The Used Thong I Bought from a Stranger
I know this isn’t written the way a professional would write it, that I’m probably missing commas and have too many details, but I don’t want to tell it beautifully—I want to tell it exactly as it happened. It’s something I’ve kept to myself for years and even now, when I remember it, my dick gets hard instantly.
I’ve always liked the smell of women’s underwear. Not the smell of perfume or fabric softener, but the other one, the one that’s left after a full day of wear, the one that gives away a real woman. The concentrated smell in the crotch of a thong, the one that mixes pussy sweat with the discharge she releases for hours, the one that smells like female flesh, like a wet cavity, like what no one dares admit out loud. It’s a kink that’s hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t feel it, and almost impossible to confess out loud. For a long time I lived it in silence, stealing a garment here, smelling one in secret there, jerking off with my nose buried in the wet lining of a stranger’s underwear, convinced I was the only person in the world with that obsession.
I was twenty-four when I discovered I wasn’t. I ran an anonymous account on a social network where I wrote about my fetishes, with no photo or real name, just an alias and a pile of confessions. There I felt free. I said what I liked, how I’d stroke myself off smelling other women’s panties, how I’d cum soaking the fabric, I read other people who felt the same, and little by little I understood there was a whole world hidden behind the screens.
One day, among the accounts the app suggested to me, hers appeared.
She called herself Mora. She sold what she described without beating around the bush: photo packs, calls, and used clothing. Panties, thongs, strings she’d worn for days. On her profile she made clear, with an honesty that made me hard, that she wore them for at least forty-eight hours, that she slept in them, that she came in them while wearing them so they’d be properly soaked. She was about my age and, from a few details she dropped, lived in my city. That changed everything. It was one thing to fantasize about something distant and abstract, and something very different to know that woman was breathing a few streets away from my house, that at that very moment she could be changing out of a clean thong into the one she was going to sell me later, soaked with herself.
I spent days turning it over before I wrote to her. Shame held me back, the fear that it was a scam, that sensation of crossing a line you don’t come back from. In the end curiosity and lust won out, and I was already jerking off twice a day thinking about her.
—Hi —I wrote, and deleted the message three times before sending it for real.
To my surprise, she answered right away and in a friendly way. I asked her everything I could think of, my heart in my throat and my dick tight against my pants. How she wore the garments. How many hours she kept them on. If she touched herself with them on, if she came on them, if she let the discharge build up in there. If there were photos of her wearing them, pulling them aside, showing her pussy through the fabric. And the most important thing for me: whether delivery was in person and I paid there, or whether she required a deposit up front. That last question came from pure distrust, because I already knew a lot of those accounts were fake and just wanted the money.
Mora answered patiently, as if she were used to calming nervous, horny men. She explained that she had several packs. Some had only the garment, others had thongs, others included photos, and the most complete ones came with a video of her wearing it and masturbating. “In the video I cum with the thong on,” she wrote me, with no shame at all, “so it gets to you with the fresh stain from that same session.” Delivery could be in person, in a public place, and paid at the time. No deposits.
It’s real, I thought, with my hand already down my pants. This is actually going to happen.
On her profile she had uncensored photos. She was short, neither skinny nor plump, with hair dyed two colors, red on one side and black on the other. She had beautiful, round tits, with dark, big nipples that showed through any fabric, and a back that led into wide hips and a generous ass, the kind that opens up on its own when she bends over. She posed showing the garments she sold, revealing just enough: the thong wedged between her cheeks, the fabric pressed into the slit of her pussy, letting the bulge of her lips show against the cotton. And that was exactly the part that turned me on the most.
***
For me all of that was new. I’d smelled dozens of garments in my life, but always stolen, always with guilt, always in secret. I’d cum hundreds of times with my nose buried in other women’s thongs, licking the wet part, sucking the dried discharge of women who didn’t even know my name. But this time, for the owner herself to hand it to me felt like a completely different level of kink. And at the same time it made me feel a strange embarrassment. I kept thinking about the moment I’d look her in the face and what she would be thinking of me. She knows perfectly well why I want it, I kept telling myself. She knows that as soon as I get home I’m going to drop my pants, pull out my dick, and jerk off pressing her dirty thong against my mouth, licking her pussy through the fabric, and even so she’ll hand it over to me smiling.
