My wife left her favorite pair of panties on the bathroom floor. Black lace, still damp from her shower. I picked them up and buried my face in them, breathing her in until I was dizzy. The smell of her soap mixed with that faint, sweet scent that’s just her. I got so hard I had to unzip my jeans right there, my cock throbbing against the cold tile. I came just holding them against my mouth, imagining it was her pussy grinding against my tongue instead of fabric. Then I washed them by hand, carefully, like they were holy relics. I’m a fucking addict. Her scent is my drug, her disgust is my penance, and this cycle of craving and shame is the only worship I understand. I don’t want to be cured. I just want to be hers, even if it means living on my knees.