Cynthia really liked pink.
She thought it looked good on her. It made her feel confident; the mellowness of its hues suited Cynthia’s soft fur and her half-grown shapes. On top of that, she had learned in her favorite magazine that the color had come back that year.
For that very reason, the vixen had no hesitation when she had spotted that delightfully pink underwear in the new store that had opened a couple blocks from her house. She distinctly remembered money flowing into the cashier’s hoof with extraordinary celerity and no regret at all in lightening her wallet, even if it meant plundering her weekly allowance in one fell swoop. After all… it was so similar to the lingerie the model in the magazine was wearing! Virginia Hoxen was classy and charming, and so self-assured. The underwear looked perfect on the red vixen like it was made designedly for her.
She was Cynthia’s favorite model. Even back then, in the process of getting her paws on the new purchase at the expense of her already poor wallet, Cynthia eagerly anticipated being at home, in the dim light of her room, dressed in nothing but her spanking new lingerie as she pretended to be in the midst of a photo shoot.
The young vixen had gotten home all happy, swinging her shopping bag as she hummed a little tune from a popular toothpaste commercial, and immediately proceeded to hole up so that Cecilia wouldn’t have caught her red-pawed – or pink-pawed , in her case. Once the door was closed behind her back, Cynthia very quickly stripped off: her cream bra was tossed onto the bed, along with the blouse, while emerald green pants and yellow slips hastened to the floor. Totally naked, paying no attention to the sensation of air tickling in between her thighs, she walked away from them with even, measured steps; then, she pounced on the bag and dug out the inestimable treasure which it contained, arranging her pink possessions on the sheets as a broad smile spread on her lips.
“It’s gorgeous .” The vixen breathed, ecstatic. She knelt before the bed and ran a paw over the fabric, quivering in pleasure at the sensation; the padded bra seemed to be extremely comfy, while the slips were especially smooth and glossy. Her tail started wagging as she grabbed the latter and got on her feet again. It was quite a nice piece of underwear (although very, very thin) and Cynthia wondered how it would be to wear silk in the most naked and sensitive part of her body. She’d never worn silk before, so she was genuinely curious. Surely, models wore it all the time, for it was such an exquisite fabric. “Would dressing in this lingerie make me a model, too?” Cynthia asked aloud, giggling like the cute, silly little vixen she was. “If that’s the case, how nice would it be to pose together with Ms. Hoxen!” Her giggle degenerated into a high-pitched cackle; the toothpaste commercial came to mind again for some reason, and she began to sing an improvised gig that was blended with her maniacal noises: “Pretty and sexy I will be, with this pink lingerie…”
To make her fancy even more convincing, the jejune female went to her desk and picked up the latest copy of F. F. amongst the hodgepodge of stuff that Cecilia mockingly called ‘Cynthia’s Thrift Store’. “Pretty and sexy I will be, with this pink lingerie…” She kept on warbling as she sat on the floor cross-legged, her paws flipping quickly through pages until the red vixen showed up in front of her muzzle.
“There she is! Ahh, look at her, she’s such a beauty in this picture…” It was the same photo where she had spotted the inspiring lingerie for the first time. Ms. Hoxen, her fine body lazily elongating on a midnight blue sofa, was giving the reader her customary come-hither look as a paw was lifted to hold a nice glass of wine in the same direction. Just below the image was a footnote which was titled: ‘Dare to be pretty. Dare to be sexy.’
In the end, the model Cynthia had bought wasn’t exactly the same, but that wouldn’t have prevented her from partnering with the red vixen she admired so much.
Assuming, of course, that she was worthy of the honor.
“I wonder…” The adumbration of doubt tainted her for a moment, “I wonder if I look good in it.” She glanced at the underwear still lying on the bed with a sudden dash of concern; it being nothing like the rest of her wardrobe was a fact Cynthia had already taken into account when she had proceeded to make the purchase. However… “It’s… it’s actually quite different, isn’t it?” She couldn’t help but notice, at long last; not being used to wearing padded bras or g-string panties as she was, the vixen stood up in bewilderment for five full seconds as she tried to regain the same determination that had led her to leave the store with an empty wallet and a merry heart.
Sad to say, resolution had dropped of the face of the Earth.
