She walks through to the bedroom, unzips her skirt, tilts her head and watches his face as it slides slowly down her smooth tanned legs. Eyes wide, he looks up at her face and asks, “But.. silk?”
She doesn’t smile, just looks back at him, speaks softly. “I’ve been a naughty girl. Very naughty.”
He comes back into the room, looks at her lying there naked. The expensive Italian lace, torn and ripped, lay on the floor by the bed, and he gestures to it as he speaks. “You can’t wear that any more. And you’re starting to leak onto the sheets.”
“That’s not wee!” she protests, but he already knows. He’d greatly enjoyed assuring it wouldn’t be her fluids leaving her.
“So,” he asks, holding up the thick thirsty disposable, “Are you going to be a good girl now?”