Long Story: A Game of Thongs!
Don’t we all have that one weird fashion article bought impulsively at a moment of weakness when we are convinced it’s the only thing lacking in our life, but once in possession will never again see the light of the day?
Miss Single had a pair of thongs that fit this description perfectly. Someone at work mentioned it and then she googled it and then the internet kept throwing various ads at her till she buckled under pressure and bought one just to see what the fuss was about.
They were black and lacy with the tiniest bow marking the location of her entrance, in case anyone ever got lost trying to find it. She tried them on and paraded in front of the mirror in her bedroom and she admitted that they made her butt look really pornographic but in a tasteful way. And that was it. Since then they had been resting at the bottom of her drawer, constantly disfavoured against comfy everyday butt squishing options.
And then she met Mr. Perfect! The super-smart and devilishly handsome hunk of a guy who she had met at a party and who surprisingly preferred talking to her over at least ten other hotter women. Their first date was the very next day for breakfast, and the second one was over movies and junk-food. Both highly successful since as a result, today was the crucial third date.
Miss Single really wanted to bag this guy. There was a terrible shortage of decent men in the market right now, and she wasn’t getting any younger. She had foreseen the possibility of this date extending beyond dinner and into her sleeping time and was determined to use every weapon in her arsenal to conquer the beast. Thus came out the black lacy thongs.
She was quite pleased with their overall seamless effect on her body hugging dress, and flicked her hair and stepped out feeling sexier than she had ever felt in a really long time.
Before reaching the restaurant a bit of walking was required and she admitted that her butt-cheeks were really not enjoying being forced apart. She mentally told them that a little distance was sometimes healthy in a relationship and that they would get used to it in no time. They still forced her to stop once or twice and flex her thighs, but it was a small price to be paid for the ultimate prize.
The prize Mr. Perfect was looking so delicious it made her want to skip dinner altogether and simply start feasting on him. He greeted her charmingly and then drew closer and spoke into her ear, “You look scorching hot!”
She gave him her sexiest nonchalant smile, but internally jumped around in glee and screamed, “Imma score tonight! Imma score tonight!”
The waiter of this fancy Italian restaurant showed them to their table and pulled out her chair to help her be seated. She sat down, but had to immediately stand up again. Because upon plonking down the seat in her usual manner, she had gotten a strange feeling that she would later describe as ‘alignment issues’.
Watching her stand up abruptly startled Mr. Perfect who stood as well, and looked at her with a questioning gaze. Miss Single was not yet outdone, and she quickly covered it up by turning around and thanking the waiter politely before gently sitting down again, letting her flesh get used to the new arrangements.
After that minor initial hiccup, the date was back on track again. They exchanged workplace happenings and gossip about their mutual friends, and cheer and laughter reigned on their table, just as it was supposed to.
But just like the circle of life, tears must follow laughter.
He was describing someone who was the source of his misery these days with much exaggeration, and she couldn’t help but lean back as she laughed. But the position seemed to strangle her ass with such gusto, that she had to grab the edge of the table to pull herself back up immediately, with the smile frozen on her face.
Mr. Perfect was taken aback by her reaction and thought she was choking. Well, he wasn’t completely wrong, with only the location differing from his supposition.
Quick-witted Miss Single quickly covered it up again, but it was the beginning of the end.
The crack in her butt seemed to be getting sliced open with every microdegree of movement. Under the cover of mundane actions, like pouring water and rearranging the table, she tried a few different positions, till she arrived at the least uncomfortable one. The winning position required her to put all her weight on right butt cheek and to be anchored in place by the support of the right elbow on the table. She felt like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but in her mind she consoled herself that she probably only looked like she was casually enjoying the conversation. However, in practice she was barely paying attention to conversation.
They ordered food and unable to choose with her distracted brain, she simply ordered what he was having. Thus she ended up with a plate of risotto that she had absolutely hated. Still, food was the least of her worries right now.
In order to eat she had to shift her weight to the left side, but it wasn’t long before that side started getting numb. So she had to take a break from eating like the dainty little eater she wasn’t and shift back to the right. When shifting wouldn’t solve it she would excuse herself to the restroom just so she could give her posterior a break from the sexiness overload. Thus marching left-right with her butt and running to the bathroom thrice she trudged through the meal.
Mr. Perfect suddenly asked her to pass the sauce, and she did. But immediately following that she also realised that he had stopped talking for a while now. He had enquired once or twice if she was okay, and she vaguely remembered denying with a casual wave. After that he had stopped talking altogether.
