T Shirt Buckles Novels & Stories

His finger presses on the bare skin below the strap around my ankle. I grab my prepacked tennis shoes from my big shoulder bag and notice Trey's dark brown trail boots, which match his tan slacks and green button down shirt. His top button is undone and he's rolled the sleeves up to his elbows once again. It gives him a classic but business feel to him. He might be the CEO of a company, but he doesn't do the stuffy attire so many of my New York clients walked around with.

I applied very light makeup and styled my curly black hair into a messy bun. How was Michael able to get all these clothes that fit me so perfectly? This black dress I was wearing really accentuated my nice body figure, causing my breast to be more protruding than normal, but it wasn’t in a bad way so I loved it.

Altansanai took a quick shower and dress up for the grocery shopping which Raymond tricked her to go.She wore a plain white t-shirt with the caption 'Badass bitch' inscribed in a blue print in front of it close to her breast area and a tight, plain ,black jean trouser to match.The shirt was lose-fitted ,hanging away from her body but not enough to hid her enormous breast and her feet coated with a black boot that create a low click at each step she took while her hair was packed in a single ponytail and was allowed to bounce around with each step she took couple with the unisex belt which held tight to the waist of the jean.Her front shirt stuck inside her pants showing the beautiful de

But there's nothing classy about the brightly colored Huntington Manor merchandise scattered all over the room. I walk over to one of the toppled tables. T-shirts of every color lie in piles on the floor, and I reach down and hold one up. It's neon green and has a stylized image of the house embroidered in purple thread on the front. The words "Huntington Manor" are stitched in cursive below. I drop it back in the pile. A couple of feet away, a mannequin lies in pieces. I bend over and hoist it upright again. It's wearing one of the T-shirts and a pair of jeans with "Huntington Manor" sewn in metallic thread on the back pockets. Seriously? This place has branded jeans?

I jolt in my chair as the ice water hits my breasts and soaks through my shirt. Fuck, that’s a lot colder than I anticipated. I try to keep my face nonchalant. If Axel thinks I’m not bothered, maybe he’ll give up. “Turned on, are we?” He looks pointedly down at my breasts. I look down and see my nipples protruding through the shirt. I’m wearing a bra, but it’s my thinnest one — a ‘t-shirt bra’ I think they call it. I stare at my drenched chest, noticing how the white cotton clings tightly to the contours of my bra. I don’t think this is what the bra designers had in mind when they designed the tshirt bra, I think to myself wryly.

Conservative enough that no one would look twice. Until he made us put the collars on. They were thin black leather, almost like chokers, with a small silver ring at the throat. He buckled mine himself, standing behind me in front of the mirror, his fingers lingering on the pulse in my neck. “Too tight?” “No, Sir.” He did Sloane’s next. When he finished he stepped back and looked at us in the mirror. “If anyone asks, they’re fashion. If your mother asks, you bought them together. If you take them off before I say, you’ll regret it for a week.”

The thick material would mold to her face and it had straps that went behind her head and under her chin, ensuring it wouldn’t slip off and that she couldn’t see anything while wearing it. The third item she had never seen before but she knew its use because George had told her and she had to spend too much time on p**n-related websites for visual references. Known alternatively as a princess plug or a butt plug, she wasn’t afraid of using it, but it would again be something new for her. Finally, in a small heap were four black cuffs. They were made of leather and matched the collar around her neck.

When she did she saw he was wearing black Chuck Taylors today—real ones, not off-brand like hers. Of course, he has a job, she thought. He can buy whatever he wants. He was staring at her and his expectant smile was starting to fade around the edges. She realized she’d never answered him. “Um, yeah,” she said. “Loads better.” He wore a white T-shirt with a black-and-white photo of a soldier repeated four times on it in a square. On the side it read THE SMITHS in big black capital letters. “What’s that? Some kind of ad for the town?” she asked, pointing at his shirt.

He was on a tailored tunic of deep forest green draped elegantly around his broad shoulders, cinched at the waist with a belt of supple leather adorned with intricate silver buckles. Beneath the tunic, a crisp white shirt peeked out, its collar open to reveal a glimpse of his firm, chiseled jawline. She saw a mat of dark hair on his chest, and that made her swallow hard. Reluctantly peeling her eyes off his chest while having naughty imaginary thoughts swirling in her head, she gazed down. To his trouser. It fit snugly against his muscular thighs before tapering down to meet polished leather boots that gleamed in the moonlight.

It turned out that they were all tiny, and mostly thongs, but I digress. We went to the local Wal-Mart and I got some comfortable shorts. I modeled a few pairs of them for my sister. It was a little disconcerting the way that she looked intently at my crotch every time, but that was the point. I was trying to get shorts that didn't make my dick easy for her to see. I grabbed some new t-shirts as well. My sister's eyes lit up when she saw one of them—a black shirt with the Superman logo on it.