Male Confession Number 2:
I bought some panties for you.Pink panties.
“Amourette Décor” they’re called. A lacy, feminine thong, crafted in that most girlish of colours.Pink is not a colour I’ve bought in lingerie before. My tastes have always held to the bolder hues: brilliant white; brazen scarlet; sapphire blue; femme fatale black. Pink always seemed a little … pale to me. Weak. Insipid in the depths of its pastel heart. Incapable of committing to extremes.Yet something about these panties made me think of you. Made me yearn to see you in them.Made me want to fuck you while you wore them.
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Male Confession Number 3:
A knowing half-smile plays across her generous mouth. It’s as though she’s looked inside my mind and read the last two pages of my imagination’s script. She has that gift, the ability to x-ray your soul with scarcely more than a glance. ‘Gift’ is possibly a poor choice of word. After all, how much pleasure can there be in being able to consistently predict the future? Maybe that’s why she still wants to fuck me, when so many other men have been cast from her bed, blown away like grains of sand. Do I still possess the ability to surprise her? She sees so much, but perhaps she can’t read me entirely. Is there some secret place inside my mind, lead-lined, impervious to her x-rays? Or is it that she reads me entirely, but still enjoys my particular version of the script.
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