You've given me my instructions: vintage, see-through, no lace, not black. Do you know how hard that is to find? Yes. Yes you do.
I've scoured this city, store after dusty store, my fingers slipping over straps and into cups where my breasts should go, the gap between them for your fingers, the lubed silver cock, your favourite.
Nothing is right. I slide my hands ever deeper into piles of frills, silk, net and yes - lace; the thrill of it over my fingers a tickle across my inner thighs, your flicking tongue, my wet cunt.