Loading...There was nothing like a crisp autumn day to clear out the cobwebs. Quite literally in fact, since the rays of sunshine cutting through the window highlighted any and all lint or spider webs in corners missed in last week’s once-over. One could almost let them pass, but the beautiful foliage created such contrast to any dusty disorder it was impossible to leave them be. Humming to herself, Sam bustled around the apartment wiping and spritzing. Clad only in simple yellow panties and a white cotton t-shirt she welcomed the late morning warmth created by the sun’s penetration into her side-street building.
It was finally Saturday, and after a long week of work and discipline it felt good to indulge in a little extra sleep and time-to-self. As little as she hoped to do this weekend, she knew the difference an hour of cleaning would make towards a peaceful, satisfying two days off.
Finally, she heard the kettle boil. Coffee was her new indulgence having left alcohol and marijuana (recently) by the wayside. It wasn’t that she felt poorly about either substance, but her high level of drive and over-active mind served as a ready scaffold to blackout. It wasn’t every time, and she didn’t always hurt herself or others, but she was trying to make healthier decisions for both her physical and mental well-being. Sex drive was one of the first things to return after turning down the weed, and in the absence of alcohol she could better-create the sensations (and situations) she was after. At 25, there wasn’t much she hadn’t done and hoped someday to find another person in the same position working towards a similar long-term vision. With the same sexual hunger.
Pouring hot water slowly over the Italian grounds (on the shelf they looked dark and expensive) she breathed a sigh of satisfaction in the thick, full-bodied aroma enveloping the kitchen. Her skin, initially cool after being exposed to the air outside of her covers, had finally warmed up in the light and work. The coffee was just for the flavor, and for the sensation of rich, classic liquid flowing over her tongue and down to her insides. After the first sip Sam brought her drink to the couch and sat down, relishing the calm morning and the feel of her soft shirt and panties against her smooth skin. She didn’t even have to open her laptop to begin rubbing her thighs together, feeling the underwear just a hairsbreadth away from her sensitive areas. Warming up even more as the strong coffee started to penetrate her body, her right hand absentmindedly drifted up and began twirling her nipple through the shirt. Caught between her thumb and forefinger it was rolled gently, flipped, flicked, and finally formed a firm peak. This woke Sam from her Italy-induced fog and brought her attention to the matter she’d been mulling over all week.
Wedgies just weren’t what they used to be now that she’d hit her twenties. Underwear had given way to thongs, which then gave way to g-strings, which then morphed into the realization that really nice intimates were going to cost really big bucks. Really nice underwear was relative though, as Sam didn’t have the same affinity for lace thongs or see-through screened panties that some of her partners seemed to care for or girlfriends recommended. No, for Sam it was all about classic. A nice pair of plain panties, white, or some other light color, tight enough to be spanked but loose enough for gentle tugs. Something with some stretch, and enough material that a fistful was actually possible. Home alone Sam new exactly what to put on this morning and now wondered what combination she should try for her next endeavor.
An endeavor in which the thought alone could produce a naughty moisture so quickly she’d found it nearly impossible to go the last two days without masturbating. A week was out of the question, but as Saturday approached she buried herself in her work and training and managed to block out the roaring between her thighs for 48 hours. Now, finally here, she was hungry for release but hesitated in action. Wedgies weren’t just different because of cultural changes in “sexy” panties. They were different because now it was a woman’s body caught between the fabric, not a teenagers. To be honest, Sam found that fact as a source of even more kink; how much more embarrassing was a wedgie for an adult vs a kid? Flesh spread eagle as fabric cleft cheeks and lips, the individual lost in deep-rooted ecstasy based in touch, panties, and innocent-yet-naughty pleasure. But even as the sexiness of a wedgie could be elevated by age, so too could it be undermined by others’ judgmental amusement. So, about to do something she hadn’t done since she was a teenager and something that had always been done alone, Sam hesitated. Was it worth it? Would it really be that good?
Finally she made the decision. It was a Saturday, she’d been on the edge all week, and it was time to do something stupid. Breathing out, she knew a hanging wedgie would probably be all she could handle today and was determined to do it right. But as satisfying as spandex stretch was, as excellent as being sandwiched between fabric walls could be, she also had a stubborn fondness for regular, plain old cotton. And, since they could be counted on to rip, she decided what what she was wearing was good enough. Classic.
Over time she’d learned that clamping the waistband for a hanging wedgie was no good, the body’s weight was too much for the fabric and it would tear around the rim leaving the victim (or pleasure-seeker) on the ground far quicker than the setup took to arrange. Nothing is more unsatisfying in a wedgie than not actually getting one, and anybody with the fetish has felt that same disappointment when a friend latches on to their waistband but only provides a few half-hearted tugs while laughing madly. “Not funny,” Sam thought, thinking back to a specific slumber party which took place at a time when she was feeling particularly daring. No, today she was going to do it right and even if the panties ripped she knew she’d at least hit maximum wedgie depth before they did so.
A rope through the leg holes would be the only thing to guarantee an adequate length of time and she left the couch for the kitchen to get one she’d had kicking around in her car from her last camping trip. She already knew what chair would be best- the “new” old wooden one repainted after moving in eight months ago. It was high enough that she wouldn’t hit the floor regardless of what stretch the yellow cotton could provide but low enough that her head wasn’t bonking the ceiling while tying herself in. She couldn’t help but feel a little excited as she pulled everything over to the iron bar across the living room door frame, apparently installed before her landlord had purchased the house from an ex-marine. She’d also used it for pull-up practice, but knew exactly what possibilities it held.