The kink beat the shame. I ordered the full package, the garment with photos and video. Mora treated me with a kindness I hadn’t expected, without a single sign of judgment. We agreed to meet on a Tuesday morning, before she went to work.
That night I barely slept. Anxiety kept me awake, imagining a thousand scenarios. I didn’t know how I’d react with her in front of me, whether I’d freeze up, whether she’d feel uncomfortable. I calmed myself by thinking we were almost the same age, that neither of us was a child and that she did this with complete ease. I ended up jerking off three times that night, imagining her wearing the thong that would be in my hands the next day, imagining how she’d take it off before putting it in the bag, how she’d run the fabric over her pussy one last time to leave it thoroughly soaked.
On Tuesday I arrived at the agreed spot twenty minutes early. It was a crowded square, with people coming and going to work, the perfect place for something that had to go unnoticed. Mora was another twenty minutes late, and every one of those minutes felt eternal. My dick was hard just from knowing she was getting closer, that in her purse there was a thong that had been pressed against her pussy for two days.
When she finally appeared, I recognized her immediately. She looked like any girl in the city on her way to work: clean, put together, with an easy smile. Nothing about her gave away what she did. She came straight up to me.
—Are you him? —she asked.
—Yes —I answered, and I was surprised at how steady my voice sounded.
She greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. It was such a natural, everyday gesture that it completely unmoored me. I smelled her perfume, and behind the perfume I thought I detected another smell, more intimate, more animal, the same one I was going to find concentrated in the fabric she had stored away. My dick got so hard I had to shift position so it wouldn’t show. We chatted for a couple of minutes about anything—weather, traffic—while I tried not to let the trembling in my hands or the bulge in my pants show.
—I ran out of colored bags —she said, a little embarrassed—. I had to put it in a transparent one. Better I give it to you quickly, there are a lot of people around.
She handed me the bag discreetly, like someone exchanging any ordinary thing. Through the clear plastic I could see, even if only for a second, the striped fabric balled up, and in the center a dark, wet, unmistakable stain. I almost came right there in the middle of the square just from seeing that. I paid her what we’d agreed on, we said goodbye with another kiss on the cheek, and she walked off toward her job without looking back.
I stood there for a few seconds, pulse racing, dick throbbing inside my pants and the bag pressed against my side, unable to believe I had actually done it.
***
The trip home was a delicious torture. I couldn’t stop thinking about how it would smell, how it would look, about the stain I’d managed to see through the plastic. To make matters worse, while I was on the bus Mora started sending me the photos and the video from the pack: ten images and a three-minute clip.
I couldn’t watch them there, surrounded by people, but knowing I had them saved on my phone kept me on the edge the whole way, my dick pushing against the fabric of my pants. I hurried from the stop to my door, almost running the last few meters.
Once locked in my room, I shut the door, dropped my pants without thinking, and pulled the garment from the bag with trembling hands. It was a striped thong in multiple colors, made of soft, almost silky fabric, the kind of fabric where scent gets absorbed better and lasts longer. It fit her just right, neither loose nor too tight, and in the crotch, exactly where her pussy must have been resting, there was a large stain, still damp, with yellowish edges from dried discharge from previous days and a fresher center, bright, elastic. A thick white thread clung to the fabric, stretching when I opened it with my fingers. Just seeing it made a moan slip out of me and I had to grab my dick so I wouldn’t cum by accident.
Then I opened the images. In them Mora appeared wearing that same thong, from behind, from the side, showing that broad ass spilling out on either side of the thin fabric. In one she pulled it apart with her fingers, showing the pussy lips, swollen, puffed up, pressed against the cotton. In another she was on all fours, with the fabric wedged between her cheeks, and you could see her little ass above the string, pink, and the bulge of her pussy below, wet, with a little spot already showing. In another she had pulled it aside, revealing her whole pussy, lips open and a strand of discharge hanging. They were photos made to drive someone like me insane, and they absolutely did their job.
