Short Takes

[Nikita]

How I spent Halloween Night Wearing a Pair of Scratchy Panties by Ponytail

I don't like to cover up my pretty pussy with panties. He knew! Yet, that was the task. The panties were scratchy from the word 'go.'

They were pretty, oh so pretty, hanging just below the curve of my buttocks. Unfortunately, they would get wrinkled once my tight jeans covered them up. Why did I wear those blasted panties? They are annoying. I've thrown all of mine away. Then, today I bought new panties for the task and wore them. The whole time I was thinking 'why the fxxk was I doing this?' Then I knew, the strings...

Candies were waiting for the revelers by the door. The doorbell rang, like it was on repeat...over and over. The characters that came to the door were adorable, little angel, pussycat, witch, fireman, goblin, and one or two Dr. Seuss'. Evey time I bent down to put candy in their tote, the itchy lace went up the crack of my ass, like little pin pricks. Damn...what the fxxk??? Ah...the strings...

I kept my eye on the clock. TV and beer helped divert attention from the nagging presence of the scratchy panties on my bald pussy. The reveler's rhymes and jokes were entertaining. Seeing the parents of the children, our neighbors, a few times a year, rekindled familiarity. If only they knew what I was wearing, why, and most importantly, for whom. You know, the holder of the strings....

At the end of the candy convention, I raced to the computer screen for roadsigns telling me where to drive next. It wasn't too difficult to drive, just a bump and a detour, but I made it. I was told to taste myself and describe the honey. It was a warm, gently briny slippery juice. It wasn't bad, not at all. Now I know why someone would like this type of beverage. It takes a lot of effort to collect this kind of juice but ultimately worth the effort. So the strings pulled and I did another thing I don't do.

This essay was written immediately, in an effort to describe the effects of the strings. I struggled in a deep, cloudlike, buffeted state of consciousness, akin to being half awake and half asleep, not in need of climax nor desiring one, because the whole trip was one. It left me drained, but not sated, another sign of the string that still pulls.

What are the strings? They are invisible controls manipulated by a clever puppeteer. He designed the task, the parameters, and the level of play. He challenged me, not overtly, but through suggestion, to stick my toe outside the box while he held on to the strings.