My Pussy and It’s Juice

Here’s a little secret I probably shouldn’t admit—I don’t always wear panties. Especially on Saturday nights when I slip into a tight little skirt. Panty lines are a crime against fashion, but honestly… It’s not just about the look. It’s about the way it makes me feel.

There’s something wickedly fun about knowing there’s nothing between me and the world but a few inches of fabric. Every step feels more dangerous. Every shift in my chair, every cross of my legs, reminds me just how bare I really am. It’s embarrassing and delicious all at once.

And the longer I sit with that secret, the more restless I get. My hips wiggle without me meaning to. My thighs tighten. I catch myself squirming in a way that would give me away if anyone were paying attention. Half the fun is pretending they’re not.

Sometimes I imagine the stranger who bends to pick up something I’ve dropped—just how close he’d be if his head brushed past my hips. Would he catch the scent of my secret? Would he know what I’d been up to all night? That thought alone is enough to make me smile like the cat who got the cream.

Panties are practical, sure. But where’s the thrill in practical? Going without turns an ordinary night out into a private game, one where every glance, every brush, every movement feels charged with possibility.

So when Saturday rolls around, the real question isn’t what I’ll wear—it’s who I might seduce without them ever realizing I’d been daring enough to leave my panties at home.