“Okay… you can’t walk away now, Cynthia. You’ve got this.”
The umpteenth deep breath she held in her lungs seemed to be devoid of any oxygen as she fruitlessly tried to get a hold of herself. In front of her, a rather timid creature was embracing her waist tensely, thus preventing the hems of her purple gown from dividing.
The vestment was unplanned. Cynthia had had no intention of wearing anything other than her new set and dreaming of her modeling career alongside Virginia Hoxen that afternoon; however, the young vixen had been unable to endure the embarrassment for more than a minute after she had put it on. Frantically, she had thrust her closet open and taken the first cloth which could provide her with a bit of shelter before she was ready to confront her reflection in the mirror.
Now, it was hardly possible to recognize in her the same Cynthia who couldn’t wait to try her brand-new lingerie on just until a few minutes ago. “You’re alone, aren’t you? Nobody’s gonna see you,” she tried to convince herself, but her rigid stance didn’t change one bit in spite of the encouragement. “Oh, please, just let it go .”
It wasn’t like she dreaded to check out the final result. Indeed, the vixen had come to realize her body was nothing she should have been ashamed of; Cecilia never missed a chance to remind her of how gorgeous she was becoming – “Hold those hips tight, darling, I’m sure you’ll make great use of them in the future” – but the truth was that Cynthia was always reluctant when it came to actually wearing her new garments. She loved buying them – her drawers overflowed with slips and bras, and she occasionally enjoyed arranging them on the bed and then watching them while chuckling with the stupid complacency of a collector – just as much as she was timid during her first approach. It was illogical, but that’s the way it was.
Cynthia exhaled a disheartened sigh and tightened the grip around her waist, her muzzle covered in wrinkles as she once again stroked her bashful hips, trying to prepare them for the upcoming revelation. She was being astronomically ridiculous, even more so considering it wasn’t her first time buying underclothes or wearing them, but Cynthia couldn’t force those feelings aside. Every time she was about to give up on her purple shield and reveal herself in front of the mirror, a shudder of mortification would course through her, seizing her will to proceed any further.
“C’mon, nobody’s gonna see you…” She stated it again, then stumbled upon the very notion of the possibility she was denying: her body displayed for someone else’s enjoyment.
Cynthia wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with that concept, though she would’ve gladly given up every piece of knowledge she had gained through the years. The idea of another animal (be them male or female, it didn’t really matter) seeing her that way – in a sexual way – was mortifying beyond reason. “Come to think of it… didn’t the salesgirl kind of wink at me when I asked for that set?” Realization struck her like a speeding train, blood rushed under her fur in reaction. “She… she totally thought that I…! Oh, no. No, no, no.” Cynthia shook her head in time with her litany of no’s; whatever the sympathetic gazelle from the shop had presumed, she would refrain from picturing it herself. “W-why can’t a female just buy underwear for her own convenience? Is it really that weird?”
However, it wasn’t like Cynthia could give up to shame either. The investment had cost her 80 dollars, and she was well aware that money didn’t grow on trees. All that bucks spent, just to get a useless ornament, was kind of lame, no? Besides, Cynthia had become a lot more mature and feminine in the past three years. She was about to turn seventeen, for crying out loud! God only knew what the other females her age did when nobody watched them, and there she was stressing out over the most trivial things. “What would Ms. Hoxen say if she saw you like this?”
“She’d encourage me to be daring,” Cynthia replied.
“That’s right.” The vixen nodded resolutely, casting a firm look upon her copy in the mirror. “Dare to be pretty. Dare to be sexy.” Carefully, she loosened the grip around her waist. Linen swished against her white fur and revealed the soft flat of her abdomen. ‘ Dare,’ she reiterated in her mind as she shut her eyelids and lined her arms to each side like a soldier standing to attention, fists clenched so hard she felt the stinging pressure of her claws against her paw-pads.
The gown opened like a curtain. Cynthia kept a feeble groan confined to her jaws when air tickled her belatedly exposed body, and forced her eyes wide open, first one, then the other, to examine her reflection.
