You tell me what knickers to wear. It’s a way of having control from a distance, even though we can’t meet.
I send pictures of the more exciting pairs I own, so you can choose. The rest are basic cotton briefs; I don’t bother showing you these. Each morning you text me your choice, and I send a photograph of me wearing them. Sometimes you won’t let me wear any.
I could change afterwards, but we both know I won’t. I wash the fancy pants in the sink, and put boring ones in the laundry, to avoid my husband’s suspicion.
