Peed Pants Novels & Stories

I just glared at them and they finally ran away. "She has a period? Sir you might just want to buy her period panties, I guess?" "What?" "Period panties are washable, reusable underwear designed to replace pads and tampons, or be worn with tampons and cups for extra protection." "I'll buy them all." After buying those shits, I went straight to my private room and saw retard standing on one corner while her hands are on her tummy. “What the hell are you doing there?” I asked her. She looked at me like a poor little puppy. “I’m afraid I might stain your couch. I already stained your coat.”

he growled after paying. “You forgot something” we turned to see Pierre; the poor man was carrying all the bags “The underwear is missing.” "Ah, fuck,” Alex groaned, squeezing my hand even more. Pierre started laughing as he guided us to "La perla", the most beautiful underwear store I had ever seen. “Don't these people know what cotton is?” mumbled Alex annoyed “These clothes are transparent allover” "Hey, Abbie, check this out." I looked confused at the diaphanous "cloth” that Pierre was showing me, just a triangle of black cloth held by three strips.

She walked closer, pushing open her wardrobe as she brought out a blue Jean shirt. “This is a baggy shirt, it should fit in your body.” She said, tossing it into my opened hands. Donning it on, it was perfectly my size. It was a knee length shirt, which i would be rocking just like that. “I have some new panties, which are super stretchy.” She said, drawing out her undies case. She brought out a sparkling white pant, which I donned on immediately. I loved it, it looks so good and nice. I was done and ready for the day shopping.

Sweat-slick skin gleams in the light, my torso half-bared now, the undersides of my breasts visible under the baggy t-shirt still clinging. I kicked at the pajama pants next, starting with the thick flannel outer pair. The drawstring unties in a rough pull, and I shove them down my legs, stepping out aggressively, nearly stumbling in my haste. The jersey lounge pants followed, yanked to my ankles and flung aside with a foot. The cotton sleep shorts slide off just as fast, my thighs quivering from the exertion. The innermost silky pants come last for the bottoms, peeled down in a swift motion that exposes my panties. Lucien gulps visibly, his darkening even more than possible.

The desk dug into the small of my back, holding me upright as he pressed forward, the hard line of his erection unmistakable against my hip through his tailored slacks. “Do you always show up to work like this… wet, bare, and so damn tempting?" he continued, voice rough with approval. “Or is today my lucky day?” I’d ditched wearing panties months ago after seeing some late-night TV segment about breathability and feminine health—best decision I’d ever made, especially now, with Blackwell’s fingers sliding against me with nothing in the way.

Emily did point out wearing a dress would be a lot better, I couldn't stick to it. But I did buy myself a new pair of hotpants in a dark blue denim with little tears and edges here and there. The top is as usual, black. It has cut outs leaving the back nearly bare, a very low-cut cleavage and the sides are closed through safety pins. Of course, it has a print on it: Life is short drink more Tequila It's a bit of a sexy punk style, which I like. Entering the living room Emily is already waiting impatient. Of course, she is wearing five-inch heels again and a dark blue glittery mini dress.

In disbelief, Jasmine dangled a pair of silky panties up in the air. The material parted at the crotch, forming a butterfly. She’d never owned such a scandalous undergarment in her life, and she couldn’t believe Wiley would actually bring her such a thing. Yet here they were, several pairs of them. Yep, she could choose to be risqué in fire engine red, pink, black, white or midnight blue. It got worse.

ENID'S POV Preston's fingers moved to the button of my khakis with a practiced, agonizing slowness. The metallic snick of my zipper echoed through the silent, high-end office like a starting pistol. He gripped the waistband and shucked them down my legs, tossing the whiskey-soaked fabric aside like trash. I sat there in nothing but my mismatched, faded lace underwear, feeling raw, exposed, and utterly depraved in the middle of this high-rise temple of finance.

With a PA starting salary of £100k a year, plus bonuses, it was four times her current meagre wage -- she knew it had to be worth going for. She dressed sharply, adorning her lean figure in a tight pencil skirt that hugged her ass and thighs perfectly. It had a fairly generous slit from her knee upwards that displayed her toned thigh when she moved. Obviously, the key to feeling good is wearing good underwear, so she slipped on silky black French knickers and a matching balconnette bra that pushed her breasts upwards into two beautiful mounds. Her long legs were modestly almost covered in sheer stockings, held up by suspenders.

Once we walked into my place, Nate headed over to take a seat on the couch while I went to get changed. "What's the dress code for tonight?" I asked, digging through my drawers as I considered my options. "Literally just wear like sweats or something," he laughed. "It's gonna be super chill." I took his suggestion, picking out some grey sweatpants and a black Calvin Klein sports bra. I was a proud member of the Iddy-Biddy-Tittie-Committee, which was simultaneously a blessing and a curse. One of the main perks (for want of a better word) was that I could comfortably and confidently wear sports bras instead of shirts, something which I would forever be thankful for.