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One of the weird things about being an inanimate object is you lose all sense of time. I really don't know how long I've been panties for. I only exist in the here and now... The taste of sweat, the tight warmth around her body, the dampness against my fabric, that’s all I know. Sometimes it’s quiet, just her skin pressed close. Then suddenly she moves again, or sits down heavily, and everything shifts. But time? It doesn’t pass anymore. Only sensations do. Right now, that’s enough: this raw scent of her day clinging to me like a promise. Hugging pussy all day is a wet, messy ordeal. The fabric presses up tight against every fold and crevice, catching every bit of slickness that oozes out with each shift of her hips. Sometimes it's just warm and damp; other times there’s so much wetness that it feels like I’m being soaked in her juices until my fibers are heavy with the taste of salt and musk. Every time she moves or sits down, it forces me deeper into the heat, grinding against her clit and hole until I can't tell where I end and she begins. All day long, it's nothing but this thick scent, pussy sweat, leftover arousal, maybe even the faint tang of urine after she uses the bathroom, that sinks into me like a stain you can never wash out.