Something about not climbing trees

I almost talked myself out of it, knowing a punishment would be over relatively quickly but my honesty would be valued.

It was a simple enough task, though.

“Lipstick, eyeliner. And no underwear. ”

Gulp.

I hate not wearing underwear, knickers especially. I wear them in bed. I wear them under my pyjamas. They’re comforting, even though my mum tuts and says I should let my vag get some air, only in a much more mum-like fashion. And he wanted me out in public, without them. Without my security blanket.

I was already flustered as I left the house. He rang to say he was at the gate. I rang him back sixty seconds later to double check I had knickers at his (“Yes. Lots.”)

He watched me take out the bins, and totter towards him with bags.

“You look lovely.”

“I did as I was told.”

He nodded and opened the car door for me. I slid my bum awkwardly over the seat, trying to make sure there was sufficient skirt protecting his mother’s upholstery. 

He stroked my knee and started the engine. As we turned onto the highstreet, I took the hem of my skirt between my fingers and raised it until I could see my cute little pubic mound. He glanced over and groaned. I thought about how damp my inner thighs were getting. 

We parked up outside Marks and Spencer and I exited the car gingerly. He grinned. When I bent my knees to take a packet buns from the bottom shelf of a display, the low murmur of ‘Good girl’ in my ear was everything.

I can’t wait to do it again. 

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