The first word that came to her lips to describe it was… awkward. If there was any beauty in her, Cynthia couldn’t really recognize it. The vixen squeezed all the air out of her lungs with a long exhalation; they were surprisingly full of air, and she wondered how so much of it had ended up inside them. Her contrite fists unclenched, and sensibility returned to the paws; her jaw relaxed and opened up, revealing a line of white teeth. Cynthia passed her tongue over them, then licked her lips and finally allowed her shoulders to loosen.
Her dress slipped away, a gentle caress which felt like the affectionate and encouraging gesture of an old friend, and silently gathered at her feet. With nothing else standing between her and the other vixen in the mirror, Cynthia resigned herself to face the fruit of her efforts and stepped forward.
Now that she didn’t look as rigid as a wooden beam, lingerie was finally allowed to fulfill its potential. Not entirely, since Cynthia was a far cry from being at ease, but the fineness of the white-pink contrast produced by her candid fur being tied up with that deliciously smooth silk couldn’t be ignored. She kind of looked like a comfit, one of those you’d find on wedding receptions – ‘Will someone pick me and eat me?’ – And the analogy was a little disturbing, although too giddy not to chortle. It helped her wipe out the last traces of restiveness.
Overall, she had to admit the effect was appreciable. Ears twitched a couple times as her mind registered the artificial swelling of her torso, trying her best not to snort at the unrealistic sight. A paw moved toward it, and one finger followed the soft mounds formed by the two padded cups. It ran through the outer perimeter for a while, keeping the pressure on the breasts just as light; then, it ventured toward the center of one of them.
In spite of Cynthia being unable to feel anything under the thick fabric of her bra, her breath caught when her finger went over the nipple. A basic floral pattern was embroidered on the middle of the cup, right below where her sensitive spot was hidden, and she found the detail particularly suggestive. The vixen pressed her paw-pad harder and started rubbing it in slow circles. “What in the world am I doing…?”
The murmured question, which was supposed to stay unanswered, suddenly got its response when a jolt spread through her body and drew a moan out of her mouth. Cynthia pulled back her finger instantly and stowed it in the firm clench of her fist. “That was… w-was…” Dilated pupils stared at the vixen in the mirror, as if she was facing a stranger. Her whole face was burning, her breasts were tickling, and her abdomen was doing back flips. Her diaphragm no longer remembered how to breathe, and even if it did, her lungs had gone on strike, with no intention of retreating to their proper position.
In conclusion, the vixen was dying, killed by a bra and a pair of panties. ‘That’s not how it was supposed to work, dammit.’
Cynthia inhaled all the oxygen available in the room and exhaled; she repeated the action several times until her body cooled off and her mind started to elaborate again. “It was just a bump in the road, just a bump in the road. All you have to do is not to touch your breasts again. Do you think you can do that?”
What a question to ask to her own counterpart. Of course Cynthia was more than capable of not touching her breasts again. What did she take herself for? A pervert – ‘But what if I am?’ – ? Oh, please.
Thus, the more-than-capable-of-not-touching-herself lady decided to turn in profile to have a new prospect of her looks. In the reflection, her geometrically perfect bosoms were protruding like rolling pink hills. Cynthia liked the result very much, although she suspected that a large part of her judgment was influenced by the fashion magazines she was so fond of. It was on one of these that a few weeks before she had learned of – just recollecting the name was enough to drive her into hysteria – so-called bouncing effect, a new feminine tendency which consisted of pushing up the front to emphasize the volume of the breasts (they rarely achieved remarkable size in nature) in order to, in fact, produce a bouncing effect with the movement of the body. It appeared the expedient was especially pleasing to the male gender.
‘Well, not that there’s anyone I want to impress,’ Cynthia thought as she adjusted the angle from which she looked in the mirror a few times. Having no crush to sigh for wasn’t a particularly depressing condition, but she bet that for other females of her age, it represented a full-scale catastrophe, one worth throwing themselves to the ground and crying until exhaustion.
She would have liked her problems to be this insignificant, at that time. Platitude was such a refreshing perspective, compared to what she had gone through.
Even though there was no male in her life – assuming they were male – that Cynthia should have bewitched with the bouncing effect, the vixen still tried to shake her chest a little, testing the effectiveness of the prodigious bra. And again, despite her life missing the abovementioned mammal, a sense of vague irritation arose when she failed to notice any remarkable result. Cynthia was about to declare herself to be disappointed and betrayed (as well as poor for nothing) when her eyes caught a little glimmer at the height of the panties; she stopped the motion and glanced down quickly, wondering what had caused it…
And then, she found herself this close to bursting out, cackling like a jerk.
