Engines & Lace: Chapter 5
Chapter 5: Good Girl in Lace — What began as a thong became a ritual of pride, control, and surrender.
This is Chapter 5 in the “Engines & Lace” series. The previous chapters can be found here.
It started with a question. Not a demand, not even in person, just a late-night message after one of our usual hookups:
“Would you ever wear something for me?”
The words hung on the screen. I stared at them for a while, thumb hovering, but I knew exactly what he meant by ‘something’. I’d never worn anything like that for a man. Never thought of myself that way. But the way he asked—casual, confident, like he already knew I’d say yes—left no room for hesitation. I typed back: “Yeah. Tell me what?”
The first thing he asked for was a thong. Just a simple, black thong. “Get one that barely covers you,” he wrote. “Show me you can take an order.”
I remember the first night I wore it. I’d bought it that afternoon at the local gay book/sex store, hiding it at the bottom of my bag like it was contraband. In my dorm room, I slipped it on before he arrived, heart hammering, palms slick. The thin fabric cut across my hips, the string running tight between my cheeks, just enough to cover my hole. I felt ridiculous and powerful at the same time.
When he walked in, his eyes dropped immediately. He didn’t say a word. He just sat down on my bed and spread his knees. “Come here,” he said. “Let me see.”
I knelt in front of him, waiting for his reaction. The string of the thong cut perfectly across my hole, teasing and hiding all at once. He didn’t bother to take it off. He just hooked a finger around the strap and pulled it aside, tongue diving in, eating me out while the thin band snapped back against my skin.
Every time he buried his face deeper, the string dragged across my ass. He gripped my thighs, spread me wider, and whispered against me, “good girl… just like that…” His breath was hot, words low and rough. My body trembled, but I stayed still. I wanted him to see I could follow orders. That I was proud of it.
When he finally slid inside me, he left the thong where it was. His thrusts pushed the fabric tighter, while his balls slapped wet and heavy against my ass. The sound was obscene, flesh and fabric and breath all blending together. Every stroke blurred the lines between pain and pleasure, possession and pride.
That was before I moved.
After I left town, things got sharper, heavier. The distance gave him time to think more about his fantasies. When I came back to visit him, he didn’t just ask for thongs anymore. He started picking things out for me. Screenshots and links were sent in the middle of the night: fishnet bodysuits, lace panties, and micro-skirts that barely qualified as clothing. Sometimes he’d call it “sissy” gear. It wasn’t mocking. It was him saying, this is what I want you in when I use you.
He handed me a bag when I walked into the hotel during a trip back. Inside: black lace, soft and sheer, and a pair of fishnets so tight they looked like a spiderweb.
“Put it on,” he said.
I stripped, hands shaking a little, and pulled the lace over my body. It stretched across my chest, down my stomach, hugging me like a second skin. The fishnets clung to my legs, cutting little diamond shapes into my thighs. When I stepped out, his eyes burned. He didn’t look disgusted. He looked proud.
“Spin around,” he said. “Let me see you.”
I turned slowly, the hem of the lace brushing my thighs, the fishnets clinging tighter. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice gone low and thick. “Now bend over.”
I bent at the waist, palms flat on the bed, the edge of the mattress biting into my thighs. He came up behind me and buried his face in my hole through the diamond gap in the fishnet that lined up perfectly, tongue pushing past the fabric until I moaned. His fingers clamped down on my thighs, the nets digging into my skin where he gripped me. Then I heard it: a sharp tear.
He hooked his fingers into the fabric and ripped it open, shredding a hole right where he wanted me. The sound alone made my stomach flip. In seconds, the fishnets were gaping, my hole framed by jagged strands. He didn’t hesitate, his tongue pressed in deeper, not being inhibited by the fishnets, slow and deep. After he had satisfied his taste, he stood up, lining himself against me. He rubbed the head of his dick on my hole to let me feel all the precum that was dripping out, and then started to slide in.
He liked to stretch it out. Make me hold the position. Make me feel every inch. His voice would go low and rough in my ear, “Take it. That’s it. Such a good girl.” The words sank as deep as the dick did.
Each visit after that, the requests escalated. A skirt so short it rode up when I breathed. A bodysuit that left my back bare and my hole framed like a target. “Get this,” he’d text, attaching a link. “Wear it next time.”
And I would. Because I wanted to. Because wearing what he picked made him proud, and his pride was its own kind of reward. When I slipped into lace, I felt it too…sexy in a way I never had before. Not just dressed up, but desired, chosen, his. His eyes would darken when he saw me in what he’d ordered, and that look alone was worth it.
By then, I understood the clothes weren’t just about a look. They were about control. Proof that I’d take whatever role he gave me, wear whatever he wanted, bend however he said. The lace, the fishnets, the skirts…they weren’t costumes. They were declarations.
And every time I put them on, he made sure I understood what it meant:
I was his to dress.
His to use.
His to claim.