I Sold Him My Used Thong and Ended Up Obeying

I had never sold anything like that before. I had flirted, sure. I had fantasized with strangers in chats, too. But that morning, bored, alone in my apartment, and more frightened by my bank balance than embarrassed, I logged into a chat room without expecting much.

Among the idiotic messages and the guys writing like animals, one different message appeared. Polite, direct, without any urgency. He told me he was from my city, that he was a grown man, discreet, and that he wanted to pay me for a used garment. He got specific soon enough: one of my thongs. He wanted to smell it. He wanted to masturbate with my scent shoved up his nose.

I read that and felt a lash between my legs. It wasn't love, or tender curiosity. It was pure kink. The idea of an unknown man wanting to pay for my fluids, for the imprint of my ass on a scrap of fabric, made me instantly wet.

I gave him an alternate username so we could talk more easily. As soon as I did, I looked at my dark reflection in the screen and recognized myself with the piggy smile I didn't usually show anyone. He didn't take long to write again.

—If it can be a thong, even better —he wrote—. I want it to have everything. Front and back.

I bit my lip when I read it. It was obvious what he wanted. Not just the smell of my cunt; he also wanted the trace of the string between my ass cheeks, the exact part that rubbed against my ass. And the worst part wasn't understanding him. The worst part was that it turned me on to hear him say it so calmly.

—I've never done anything like this —I replied.

—Then it'll be your first time —he answered—. And you're going to do it right.

That sentence left me frozen for a second. He didn't ask me. He didn't suggest it. He took it for granted. There was a strange firmness in the way he wrote, a confidence that made me squeeze my thighs beneath the kitchen table. He asked whether the money would help me. I said yes. He told me that my obedience would help him.

That was when I should have ended the conversation. Instead, I stroked myself over my shorts.

—And what would “doing it right” mean? —I asked.

—I want a genuinely used garment, not an act. I want you to wear it after you come. I want you to sleep in it. I want you to hand it to me tomorrow, warm from having worn it all day.

I swallowed. I had a toy in my nightstand drawer. I had time to spare. My body was already begging for a fight. And above all, I had that indecent feeling that I was stepping into something that wasn't just about selling underwear, but about letting myself be directed by a man whose face I hadn't even seen.

—That costs more —I replied, trying to regain control.

—I don't mind paying more if you obey without cheating.

The word obey went straight down to my cunt. I left the kitchen and went to the bedroom with my phone in my hand. I opened the drawer, took out a black thong, and left it on the bed. Then I took out my suction toy, turned it on just to hear the buzz, and my skin prickled.

—I want to know how you shave —he wrote.

I told him. Very little hair above, a short strip, the rest completely smooth. He took a few seconds to answer, as if he were imagining the exact shape of my cunt. My hand was already under my shorts, rubbing myself over the wet fabric.

—Tonight you shower, put on the thong, and masturbate with the toy. At least three orgasms. Without taking it off. I want it overflowing.

I read the order with my finger still on my clitoris. A stupid moan escaped me, alone in the room. It wasn't only the act itself. It was the idea of complying. Of imagining that serious man receiving a damp piece of fabric tomorrow because I had followed his instructions to the letter.

—You're very bossy for a stranger —I wrote.

—And you're far too wet to pretend to be difficult. Do as you're told.

I undressed slowly, not out of delicacy but because I wanted to feel each garment falling to the floor. I stepped into the shower still holding my phone, leaving it on the sink so I could keep watching the lit screen. The water ran over my tits, my belly, between my already-swollen legs. I didn't touch myself there because his order had been clear: shower first, then put on the thong and masturbate with it on.

I got out, barely dried myself, and put on the black thong. The thin fabric settled between my lips and the string parted my ass cheeks slightly. Then I lay down on the bed with my legs open and sent him a message.

—Done.

—Describe how it fits.

I looked down. My nipples were already hard. The fabric outlined my swollen cunt, and the string sank right where he wanted to imagine it.

—Tight. I'm already wetting it without having started.

—Good. Now put your hand inside and touch only over the thong. I want you to soak the fabric first.

I obeyed. I slipped my fingers beneath the crotch and pressed my mound. I rubbed slowly, searching for my clitoris through the fabric, and immediately felt the wet heat building. The friction of the material made me worse. The thong began sticking to my lips, slick, and every pass drew a more open moan from me.