There was a diamond-shaped slit at the front of her slips, with a vertical diameter of about half an inch. Above it was a small white ribbon, to which a pinkish gem was attached. The slit left part of her pubic fur uncovered and reminded her of a window on a world that Cynthia knew very little of, but which intrigued her at the same time. And to top it all off, the little jewel made the hole pop even better, bringing all the attention on the magical spot.
An eerie urge to talk exploded inside her. Words had gathered at the back of her throat without prior notice, and where silence once was, a low, vibrating sound started filling the air. It wasn’t quite like purring – it didn’t hold the same sense of blissful content – but the sensation was similar in the way Cynthia could exert very little control over it. She had turned into a milling machine.
“S-scatterbrained,” she wheezed, swallowing spurts of convulsive hilarity, “that’s what I am, a-a scatterbrained vixen. I can’t believe I forgot about the slit, and the gem, a-and…” She buried her face in the cushioned palms of her paws, “I-I can’t believe I actually bought this set, oh my God.” Compulsive laughter gushed from her muzzle, and it sounded like a hysterical concerto of broken glass. Cynthia wanted to flee so badly that the very thought of standing in front of the mirror was proving to be horribly painful.
And yet, she stayed still.
Cynthia was a stubborn vixen. On a couple of occasions, Gregory had called her ‘headstrong’ (it was only after some months that she had realized that the Schnauzer wasn’t talking about the alleged hardness of her skull) for she was “a mammal who never gives in, no matter how hopeless the situation is”.
To be honest, Cynthia didn’t believe in those words as much as Gregory did; but she could learn to trust his judgment, at least. She could borrow the confidence he placed in her, like a temporary superpower or something. And right now seemed like a good time for her to do that.
Silencing her brain so that it wouldn’t interfere with her actions, the young vixen hurled a finger on her pubis as though she was tackling a foe before they could do the same. Pitifully enough, Cynthia had to withdraw it immediately, for she had thrust on her groin with too much force, causing a blast to discharge all over her abdomen.
‘Déjà-vu,’ the Voice, from a remote corner of her mind murmured, ‘or, déjà-senti, to be precise.’
‘Oh, shut up. I just made an error of assessment.’
‘Just another bump in the road, huh?’
‘Didn’t I silence you? Just give me a break!’
The intrusive presence scattered and Cynthia was left alone with her tingles. She waited until they placated, then tried again. “I have to be gentle,” the vixen admonished herself, “My touch is too rough; it has to be more tenderly, or I…” It was better for the sentence to remain unfinished, though the Voice did make a vague attempt to complete it, which she did her best to ignore.
Her paw-pad was on the fabric again. It landed just below the slit, lied still for a moment, then it went off exploring.
Cecilia would always tell her all about underwear, the power it held to transform the humblest damsel into a ravenous predator – females were all predators, regardless of the species – and Cynthia had always greeted those talks with a certain amount of skepticism. But now, following the tip of her finger as it lovingly caressed the smooth pubes, the truth inherited in Cecilia’s prophetic warnings started unfolding before her innocent self. “Yes, that’s right… this is how a lady should touch herself… slowly and gently…”
A hot-blooded curiosity began to build up inside of Cynthia. Enveloped in that pink, glossy shroud of silk, her mons pubis looked awfully luscious as it had never been. It was so plump that she almost wanted to bite it. ‘No,’ she considered, ‘a bite would hurt… but a lick wouldn’t.’ She rolled her finger down on the soft mound, rubbing the upper part with a slow motion that had her hips thrusting against the touch unintentionally.
In that moment of personal grooming, a word she was hardly on good terms with, flickered in her mind: autoeroticism.
Cynthia had heard of it for the first time during one of her latest sessions with Mrs. Nichols; that was probably when the psychotherapist had planted the idea in her head, a seed waiting for the summer of life to finally grow and bear fruit. The vixen still remembered the ghost of a smile that had surfaced on the lemming’s lips when Cynthia had reacted the only way she could to such a racy word (that is roasting on the embers of shame), and the statement that had followed: “Ms. Walker, sexual pleasure is not an alien and twisted taboo you must keep your distance from, especially at your age. Masturbation is an excellent way to get acquainted with our own body, did you know that?”
