Tyler never used to care about laundry. It was one of those mindless chores—toss in, switch over, fold, repeat. But since moving into this house, since marrying Amanda, things had shifted. The dryer buzzed, and he moved on autopilot, tugging warm clothes into a basket, steam rising in curls like ghosts. He liked the heat, the quiet hum, and the solitude. The laundry room was his only sanctuary in a house full of voices and footsteps.
Then he saw it.
A flash of pink lace tangled in a sweatshirt, delicate and small. His breath caught, fingers still gripping fleece as he stared. It wasn’t Amanda’s. He knew that instinctively. Amanda wore plain cotton, beige, and practical. This was… girlish. Soft. Innocent. It looked out of place, almost intentional, as if it had been dropped in his path.
His pulse quickened as he reached for it—her panties. Lily’s panties.
The fabric slid over his fingers, almost weightless, impossibly soft, with little bows at the hips. The lace was slightly sheer, with a girlish pattern of tiny flowers embroidered along the edge. The crotch was still faintly warm from the dryer. His hand trembled as he brushed them over, thumb brushing the seam—a darker spot near the center—moisture, perhaps not just from the wash.
He brought them to his face before he could think, inhaling deeply.
Sweetness. Faint perfume. A trace of something else—her. Not soap. Not detergent. Her. His cock stiffened instantly, pressing hard against his jeans as his mind spiraled. He could see her in them now—how they’d hug her curves, press between her thighs, soak in her scent. A fantasy surged forward unbidden: Lily bending over in her room, panties stretching tight across her ass, her gaze flicking over her shoulder with a knowing smirk.
Shame stabbed at him, but he couldn’t stop.
He stood there, frozen, panting, panties still against his nose, heart thudding loudly in the silence of the laundry room. He could feel it in his bones—this was wrong. Sick. But that only made it worse. That only made him harder.
A creak above—a footstep?
Tyler jerked, stuffing the panties into his pocket, adrenaline lancing through him like a live wire. He grabbed the basket, arms stiff, and bolted for the stairs, pulse still racing. The hallway lights seemed too bright, the air too cool. He thought he saw movement at the end of the hall—her door closing?—but he couldn’t be sure.
He couldn’t stop thinking about them later that night, alone in bed about her. Lily in those panties, hips swaying down the hall, oblivious to the thoughts infecting his mind. Or was she oblivious? Had she seen the way he looked at her? The way his eyes lingered too long when she stretched when her shirt lifted just enough to show a sliver of skin? Did she know what she was doing to him?
But the next day, they were there again—another pair. Pale blue this time, lace trimmed, lying carelessly atop the dryer like a gift. Or a trap.
And Tyler, helpless, reached for them again.
The second pair haunted him.
Pale blue lace, softer than breath, left out again—or forgotten? Tyler didn’t care. He told himself it was a coincidence. That Lily was careless, that teenage girls were messy. But in the pit of his stomach, he didn’t believe it. The panties felt too deliberate, draped over the edge of the dryer like an invitation. Or a test.
He failed the test.
He took them, fingers trembling, stuffing them into his pocket like a thief. Back in his room, door locked, lights dimmed, he laid them across his lap. Stroked them. He brought them to his face again, drinking in her scent. His cock throbbed in time with his heartbeat, hard and demanding. He knew this was sick. He knew if Amanda found out, everything would crumble. But the fear only added to the rush. The risk, the secrecy, and the depravity made his need sharper and more urgent.
Lily filled his thoughts now, all hours of the day. She had become a shadow that followed him, whispering through every moment. He noticed everything: how she curled up on the couch, her bare legs tucked under her, a sliver of panty flashing beneath tiny pajama shorts. The way her tank tops clung to her without a bra, nipples pressing softly against the fabric. The way she left her door cracked open just enough to see her silhouette moving, changing, unaware.
Or was she?
That thought bloomed in him, poisonous and sweet. Sometimes, her eyes caught him in passing and lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary. A smirk played at the corners of her lips. Once, she saw him looking as she bent to pick up something from the floor, her skirt hiking up indecently. Her glance back felt loaded, her gaze trailing over him, assessing. Another time, she asked if he needed help folding laundry, her voice lilting, teasing. He refused, his voice cracking, but the invitation had been there—mocking or tempting, he couldn’t tell.
