In the first, I can see your cleavage, revealed by your mostly unbuttoned men’s shirt. Is it denim, or just faux-denim? Your breasts are round, full. I see one thigh – your left, unless the phone’s camera reversed the image – splayed out in front of me, creamy, soft, full. Your pussy is there, hidden behind black panties. Not really your pussy, more your taint – just a hint of that delicious spot between your pussy and your ass.
In the second, your thighs are spread, wide. Black panties (silk?), patterned, cover, but reveal, your pussy. Is there a soft trail of hair just visible beneath? Your thighs, both, fill the screen.
You asked why I find these pictures so hot, what they do to me.
Your thighs look so fucking yummy. I could feast on them, lick them, nibble them, bite them, squeeze them.
Your pussy is right there, behind that almost-but-not-quite-see-through fabric. How can I not imagine what the fabric would feel like if I pulled the elastic away from your thigh, if I pressed against the crotch, with my palm, my fingers, my face, my cock? How warm would it be? Would the wetness come through? What would you smell like?
Would I tear the panties off of you, roughly? Would I peel them down your legs, s-l-o-w-l-y?
Would you arch up toward me? Would you lie still, passively receiving my attention? Would you moan? Sigh? Talk? Beg? Command?
How long could I force myself to leave those panties on you? How quickly could I get them off of you?
Would your ass sit, heavily, in my hand if I snaked it, if I snaked them, under it, lifting it, lifting your cunt, lifting you, toward my face? Or would it be weightless as you took guidance from my hands but fulfilled their intention with your hips, thrusting toward me?
Do you want me to say the pictures make you look like a good girl, made that much hotter because she’s being bad for ME, doing something she doesn’t do, something she’s never done? Or that they make you look like a slut? Like the slut you are, you know yourself to be? Or maybe both?
Do you want to know that I opened the pictures on a crowded train? That I worried about the seven people whose eyes were within three feet of my screen? That I half hoped no one would notice? But that I lingered over the pictures for an extra moment, maybe, definitely, hoping that one (some) of them would notice – your pussy on my phone, would notice it was an email, not a porn site?
Do you want to know what it feels like to grow hard on a crowded train? When suddenly my cock feels dangerously, vulnerably, visibly hard? Do you want to know what it looks like, bulging in my jeans?
Do you want to know that I imagined tying you up, spreading your legs further? Or that I imagined you kneeling before me on the train, with everyone watching as I fed my cock into your hungry mouth?
Well, now you know.