Whenever she moved too close to the buried treasure, a shiver of lust would course down her legs, prompting them to spread and her finger to dig in more. But it was a hard task to accomplish from a standing position; she needed to lie on her back if she wanted to…
“… I’m so hot.” Cynthia responded to the pleading eyes looking at her from the mirror. The amber in them was gleaming like two round ponds of honey; it was almost like she was on the verge of tears. “I wonder if silk does that to other mammals, too…” Her thighs rubbed against each other in a clumsy attempt to soothe the heat, but the motion only managed to worsen her already burning condition.
She wanted to touch herself more.
Of course, Cynthia had already had the curiosity to explore her own body in the past. Many mammals had appeared to be very interested in her (or in something that she had), but she couldn’t figure out why; the reason she couldn’t was – the arctic vixen supposed – she had no clue about her physique. It was in this spirit that she had tried to educate herself, but to little avail; to Cynthia, like the rest of the pack, privacy was a luxury that she could afford very seldom.
But now, it was different. She was alone in her room – her room! – wearing 80 dollars worth of lingerie; there were no customers to serve this time, no orders to obey to, and no fear of being punished. Cynthia was loved and protected like she hadn’t been in a long, long time. It was right for her instincts to be calibrated on undoubtedly less traumatic days.
It was right for her to live as everyone else did.
The last image that got fixed in her mind was that of a snow-white vixen, with a little touch of pink, getting out of the mirror’s line of sight with a big strike that had, in the tremor of the legs, a precise measure of her heated arousal. Then, her eyes were closed, her back was on the bed, her paw was slowly reaching for the pulsing lump enshrined in the thick of her legs.
It was important to note that Cynthia was not ill-equipped. Thank to the unlimited knowledge internet would impart to every mammal in possession of basic browsing skills, she had come to know (mostly for science, of course) that every girl had a ‘sweet spot’ which, if touched, would send ‘strong sensations’ to their body. She had it, too. It was the same spot that kept throbbing against her slips, most likely.
But Cynthia didn’t touch it right away. She danced around a bit, stroking the fabric on either side as she trembled in anticipation. The motion was lazy and timid, almost as if the vixen was afraid to cause her body a reaction she was unaware of. She had engaged in this type of activity before, but never reached the point where she actually craved for more; sheer curiosity was no longer the only sentiment that guided her actions… or rather, it had been wholly replaced by another feeling altogether.
“It’s slippery,” Cynthia commented on the silk that she was patiently stroking. The word left a flavor in her mouth; it tasted good, for some reason. “It’s so, so slippery…” Her finger glided over the center of the rut and bumped into something that resembled a tiny bulb.
Her body convulsed violently when she did that. A loud cry broke loose, and both paws darted on her muzzle to silence it. ‘Oh my God Cecilia heard me oh no she’s definitely coming here what will she say when she sees me like this—’ Cynthia listened, her heart slamming hard just in back of her breasts as she waited for the epic debacle to descend upon her miserable existence.
Dead, suspicious silence, only interrupted by the ragged panting of her breathing and the persistent thudding of the blood across her limbs. That was all she managed to perceive with her enflamed senses. Cecilia was nowhere to be heard.
‘Maybe… maybe, she didn’t notice.’ Cynthia freed her snout and swallowed an enormous amount of saliva, her fingers now spasming to reconnect to the overly sensitive bundle of muscles she had left untreated. That feeling when she had touched down there… it kind of tickled, wasn’t that right? Tickled hard. There still was a tingling in her groin, indeed… and it was calling her; frantically.
Cynthia landed one careful finger on her button. It sent waves of pleasure across her whole body in response, urged the weight to become heavier, solid.
She started rubbing it.
The friction produced by her paw-pad against the bud was minimal, almost imperceptible, but Cynthia felt it very vividly. She pictured herself nursing her intimacy lovingly, pink silk cleaving to her sex like a second skin – ‘Sticky and slippery, slippery and sticky’ – and the thought was so delicious that her mouth watered again. The vixen was hungry, but for a thing she still hadn’t a name for.