He started to crave laundry day. It was the only time he had them—the panties and the hope that she’d forgotten more. Each pair-fed the hunger and stoked the fire. He hid them in a box in his closet, carefully folded, each cataloged like treasure. He didn’t touch Amanda anymore. I didn’t want to. Her scent repelled him now. His nights were filled with Lily’s softness, her imagined moans, and the taste of her innocence burning on his tongue. He’d stroke himself to the memory of her walking down the hall, panties clinging to her ass, legs bare and smooth, her voice a ghost in his ears.
Even the mundane became erotic: her laughter from the kitchen, the splash of water as she showered, the brief moment she walked past him in nothing but a towel. He memorized her schedule, timing his presence to cross her path. Her light and floral perfume lingered in the hallway, and he’d pause to breathe it in, his heart pounding.
Then it happened.
It was aIt was a Friday night. Amanda was out with friends. The house was quiet, and the air was heavy with anticipation. Tyler returned from the laundry room, clutching a black lace thong tightly in his fist. The fabric was thinner and more daring. It felt like silk, decadent and wicked. His palm was damp, and sweat was slicking the delicate material. He imagined it stretched tight between her thighs, damp with her heat.
He opened his bedroom door—and froze.
Lily stood there in his room. Eyes locked on his hand.
Silence fell like a blade.
Her gaze drifted down, then back to his face, unreadable. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The light from the hallway haloed her, casting shadows across her bare legs, her oversized t-shirt barely covering her. She looked at him, through him, as if peeling him open with her eyes.
Tyler’s blood turned to ice. Panic surged, and with it, something darker. He couldn’t breathe or think, only staring at her, waiting and waiting for the scream, the accusation, and the world to collapse.
Lily turned slowly and walked away.
No scream. No accusation. Just that glance, burning into him, promising something he didn’t dare name. Something that felt like permission—or a challenge.
The air still felt thick from the night before.
Tyler hadn’t slept. Not really. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling; her gaze burned into his mind. That look—steady, unflinching, not afraid. Not shocked. If anything, she’d seemed… in control. It turned in him like a knife, slicing through the last threads of denial.
By morning, the thong was gone.
He didn’t remember dropping it, but it wasn’t in his room anymore. He searched, heart hammering, hands shaking. The box in the closet remained untouched, but that thong had vanished like a dream. Or a warning. Or a promise.
He barely made it through the day. Amanda asked if he was sick, but he waved her off. Lily barely acknowledged him, floating through the house like smoke, her eyes glancing off his like sparks. She said nothing. She did nothing.
Until nightfall.
He found her in the kitchen, alone. The lights were low, only the glow from under the cabinets casting soft shadows along the tile. She was at the counter, slicing an apple, slow and deliberate. Her hair was damp, clinging to her neck, and her oversized t-shirt barely reached the tops of her thighs—bare legs. No bra. She didn’t turn when he entered.
“Looking for something?” Her voice was quiet. Almost playful.
His throat closed. He stood there, frozen, heat rising in his face, in his chest, in his groin.
She set the knife down, finally turning. Her eyes locked on his, unreadable, then flicked downward to the front of his jeans, where he was already swelling against the denim. She smiled.
“You like them, don’t you? My panties.”
He couldn’t answer. I couldn’t move. His hands twitched at his sides, heart pounding in his ears.
She stepped forward, barefoot, each movement slow and fluid, the apple slice still in her hand. She stopped inches from him, the scent of her skin—clean, floral, young—rising to meet him.
“I’ve seen you watching me,” she whispered, her lips brushing the apple. “Heard you in the hallway. You breathe so loud.”
She took a bite, the crunch sharp in the silence. Juice dripped from her fingers, trailing down her wrist. Tyler watched, transfixed, as her tongue darted out to catch it.
“You could’ve asked,” she said, voice almost a purr.
She reached into the waistband of her t-shirt—and pulled out the black thong.
It dangled from her fingers, swaying between them like a noose.
“You dropped this,” she said, voice low, teasing.
She leaned in, close enough that her breath ghosted over his lips, and pressed the thong into his palm. Her fingers lingered, curling around his, holding the lace between them. Heat exploded in his chest, his groin, and his mind.
Lily looked up at him, her eyes dark with something he couldn’t name, and whispered, “Next time, I want to watch.”
Then she walked away, hips swaying, bare feet silent on the tile.
