Member-only story
My Thighs and Wet Panties
When I think back to those years, what stands out isn’t my face or my voice. It’s my thighs. My panties. The way I learned I could drive men crazy without even touching them — just by the way I sat, the way I crossed my legs, the way a skirt slid higher until lace peeked through.
I used to love the feeling of air on bare thighs. Skirts short enough that the hem barely covered me when I sat. Panties thin enough that the damp spread through them when I got wet. It didn’t take long to realise the effect it had. The glances. The frozen stares. The shift of a man in his seat when he realised he was hard because of me.
It was addictive.
The Bus
I still remember sitting by the window, thighs bare, skirt riding up the vinyl seat. Every bump lifted it higher until I could feel cool air against the lace of my panties. I crossed and uncrossed my legs slowly, knowing exactly what it showed.
Men across the aisle tried not to look. Tried. But their eyes always returned. Down my thighs, to the hem, to the glimpse of lace. Some tried to hide it with a bag or a jacket, but I always noticed the bulge pressing against their trousers.
That was the moment that made my panties damp. The realisation that a stranger was throbbing just from the way my thighs looked, the way my panties…
