We all have our vices. Some smoke cigarettes. Some drink too much. Some gamble away their savings. My vice of choice has always been women's underwear. Some chew tobacco; I chew panties. Cotton or satin, thong or granny panty, I love 'em all. When I was a pup, I would burrow through the laundry pile, find some lingerie to my liking, and then chew the day away. When we'd have visitors, I'd find a way to open up their suitcase. Guests were always shocked -- and more than a little embarrassed -- when I came rocketing into the room with their underwear hanging from my mouth, my head shaking furiously. Anything to get my fix. As I gained fame as the Notorious M.U.G., my access to panties grew exponentially. I was like a slightly less wrinkly Tom Jones. Every night, women would fling their panties onto the stage. They couldn't help themselves. By the end of the show, I'd have panties hanging from my tail, panties draped across my back, and, of course, a fresh pair hanging from my jowls. What began as an occasional vice had become a full-fledged addiction. I hired a crew of roadies whose sole responsibility was to gather up each night's underwear haul. It reached a point where I couldn't even go into the recording studio without a few pounds of panties to get me through the session. I was a junkie, pure and simple. And I was about to encounter the ultimate temptation.
To be continued
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