—Like this? —I asked, already breathing badly.

—Harder. I want that thong to be truly filthy. Don't come yet.

I turned around and reached for the suction toy. I pressed it against the thong, right where I throbbed most. The vibration and suction, muffled by the wet fabric, hit me like a kick. I arched my back and opened my legs wider. The device sucked against my covered clitoris while the fabric shifted back and forth, becoming more soaked with every spasm of my cunt.

—Fuck... —I murmured to myself.

—I want audio —he wrote.

I sent it without thinking. A short message, barely my ragged breathing and a moan when I increased the power. I felt stupid and exposed, but that humiliation was driving me wild. Knowing he was going to hear me masturbating to prepare a used garment for him made me press the toy harder.

The first orgasm hit me dirty and fast. It wasn't delicate. I grabbed one breast with one hand and held the device firmly against the thong with the other, letting the release shake my entire belly. My cunt throbbed several times in a row, expelling more wetness, and I felt the fabric completely slimy between my lips.

I sent another audio message, this time with a longer whimper.

—One —he replied—. You have at least two more to go. Don't take off the thong.

I was already lost. I sat up, leaned my back against the headboard, and opened my bra to pull out my tits. I wanted to touch myself everywhere. I wanted to obey and get even hornier at the same time. I twisted one nipple between my fingers while placing the toy back over the fabric. This time I rocked against it, rubbing my pelvis, letting the thong sink deeper between my lips and brush against my ass.

—Tell me what you'll do with it —I wrote.

—I'll smell it slowly. I'll put the cunt part over my face and the string part in my mouth. I'll masturbate thinking about how you filled it for me.

I let out a hoarse moan. That sent me over the edge. I squeezed the suction toy harder, almost angrily, and the second orgasm bent me forward. This time I felt a thick gush soak the fabric even more and glue it completely to my skin. My clitoris was so sensitive it hurt, but it was a good pain, bright, almost unbearable.

—Two —I sent him, along with a picture of the thong still on, the fabric darkened and stuck to me.

—Not bad. I want one more before you sleep. And another when you wake up tomorrow. Then you'll keep it on until you see me.

I came a third time almost out of sheer stubbornness, my legs trembling. It was no longer just pleasure; it was a mixture of exhaustion, arousal, and a filthy obedience that clouded my head. When I finished, I switched off the toy and slipped my fingers in through one side of the thong. They came out shiny and thick. I smelled them. My own scent hit me hard, and I understood his fetish better: there was something animal, intimate, obscene about that trail of a tired, hot cunt.

—Now sleep in it —he ordered—. Write to me as soon as you wake up tomorrow.

I did. I slept with my legs parted, feeling the fabric cold at first and warm afterward as it half-dried against my body. I woke more than once during the night, and every time I shifted my hips I felt the thong rough from the dried moisture. Far from turning me off, it kept me plugged into the fantasy.

I'm preparing my underwear for a stranger.

And I love it.

***

The next morning I woke with my cunt heavy and sensitive. Before I even went to the bathroom, I looked at my phone. I had a message from him from an hour earlier.

—Good morning. I want your fourth orgasm before you have breakfast.

I laughed to myself, embarrassed by how quickly my body obeyed me. The thong was still on. I touched it, and it was still somewhat stiff in some places, soft and damp in others. I lay down again, opened my legs, and slipped my hand inside. The moment I brushed my clitoris, a shiver ran through me.

This time I didn't use the toy right away. I wanted to do it with my fingers, playing with my wet entrance, inserting one and then two while rubbing above with my thumb. The thong tugged to one side, deliberately getting in my way, and that turned me on even more. It was like masturbating inside someone else's order, without complete freedom.

—I'm touching myself —I wrote to him.

—Describe it.

—I have two fingers inside me and the thong is scraping my clitoris. I'm dripping again.

—Take your fingers out and come onto the fabric. I want everything on the outside.

I did it with a moan of frustration and pleasure. I withdrew my fingers, centered the thong properly, and turned on the toy against the outside. It took less than two minutes for my body to give in. I came with my legs squeezed together, staining the fabric more, letting out a dirty moan that I ended up biting into the pillow.

Afterward I went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, disheveled, my face red and my cunt throbbing beneath a garment prepared to be handed over. I could have stopped there, put the thong in a bag, and preserved a little dignity. But he had said to wear it all day, and I was already too deep into the game.

