I’m Shannon, curvy as fuck, pale skin covered in freckles that trail down between my heavy tits and across the soft swell of my belly. Dark red hair that falls in waves to the middle of my back, green eyes that can make a man’s cock twitch or his stomach drop, depending on my mood. And last night? My mood was pure, wicked delight.
It started with the usual: another pair of my favorite black lace panties missing from the laundry room in our apartment complex. I’ve known for weeks someone’s been stealing them. I even started leaving the really filthy ones on top — the ones still soaked from my last orgasm, the crotch stiff with my dried cream. Little bait for my pathetic little thief.
Last night I finally caught him.
I’d left the laundry room door cracked and waited in the shadows like the predator I am. At 11:47 p.m., in he crept — mid-30s, married (I’ve seen the ring and the sad little wife who never fucks him), balding, with that desperate, twitchy look of a man who jerks off to stolen panties like it’s his only religion. He rifled through my basket, pulled out the pair I’d worn all day (still warm, still smelling like my wet pussy and that faint hint of my ass), and pressed them straight to his face.
I stepped into the light, heels clicking.
“Gotcha.”
He froze. Eyes wide. My stolen panties still crushed against his nose.
I smiled the slow, sweet smile that makes men realize they’re already fucked.
“Hi, neighbor. I’m Shannon. And those are mine.”
He started babbling — apologies, excuses, tears already welling up. Pathetic. Delicious.
I didn’t call the cops. That would’ve been boring. Instead I grabbed him by the collar, dragged him upstairs to my apartment, and locked the door behind us. Then I sat on the edge of my bed, crossed my legs, and let him stand there shaking while I slowly peeled off the panties I was currently wearing. They were soaked. I held them up, dangling the glistening crotch right in front of his face.
“You want them so bad? Earn them.”
I made him strip. Right there in my living room. Made him tell me — in detail — how many times he’d jerked off with my stolen panties wrapped around his cock. How he’d lick the crotch clean while he came. How he’d sniff them while he fucked his sad little wife and thought about me.
Every confession made my pussy throb.
Then the real punishment began.
I made him put on the pair he’d just stolen. They were too small for his pathetic dick, so his hard cock bulged obscenely against the lace, the head already leaking. I laughed at him while I stripped down to nothing but my heels, letting him see every freckle, every soft curve, my heavy tits and the trimmed red landing strip above my swollen, dripping cunt.
I sat back on the couch, spread my thighs wide, and made him watch while I fingered myself. Slow. Filthy. Two fingers, then three, fucking my wet hole while I described exactly how worthless his cock looked in my panties.
“You’re never going to fuck me, loser. You’re going to stand there in my dirty panties and edge that sad little dick until I say you can cum.”
I made him stroke himself through the lace for forty-five minutes. Every time he got close I made him stop. I made him apologize to my pussy for stealing from it. I made him get on his knees and beg — actually beg — to taste me while I kept denying him.
When I finally let him cum, it was on my terms.
I stood over him, one heel pressed against his chest, and ordered him to jerk himself furiously into the crotch of the panties he was wearing. He came like a broken faucet — thick, pathetic ropes of cum soaking the lace, dripping down his balls. The second he finished I ripped the panties off him, shoved the cum-soaked mess into his mouth, and made him suck his own load out while I rode his face until I came all over his tongue.
I didn’t let him swallow until I was done.
Then I took photos. Of his cum-drunk face. Of his limp, spent cock. Of the way he cried when I told him I’d be keeping his number and that from now on, every time I want my laundry done, my pussy eaten, or my asshole worshipped, he’ll be here on his knees in my panties like the pathetic little thief he is.
He left shaking. Broken. Hard again already.
And me? I’m sitting here in a fresh pair of panties, still tasting myself on his shame, smiling at the thought of all the ways I’m going to ruin him.
Moral of the story, boys: if you’re going to steal my panties… make sure you’re ready to become my personal little cum rag.
Because I always catch what’s mine.
And I never let go.
— Shannon 💋
P.S. If you’re reading this and you live in my building… I already know who you are. Sweet dreams.