Page 61 of The Dragon 2
I never trusted FedEx with such an important mission.
I only trusted my obsession because that never disappointed me.
Therefore, the panties had arrived by private courier just before sunset, nestled in a black satin pouch inside a Decadent bag. Ziploc bags were airtight, efficient, and reliable. If sealed properly, they trapped everything—scent, heat, memory, lust.
A woman’s arousal didn’t fade easily.
It beautifully fermented.
Erotically evolved.
Deepened.
But only if handled correctly.
Preservation was an art.
Her panties had been worn less than an hour before departure. Still wet when she slid them off. Still warm from the dream she’d had of me. Still soaked from the ache between her thighs.
My courier knew better than to mishandle a relic so important to me.
Hand-carry only.
No pressure cargo.
No exposure to dry cabin air.
No fucking temperature shifts.
Nothing that would disturb the molecules of her scent on the panties or the delicate fingerprint of her pussy’s heat.
The black satin interior of the Decadent bag had been pre-warmed to the exact degree where desire lingered, and shame evaporated. The insulation was custom—engineered to maintain precise humidity.
I’d received integrity updates from the courier on the panties every two hours.
Logged.
Timestamped.
Coded with detail.
No drop in heat.
No wrinkle in the content.
By the time they arrived in Paris, the sky had burned gold and bruised violet.
I pulled them out of the bag like a madman. The wet center pressed into my palm like a brand. Still damp. Still glistening. Still holding onto the moment she thought of me and surrendered.
With the damp panties in my hand, I didn’t move at first. I just stared and let the silence stretch. Let the ache settle between my ribs like a second pulse.
The room didn’t breathe.
Neither did I.
Then and only then did I exhale and lift the panties to my nose.
The scent shot through me like a drug.
