Panty Boy Obsession: How This Dirty College Coed Owns Her Favorite Panty Boy
I am Kelsey, the smoking-hot college coed with the kind of body that makes guys stare and the kind of filthy mind that makes them crawl. And tonight I am thinking about my panty boy again.
There is something so perfectly degrading and delicious about a panty boy. The way he begs for the pairs I peel off after a long day of classes, the way his eyes go glassy when I toss him my still-warm, slightly damp thong and tell him to open his mouth. My panty boy lives for the scent of me. He lives for the taste. He lives for the moment I lock the door to my dorm room, push him to his knees, and make him inhale every inch of the fabric that has been riding between my legs all day.
I still remember the first time I decided to ruin him properly. I had just finished a three-hour lecture and a sweaty walk across campus. My black lace panties were soaked through. I texted him one word: now. When he arrived I did not even say hello. I just stepped out of my skirt, hooked my thumbs in the waistband, and dragged the soaked lace down my thighs in front of his face. The smell hit him like a slap. He made this broken little sound that went straight to my clit.
“Open,” I told him. He did. I stuffed the crotch of those panties into his mouth and held them there while I stroked his hair like a good pet. My panty boy moaned around the fabric, eyes watering, cock already straining in his jeans. I made him keep them there while I sat on the edge of my bed and played with myself, watching him suck and breathe me in. When I finally pulled the panties free they were even wetter, shiny with his spit and my juices. I wiped them across his face and then made him put them on, stretched tight over his own cock so the soaked lace rubbed against him every time he moved.
That is what a real panty boy is for. He does not just sniff. He wears. He submits. He lets me use the same pair for days, then hands them over so I can see how desperate he has become. Some nights I make him sleep in them. Some nights I sit on his face while he is still wearing a pair of mine, grinding my bare pussy against his tongue until I flood his mouth and the panties beneath him are a ruined mess.
I love how small it makes him feel. How completely owned. A panty boy does not get to decide when he gets another pair. He waits. He texts. He begs. And when I finally decide he has earned it, I make him earn it on his knees with his tongue and his throat and the pathetic way he says “thank you” every time I let him keep the dirty ones.
If you want to be the next panty boy I break, you already know where to find me.
Call me right now: 888-750-4746 ext 812
Or come straight to my profile and see everything I have waiting for you: https://thesincenter.com/kelsey/