It really was sweaty between her thighs, though. Cynthia didn’t know her intimacy could ooze so much during this kind of activity. It felt a little gross, to be honest.
It was at that moment that utter terror crossed her mind in the shape of a hideous prospect: ‘I peed on my 80 dollars worth of panties.’
She sat up with a painful gasp. No, it couldn’t be. She was supposed to be in control of her biological needs, now wasn’t that right? “I— I can’t possibly…” The vixen tucked a paw in her slips: they were soaking wet. “No, no, no… Did you seriously pee in your underwear, at a time like this, Cynthia…?” The humiliation was total and inconsolable. She was the embodiment of shame, her panties a defiled shrine, her body a vile traitor, her… “But isn’t this pee a little too… thick?”
Indeed, her fingers came out all viscous and ropy. Cynthia was tempted to avoid the mortifying view, but something didn’t settle well with her mind; she was obliged to inspect whatever body fluid she had just scooped out. ‘Science needs no cowards,’ she declaimed from an imaginary podium, sited in an imaginary auditorium, for an imaginary public. The imaginary round of applause that she got helped her muster her courage, and she took a good look.
The substance was dense and transparent, and, much to her relief, it didn’t smell like pee. It almost had no smell, actually. Before Cynthia could even process the idea, her tongue had already leaped out to sample the mysterious filaments. It glided from the basement to the pointed tip of her claw, replacing the unknown fluid with her warm saliva. “It… kind of has a taste, though,” Cynthia mumbled as she attempted to recognize which flavor it reminded her of, but nothing came to her mind.
Not that it mattered, given the pitiful state her new slips were in. How was Cynthia going to explain that to Cecilia? It might not be pee (which undoubtedly was a great thing), but still… she had wet herself! With a fluid produced by her own body, no less! And now the pink silk was clinging to her pink flesh and it was all skimpy and muggy and lewd and…
“… I’m dirty,” the vixen started prattling, covering part of her face with her clean paw as the other one lied motionless over her leg, disjointed from the rest of the body. “I’m a dirty vixen, I’m a dirty vixen, I’m a dirty vixen, I’m a…”
« Cynthia? »
Panic shot fiercely at the exact middle of her chest. Her internal organs executed an impressive maneuver and turned upside-down all at once, and Cynthia barely trapped a horror-struck screech in the very depths of her throat.
Cecilia had found her. Found her out. « Dear? » The Cocker Spaniel patiently called her from the hallway. A knock followed shortly. « Are you okay? »
“Great!” The vixen shrilled, “J-just great!” ‘Please don’t come in please don’t come in please—’
« Oh… okay, then. I thought I had heard you humming something, but… »
“Me? H-how strange, I’m sure I didn’t say anything.”
« Mh, if you say so. How was your day? » The dog asked. « I barely saw you since this morning. Did you go shopping as you had planned? »
Why was she insisting on chatting with Cynthia through the damn door? “Can we talk about this later, at dinner, maybe? I-I’m kind of busy right now!” ‘That’s right. Busy getting your panties wet, you dirty v—’
« Are you… sure everything is fine, darling? Your voice sounded quite, well, earsplitting just now. » Cynthia could swear she heard a giggle at the corner of the sentence, or maybe it was her ears that were ringing. Neither of them was a particularly nice scenario. « If I happened to interrupt something, please forgive me. »
“Y-y-you didn’t interrupt anything!” The confusion was total, and stupidity was way beyond her control for the young female to hold her tongue tight. “I wasn’t doing anything – ‘Didn’t you just tell her you were busy, you gormless vixen?’ – so you didn’t interrupt anything so you don’t have to worry about a-ny-thing!” She felt like she had just consumed the entire breathable atmosphere on the planet, turning it into an endless, toxic land of demise. “A-anyway, I’m coming out soon!” Cynthia stood up on the bed, heavy legs trembling under the abrupt solicitation. Her body wasn’t ready to sustain the vixen’s stance, and she crumbled down on the sheets with a little yelp. “T-ten minutes and I’m out!” she said with a wailing cry as hoarse as the driest desert.