He didn’t sleep again.
Lily’s voice echoed in his skull: “Next time, I want to watch.” The black thong still clutched in his hand, damp from her fingers. Her scent lingered, dizzying, erotic, and his sheets twisted around him like restraints. He stroked himself in the dark, slow and desperate, the lace tight in his fist, her name on his lips like a prayer.
Morning came, and everything felt surreal. Amanda was gone again, running errands or going to brunch. Her absence was unimportant. All that mattered was Lily’s voice, breath, and the fire behind her eyes.
The house was quiet.
He moved on instinct. Every step toward her room was a betrayal—to his marriage, sanity, and decency—but he didn’t care. I couldn’t care. He stood outside her door, heart in his throat, hand trembling. The wood felt warm under his palm.
He knocked.
A pause.
Then her voice: “Come in.”
He opened the door.
Lily lay on the bed, sprawled on her stomach, legs bent at the knee, feet in the air. That black thong hugged her ass, barely there, the thin lace cutting across her soft skin. A matching black bra cupped her breasts, straps slipping off her shoulders. Her eyes met his over her shoulder, calm. Knowing.
She rolled onto her back, arms above her head, stretching like a cat, the motion deliberate. Her body arched, curves on display, the lace clinging to her, damp between her thighs.
“Close the door,” she said.
He did. Slowly.
His feet moved him to her like they belonged there. At her side. At her mercy.
“Take them off,” she whispered, fingers brushing along the waistband of the thong.
His hands shook as he knelt, as he slid the lace down her hips, over her thighs, until she lay bare beneath him. He didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. She spread her legs, slow and graceful, revealing her wetness, glistening, slick, ready. His cock ached, straining against his jeans.
“Taste me,” she commanded.
His mouth descended, tongue trembling, and he obeyed. Her flavor was heaven, sinful and sweet, and he devoured her, desperate, lost in her gasps and the twitch of her thighs around his face. She gripped his hair, ground against his tongue, her moans low and broken.
“Fuck me. Now.”
He stripped fast, reckless, hands fumbling. She pulled him on top of her, legs wrapped around his waist, guiding him to her heat. He slid inside—tight, wet, perfect—and his mind shattered. He moved fast, hard, their bodies slamming together, sweat slicking their skin. Her nails raked down his back, her cries urging him deeper, harder.
“You’re mine,” she breathed against his ear. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” he gasped, thrusting into her, consumed.
They came together, her body clenching around him, his orgasm crashing through him like fire. He collapsed atop her, panting, ruined.
Lily kissed his jaw, soft and slow.
“Again,” she whispered.
Morning crept through the blinds in soft stripes, painting Lily’s skin in gold and shadow.
Tyler lay beside her, eyes open, unmoving, breath shallow. Her body was curled into his, her leg thrown over his thigh, the black thong twisted between their fingers. His hand still held it as if letting go would unravel everything.
Her scent was all over him.
He could still feel the heat of her, taste her on his lips, and hear her gasps echoing in his skull. His cock stirred again, weak but wanting, twitching against her bare thigh. Shame and lust warred inside him, neither winning, both leaving him hollow.
Lily shifted, eyes fluttering open. A lazy smile curled her lips. She kissed his shoulder, soft and possessive.
“You came to me,” she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.
He didn’t respond.
Her fingers trailed down his chest, light as silk, teasing. She rolled onto him, straddling his waist, the thong now dangling from her fingers like a trophy. Her hair fell around them like a curtain, hiding the world.
“You’re mine now.”
Tyler nodded, throat tight. He was. He couldn’t deny it. He’d crossed the line, fallen into her, and there was no going back. No excuse, no forgiveness. Just the truth of her, the gravity of her body, the pull of her power.
She pressed her lips to his, slow and deep, hips grinding into him until he moaned. Her fingers wove into his, guiding his hand to her breast, then lower, between her thighs, slick and ready again.
“Take care of me,” she whispered. “Every day. Every night. I want you hungry. I want you desperate. Just like this.”
He nodded again, helpless.
She kissed him, then climbed off, slipping the thong on with deliberate grace. She stood by the bed, stretching, her body glowing in the morning light.
“Breakfast,” she said, walking toward the door, the lace tight across her ass.
Tyler watched her go, his body aching, his soul ruined.
He was hers.
He always would be.