The video is what finished me off. It started with her lying on a bed, still wearing the garment. She stroked herself slowly over the fabric, without hurry, letting the tension build. She ran two fingers up and down her pussy, pressing the thong against her lips, and the dampness began to show in the center, a circle growing darker and darker. Then she spread her legs wide and pushed the fabric inward with her finger, burying it in the slit until it almost disappeared, and the thong was lodged against her clit, soaking as she bit her lip and moaned. She slid a finger under the elastic, then two, and started fucking herself with the thong shoved to one side, letting the camera see her pussy open, glossy, while her fingers went in and out with a wet sound. Her moans were real, restrained, nothing acted. In the end she pulled her fingers away, adjusted the fabric back against her pussy, and on camera I watched her tense, arch, clamp her thighs around her own hand as she came, soaking the fabric from the inside, letting the hot fluid run out and stay right there, on the part that a few hours later was going to be in my hands. Then she took it off slowly, with two fingers, and held it up in front of the camera, showing me the fresh stain, bright, still dripping. As if telling me exactly what I had in my hands.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I brought the garment to my face and breathed in deeply, as deeply as I could, right into the stain, into the area that had been in contact with her pussy. The smell hit me instantly: intense, real, unmistakably hers. An acidic, sweet smell, with that unmistakable salty undertone of a woman’s pussy after she’s come inside it. It wasn’t the plastic smell of something clean, it was the smell of a real female after wearing it for two days, sleeping in it, cumming in it, and that was exactly what made me lose my mind.
I stuck out my tongue and licked the stain, first with the tip, then with my whole mouth. The taste exploded on my palate, salty and acidic, with that unmistakable thickness of viscous discharge. I sucked the fabric until it was wetter with my spit than with her, bit the elastic, buried my nose in the cotton and breathed through my open mouth, swallowing the air loaded with her smell. I wrapped it around my dick, with the stain pressed right against the tip, and started stroking fast, pressing the fabric against the head, feeling the wet texture slide up and down. With my other hand I brought the dry part of the thong to my face, the part that had been pressed against her ass, and breathed there too, looking for another trace, another piece of her.
I jerked off with the garment against my dick, with my nose buried in her crotch, with her voice moaning on the phone and her image burned into my head. It lasted barely a minute. When I came, I did it in spurts, soaking the thong from the outside with my semen while she had soaked it from the inside with hers. The two fluids mixed there, on the same fabric, and that idea made me tremble even harder. It was one of the most intense orgasms I can remember, one of those that leave you empty and shaking at the same time, breathless and with your mouth still full of a stranger’s taste.
When I caught my breath, I did something I’d never done before: I sent her a message telling her how it had all ended, including a photo of the thong stained on both sides. I don’t know where I found the nerve. I was afraid she’d find it disgusting, that she’d leave me on read, that she’d cut off contact.
The opposite happened.
—Ugh, so hot —she wrote—. I love seeing it like that, with your load on top of mine. The truth is I get turned on imagining it too. Did you lick it before you came? Tell me everything.
I told her everything, leaving nothing out. How I’d licked the stain, how I’d bitten the elastic, how I’d stroked myself with the fabric pressed against the tip. She answered with short audios, moaning softly, telling me she was touching herself too, that she was doing things to her pussy thinking about me licking her thong. I ended up jerking off again right there, with the thong still in my hand, listening to her come on the other end of the phone. For a moment I fantasized that it would turn into something more, into a real meeting, without a bag in between, with her sitting on my face and giving me her pussy live, no fabric, no distance.
***
It never happened. A few weeks later, Mora closed all her accounts overnight and I never heard from her again. She disappeared the same way she had appeared, like a ghost that existed only behind a screen. Sometimes I wonder what became of her life, whether she left this by choice or someone found out and forced her to stop.
I still keep that thong and those photos. I store them in a sealed bag, and from time to time I open it, stick my nose in, and check that even though the smell has faded over the years, there’s still something of hers left there, in that dried stain at the center. When that happens, I still get hard and I still jerk off with it, like someone returning to a sacred place. Of all the experiences I’ve had with this fetish, that one remains the most intense, the only one in which the kink didn’t come from stealing something in secret, but from a stranger handing it to me herself, looking me in the eye, fully knowing that I was going home to lick her discharge and cum on her thong.
And although it may sound strange, it wasn’t so much the garment itself that marked me, but the complicity. That certainty that, for once, someone else understood exactly what I wanted and, instead of judging me, gave it to me without asking for anything in return except the shared kink.