The muffled giggle she heard after that was unmistakable. « We haven’t seen each other in hours; I think I can wait a little longer. Just be sure not to skip meals – although that’s hardly a possibility with you, isn’t it? »
‘She’s mocking me!’ A little growl of frustration escaped her partly opened muzzle as the image of Cecilia snickering like a gracious witch taunted her mind forever. “I won’t skip meals…!” Cynthia rubbed her limbs together, claws hidden between tender meat and soft fur, carving and scratching nervously. The more she talked, the more the vixen had the impression she could be seen and judged for her crimes, very hideous crimes… and also very, very damp.
The last thing Cynthia needed was her mind to start galloping again in the middle of a through-the-door conversation with Cecilia; even less she needed her sweet lump of flesh to tingle and her panties to crawl into her wet labia, squeezing the over-sensitive spot, stimulating it at the worst possible moment. ‘Why am I like this?’ She asked to whatever superior entity could sympathize with her mourning. Which were… none, presumably. “W… what’s for dinner?” A less philosophical question was kindly provided by her keen mind, one whose answer she would’ve actually cared for, if only her hormones had allowed her. “I-I want cake!”
« Cynthia, cake is not dinner. Ahh, what a spoiled girl you are. » The amusement in Cecilia’s voice was tinged with motherly reproach. For a dreadful moment, Cynthia thought that was the perfect timing for the dog to come in and for her sins to be finally exposed. She could almost picture the door being opened and an obliged smile being politely casted at her: “Oh, so that’s what you were doing all along… I am so sorry I intruded, Cynthia. I’ll be back in the kitchen, please continue to learn more about your femininity…”
But nothing happened. The door didn’t open and no snigger was offered to make fun of her morbid curiosity. « Anyhow, I wouldn’t mind making a fruit pie for dessert, » said Cecilia instead. « You gave me a lovely idea, thank you. See you at the table, then. Don’t be late! » The last part of her sentence passed through the ether almost without Cynthia registering it. She barely heard Cecilia’s footsteps walking away at their usually dainty pace until the dog’s presence couldn’t be sensed anymore.
And then, she was alone again.
Alone, and utterly pained. “… She knows,” Cynthia whimpered woefully. Big tears, pregnant with abasement, gathered at the corner of her eyes and rolled down puffy cheeks. It wasn’t known where the certainty came from, but its incontestability oppressed the young vixen like a death sentence. “She figured it all out! I… I just want to die…!”
But she couldn’t. Not dressed like that, at least. Slowly, Cynthia got off the bed and let her back slide against the mattress. Her rear bumped the floor; she felt a bit of its coldness even through the candid fur was supposed to insulate her perfectly, and shivered. Both paws caught the rim of her slips, hesitated for a split second before pulling them out. Sniveling, the young vixen slipped off the proof of her misdeed and tossed it away. She dared not take a look at its condition, let alone that of whatever (still active) volcano was sited amidst her legs. Feeling it was already plenty enough.
“I guess… I should take off the bra, too.” Cynthia was about to reach for the clasp, but then it occurred to her that she would’ve been completely naked at that point, and the idea, for some reasons, scared the hell out of her. Not like having only lower half of her body covered in sweet nothing was any way better, so Cynthia creeped towards the yellow panties she was wearing prior to starting her thrilling pink adventure.
Ah, her dear panties made of good ol’ cotton. Trusty cotton; comfy cotton. Cotton wouldn’t lure her into despicable acts, would it? Of course it wouldn’t. Cynthia nodded as her hasty fingers swooped on the prey and clenched it inside firm fists, as if she feared it could go on the run at a moment’s notice. “I’m so sorry I threw you away,” the poor vixen said, holding the slips close to her heart. Now that she was touching a familiar item, the tension on her groin appeared to ease a little.
The intimate hug they gave to her private parts when Cynthia put them on made her feel protected. It wasn’t anything like the sensual, tempting caress of the silk; it didn’t promote suggestive views, it didn’t seduce her. The cotton was a companion whose only purpose was to comfort her, cuddle her trembling muscles until they were appeased… and mop them out, while it was at it.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, made it the second pair of underwear being dirtied by her humors in the space of an hour. “No… no…!” The ancient lament of her ancestors flooded into her ribcage and became a sorrowful howl of agony. Cecilia surely had to hear it, but it didn’t even matter anymore.
At least, the darling dog would’ve had a lot of fun doing the laundry, this time.