Climbing the chair and standing in her bare feet she looked around and giggled slightly to herself. She must look ridiculous, yellow panties, white t-shirt, and a handful of rope balancing on this old chair in the middle of her apartment. The fact that she was so kinky she would do this to herself by herself served only to increase the flow of blood to her nether regions that was slowly building up as preparations continued. She knew an added bonus of hanging wedgies is their requirement that the individual first receive one prior to being tied in, ensuring the underwear will go exactly where it should under pressure, and providing enough slack to loop through the leg holes comfortably. Not to mention making certain desperate feet can’t touch the ground.
As the rope brushed across her lower back she felt her privates moisten, already snug in the small melvin she’d given herself once on the chair. Finally tied in, she hesitated on whether or not to keep the shirt. It was only for a moment however, as the white t quickly landed on the floor. “I’m a kinky little slut and little sluts don’t deserve to be covered,” Sam said to herself. Breasts fully exposed to the morning air and nipples stiff, she reveled in the sensations across her body. Her hair brushing against her shoulders, the chair creaking against her feet, the emotionless rope resting against her back. Naked save only her panties, Sam pictured how she would look deep in the wedgie. “The only way I could make this kinkier is if I’d gagged myself with a thong and put another pair of panties over my head.” For Sam, the only thing hotter than panties was more panties. Everywhere.
A small detail she tried to ignore was her computer resting on the living room’s coffee table. She knew it had a webcam, and the thought of watching herself dangling by her panties in throes of pain and ecstasy was almost too tempting to bear. “I really am a little slut,” said Sam absentmindedly, wondering if it was worth getting a mirror so she could watch the video with a behind-self view. But, she was already tied in and the tension was too great. She needed release. Craved it. Sinking slightly into the already-tight wedgie, she kicked out her chair hard.
“Cotton panties indeed” flashed across Sam’s consciousness as quickly as the journey down was halted by the yellow fabric. Without the stretch of spandex Sam was enduring her full body weight almost instantly and the pain was unbearable. Hands clasped to the door frame to stop her from falling forward Sam realized that she was in trouble. Not only was the pain definitely worse now than when she was a teen, but almost no popping or snapping came from the fabric. The realization of her predicament came as quickly as the burning across her butt hole; cotton dug viciously deeper and her breasts jiggled slightly from the uncontrolled leg peddling that took place as she landed into full gravity. Now hanging at the rope and panty’s mercy she truly felt her nakedness, and the swaying left no doubt she was finally in a hanging wedgie. But the pain! It was more than she could remember and it distracted her to the point of panic. She wasn’t in control!
But all of these things flashing across her mind and body caused her horniness to erupt, a slow but steady swelling that burst in her brain and caused a gasping laugh. Fuck fuck fuck she hurt, fucking naked in her apartment dangling by her underwear like a whore, some desperate doll needing to be abused. But through the pain and the burning came a new sensation, like lava it pulsed and melted through the obstacles unabated and unstoppable. Finally out of control and trapped, she was a slave to her own fantasy’s products. Her clit was getting annihilated by the cotton pulling itself down and in, and the feeling of fabric so deep between her ass cheeks caused a torrent of moisture to flow down, totally contrasting the hard unforgiving underwear immobilizing her against gravity.
She whimpered as the pain continued, and whimpered with even more whine as she stiffened her legs and clamped them together, trying to simultaneously lessen the pain and stimulate her clit and pussy lips more. Rocking forward and back gently, she knew she was in it for the long haul and took a hand off the door frame to abuse her breasts now crying for attention. It took an animal-like craving to release all self-respect and give in fully to the act she was committing. There, dangling by the door frame, chin sunk deep in her chest, Sam grabbed fistfuls of her breast and swung back and forth in a small arc. She could feel it building, feel the climax coming, but now the underwear began to pop strain under the stress of the rocking motion and she knew there was only one way to have the mind-blowing orgasm she craved. She had to go all in and truly be who it was she pictured during those sessions with her vibrator or in daydreams about future partners.
Moving her hand up the door frame to the header, she threw her head back and let her hair fall down behind her. She rotated herself sideways then, with a deep breath, flung her legs out to the side and redoubled the assault on her breasts and nipples. She rocked back and forth hard, legs spread out in a giant split causing all her weight to be on the thin threads of underwear that remained visible in the very bottom of her crotch, the rest so deep in her cheeks and pussy lips it was almost as if she was getting fucked by her panties. She imagined herself from far away, as the explosions slowly built in her abdomen. Her! Spread-eagled in a doorway hanging by a pair of panties clutching desperately at her breasts, head thrown back in ecstasy and pain totally without shame willing to do anything for release! Finally the potent and inexorable waves of pleasure produced by humiliation, pain, and sexual sensations overwhelmed her and she gasped, bucking against her panties.
Her chest heaved and legs twitched with uncontrollable orgasmic bursts so violent they threatened loss of consciousness and lost in the void of pleasure and pain she cried out, completely at the mercy of her body’s desire for relief through orgasm. And it she thrashed, naked legs flailing and breasts pressing against the door frame she hugged for support. She bit the door frame with her mouth, slobbered against it with her tongue, and pulled herself in to hump her front against the cool wood and focus the pain of the wedgie to her ass and off of her pussy. Clinging, she slowly recovered herself just as the panties caved to the physical assault she’d put them through and dropped her to the floor with a few loud snaps. Trembling, she lowered herself through the waistband and took a few steps to collapse on the couch. Now totally naked, she buried her face in a pillow and laid there, trying to let the burning subside while she re-entered the world of self-respect and control. The entire experience had lasted less than 5 minutes, but it was enough.
“I need find someone who is as into these as I am,” Sam thought to herself.