I put on a simple dress, sandals, and nothing else underneath except the thong. No bra. I wanted to feel disordered inside even though I looked normal on the outside. I went out to run a couple of errands, and every step reminded me of what I was carrying between my legs. The damp fabric brushed my clitoris. The string shifted between my ass cheeks. At times my cunt dripped a little more, and I squeezed my thighs together in the middle of the street, knowing nobody could imagine what I was hiding.

He wrote around noon.

—Are you still wearing it?

—Yes.

—Wet?

—Again.

—Good. This afternoon we'll meet at a café. Bring a small bag. You sit down, I give you the money, you go to the bathroom, take off the thong, and hand it to me. If you've done it properly, I may ask you for something more.

That last sentence stayed with me for hours. Something more. I didn't know whether I wanted it or feared it. Both feelings turned me on equally. Before leaving for the café, I went into a public bathroom, lifted my dress, and checked the state of the thong. It was indecent. The crotch had that wet yet opaque shine; the string was still snugly in place. Seeing it aroused me so much that I had to brace one hand against the wall to keep from sticking my fingers in right there.

I arrived a few minutes early. It was a discreet café, one of those places with low music and people staring at their laptops, unaware of anything. I saw him immediately because he recognized me first. A man in his early forties, dark shirt, neatly trimmed beard, calm manners. He wasn't striking. Precisely for that reason, he was more imposing. He rose slightly when I arrived and pointed to the chair opposite him.

—Thank you for coming —he said.

His voice was deep, clear. No desperate tone. No embarrassment. I sat with my cunt clenched and my legs crossed, feeling the damp thong stick to me again.

—I didn't expect you to sound like this —I admitted.

—Like what?

—So normal.

He smiled faintly. He took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table without any theatrics.

—You don't look like a woman who comes four times to hand her underwear to a stranger, either, and yet here we are.

My cheeks burned. The humiliation went straight through me. I wanted to answer sharply, but I felt such a strong spark of pleasure that I almost had to shift in my chair. He saw it.

—Go to the bathroom —he said—. Take it off without tearing anything. I want to receive it as it is.

I took the envelope and stood with weak legs. In the bathroom I locked myself in a stall, lifted my dress, and slowly pulled down the thong. The contact with the air made me gasp. The garment was heavy with moisture and scent. I brought it to my nose without thinking and became even more aroused. It was mine, it was dirty, it was intimate. I folded it badly, as best I could, and put it in a paper bag I carried in my purse.

When I returned, I placed it on the table. He laid one hand over it without opening it and looked straight at me.

—Did you bring it exactly as I told you?

—Yes.

—Did you come while wearing it?

—Yes.

—How many times?

I swallowed. —Four.

His gaze dropped for a second to the bulge of the bag and then returned to my face. There was something almost ceremonial in the way he controlled the moment.

—Good. Now tell me the truth. Do you want to leave, or do you want to keep obeying?

I felt an enormous pulse between my legs. I wasn't wearing underwear. My cunt was bare beneath the dress, hot and sensitive, and he knew it without seeing it. That awareness had me half-drunk.

—I don't know what continuing means —I murmured.

—It means coming upstairs with me to a room I rented nearby and letting me smell what I bought. No penetration if you don't want it. No rush. But with obedience.

I should have said no. Instead, I nodded.

***

The room was plain, almost cold. No red lights or clichés. Just a neatly made bed, an armchair, and a closed window. That made everything feel more real. He left the bag on the bed, took off his jacket, and looked at me without touching me yet.

—Lift your dress.

I did it with clumsy hands. The cool air struck my naked cunt. He came a little closer, just enough to see that I had nothing on underneath. His breathing changed slightly, but he kept control.

—Turn around. Spread your legs.

I obeyed. My heart was beating in my throat. I felt him crouch behind me. He didn't touch me first; instead, he brought his face closer. I felt his breath on my ass, between my cheeks, then moving up toward my cunt. I moaned involuntarily. The mere idea of a grown man smelling me like that, as if I were an object prepared for his vice, completely undid me.

—Fuck —he murmured—. I brought all of this here from a screen.

I heard him inhale again, more deeply. My knees trembled.

—Stay still.

