half naked, and you know where to find it. You rummage through, but few things will fit. You have to settle for a club dress that only partially looks slutty, and a pair of terrible golden yoga pants. They're not even truly opaque, but beggars can't be choosers. You keep looking, but it seems you can only find bras for girls with huge tits, and no underwear whatsoever. Wait, no. There is a thong. Aw, come on. It states in bold, red letters on white fabric "Creampie my slutty hole". Who wears this? Thinking of your well used pussy, you quickly amend the thought to "who, given a choice, wears this?".

You don't have a choice. You text Alice "I need help. Do you have any change of underwear you could lend me?"

It's humiliating, and worse, you can't even ask for clothes, since she's a different build. She does have very similar underwear measurements, though. Thankfully, while she doesn't have any spare panties, she does have a spare bra. You thank the protecting spirits of office ladies that Alice exists, can help you out, and that you have no presentation or critical meeting today. You shudder at the thought of presenting in that dress, with that thong and those "pants".

At the office, you barely have time to get the bra on that things pick up. You have missed a few calls, and things go wild. You drench the fires, quell the quarrels, and burn down any inkling of a raised eyebrow at your surprising look with a scathing eye. You barely see the day pass, and you're half up the glass stairs to the station when you hear the voice of a colleague you really did not want to hear. He's obnoxious, he's an asshat, and he really wants to get in your pants. Well, rather, in your pussy.

He makes a few uninspired comments about your state of dress. You're not amused.

He mocks Alice on her latest goof. You're not amused either, and rather irritated.

"Do you ever have anything interesting to say?", you snap.

"Sometimes, it's not about what you say, it's about what you read." he answers. Oh, come on. You realize that with the angle he has, that short club dress doesn't obscure your translucent yoga pants. Which means... he just read that slutty message. You're flushing red.