She felt really guilty. With all her focus at her bottom, she hadn’t really paid her date any attention. She tried to strike up a conversation, but he just responded with a word or two, and simply smiled in response if a question wasn’t asked.
Her heart sank. She knew he was totally out of it by now. She thought to herself that maybe she wasn’t as fun as she thought or maybe he didn’t really find her sexy enough, and only complimented out of politeness.
They finished the dinner in mutual silence, skipping dessert. When the bill arrived, she offered to pay, but he politely refused and she didn’t resist too much. They walked towards the exit and the waiter gave them a big smile and asked them to visit again.
What visit again? This was the end of the road. This fancy Italian place was where their relationship succumbed to death.
“But it’s alright” she thought, “there’s no shortage of decent men in the market and I’m still pretty young. Besides, singlehood is great too.”
Before parting ways at the entrance of the restaurant, she turned to him to say a few words in conclusion, but she found him distracted. Checking. Another. Butt!!
What a jerk!
She couldn’t believe that she put her own pampered tush through an evening of torture for this unappreciative bastard. All the guilt and regret from before was eaten up by the dogs of rage roaring within her now. Throwing all propriety aside, she did what she had been itching to do right then, which was to use her fingers over her dress to pull out the strap dividing her ass-crack.
Before Mr. Perfect could even begin to find words to express his confusion, he was attacked by the angry goddess’ wrath.
“You know man, I really sorry that you had a shitty time, but at least fucking wait till this date is over before you go salivating after other asses!”
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. You know what you just did. And don’t give me that crap about ‘that’s how men are!’ coz I aint some last century housewife who has to take your bullshit just because she has to depend on you for food, shelter and clothing. I make my own damn money and I don’t even let the guy who pays me to check out my butt, let alone other butts in my damned presence. I hate plenty of stuff too. But I’m not being rude because of it. Like that risotto that was like undigested vomit from the drunkest chick’s guts. Or like this fucking noose around my ass…”
… Aaaaaaand she went on to directly pull it down from under her dress and wave it in his face to see.
“Do you know what it’s like to have your crack gutted open, if you so much as breathe violently. I went through this for you but you don’t fucking care. You turn around and reject my ass for the first perfect ass to come swinging in your direction.”
“I think your ass is perfect.”
“Oh shut it. It’s too late for damage control, don’t you think?”
Mr. Perfect had indeed been upset over his date and was shocked at the beginning of her onslaught, but when he saw the culprit waving in his face he immediately understood the whole matter.
“Is this the reason why you were squirming and running to the bathroom the whole time? I thought you hated me.”
Freeing her ass made her less irritable and she was at least able to respond without jumping an octave.
“Why’d I torture myself for someone I hated?”
“Well, do you think I’d want someone I liked to torture themselves, least of all for my sake?”
Miss single was speechless at this; for the first time since she blew her top off. All she heard was that he liked her.
He asked again, “Tell me what’s going on with you?”
She incoherently stammered out her insecurity, “Well… You’re you and… I’m me. You know… I… just wanted to be… to look sexy for you.”
He smiled, “I don’t know what exactly entails sexy, but removing your thongs in front of a restaurant just tops all kinds of sexy for me.”
“You find this sexy?? For me, it’s literally one of those moments that I know are mortifying as and when it’s happening but I’m choosing not to think about it and saving my mental and emotional breakdown for home.”
“Well if you need mental and emotional support of some kind, you let me know. I got nowhere else to be tonight.”
Miss Single was quietly absorbing the meaning behind his words, her roaring rage having completely transformed into purring desire.
“So do you want to come to my place to… ‘support’ me emotionally?”
“That… or if you need help burning those thongs.”
They had started walking towards the parking lot already.
“I’m not just gonna burn them. I’m gonna stab them first, cut them into three hundred pieces, hundred for each time they made me run to the bathroom; and after burning them I’ll scatter the ash over dead plants.”
“Done and done. Just put them on and show me once before you do that. I want to fully appreciate your struggle.”
“Fine. For you I’ll put myself through it once more.” She spoke in a voice in which her constantly growing smile could be heard. “Besides, I’ll probably keep them unharmed, the lace is just too cute.”
Through the bustling street that Saturday night, Miss Less-than-Perfect and Mr. Not-so-Single slowly made their way home with their fates tied together by two strips of black lace and a bow.