His tongue didn't appear immediately. First he parted my ass cheeks slightly with his hands and smelled me again, slowly, without hurry, as if he wanted to distinguish every part. The cunt, the invisible string that was no longer there but had left its trace, the heat of my ass. I had my hands against the wall and my dress gathered up to my waist, completely exposed, moaning every time he brought his nose closer.

—You like being used like this, don't you? —he asked.

—Yes.

—Say it better.

I closed my eyes. —Yes, I like you smelling me.

—I already know that. Tell me you like obeying.

It was difficult, and that was exactly why it turned me on more. —I like obeying.

Only then did he touch me. One finger, nothing more, sliding slowly over my soaked opening. Then he opened me with two fingers and stayed looking at me, or so I felt, because I didn't dare turn around. He smelled exactly where he had opened me and let out a satisfied exhalation.

—To the bed.

I lay on my back. He took the thong from the bag, unfolded it, and looked at it as if confirming that a purchase had been worth every bill. Then he brought it to his face. He made no attempt at modesty. He buried his nose in the damp crotch and closed his eyes. He rubbed himself over his pants as he smelled it, breathing deeply, almost hungrily.

The sight lit me up brutally. I spread my legs by myself. He saw me and smiled faintly, still holding the thong.

—Look at you. You're spread open while I smell your filth.

—Yes —I whispered, trembling.

—Put your hand inside and touch it for me.

I obeyed. I slid two fingers between my lips and found myself completely wet and slick. I began rubbing my clitoris slowly while he continued smelling the garment and squeezing his cock through his pants. The humiliation was so clear, so physical, that it stopped feeling like an insult and became fuel.

—Faster —he said—. I want to watch you come while I use your thong.

I pushed in one finger, then two, and worked my clitoris carelessly with the other hand. I no longer wanted to play nice. My fingers made wet sounds. My thighs gleamed. He left the thong on my face for a second.

—Smell yourself.

I did. I breathed in my own scent trapped in the fabric and came with a broken, violent moan, my body arched, my fingers buried deep. I felt my cunt contract several times, spilling more wetness over my hand. He took advantage of that moment to position himself between my legs and finally lick me, from underneath all the way up to my clitoris, with genuine hunger.

I screamed. It wasn't a timid lick. He used his tongue seriously, wide and dirty, running over my entire vulva before sucking my clitoris with precise pressure. I still had my fingers inside, and he moved them aside to replace them with his own. One, two, sliding in and out while he ate my cunt, his face pressed against me as if he wanted to drain me.

—It smells better this way —he said against my skin before licking me again—. Freshly come.

I couldn't think anymore. I clutched the sheets while he alternated tongue and fingers, and every time he moved up to my clitoris my legs went limp. The sound was obscene: saliva, juices, breathing. Everything mixed together. I came a second time in the room with his mouth clamped over me and two fingers crooked inside, touching the exact place that made me fold.

I was left panting, spread open, without a shred of dignity. He slowly sat up, barely wiped his beard with the back of his hand, and smelled the thong again as a finishing touch. The image obliterated me.

—You're worse than I imagined —I told him, half laughing, half breathless.

—And you obey better than you claimed.

He came closer and kissed me for the first time. My own taste was in his mouth, mixed with a clear trace of saliva. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and this time I was the one who reached for his crotch. His cock was hard beneath his pants. I squeezed it, and he caught my wrist.

—Not today. Today this was about you and what you sold me.

That refusal, far from frustrating me, made me shudder. He was still setting the pace until the end. He ran the thong over my thigh, like a twisted caress, and put it back in the bag.

—If we do this again, it will be with clearer rules —he said.

—Clearer?

—More orders. More reward if you obey. More humiliation if I like the way you respond.

I looked at him with my cunt still throbbing and my legs stained. Any sensible woman would have hurried out of there. I, on the other hand, smiled like a satisfied idiot.

—Give me advance notice —I told him—. So I can properly prepare the next one.

I left the hotel without underwear, the envelope of money in my purse and my body still trembling. Outside, the city went on as usual: noise, people, traffic lights, indifferent faces. No one could know that I had just let a stranger smell my cunt and ass as part of a deal, or that I had come in his hands while obeying orders that, only hours earlier, would have seemed unthinkable.

And yet, as I walked home with my naked cunt beneath my dress, I could think of only one thing: next time I wanted to arrive even dirtier.