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PANTY STORY # 18
Journey of Innocents
Who could blame a young lad for that summer in Maine when he entered the Garden with lovely Lorraine...
I was barely 12 years old on that gorgeous Sunday after noon, when we met in the field by the path leading from our summer cottages to the large quiet lake where we often went swimming. There would be no swimming today, of course, being Sunday.
I was hopelessly in love with Lorraine—hopeless because she was almost 14. She seemed so much older and more sophisticated. And so exquisitely beautiful!
Instead of the standard shorts and halter top, the usual clothes of summer play, Lorraine had kept on the cool cotton dress she had worn to church, white with embroidered green and yellow flowers dancing around the hem and on the matching belt that hugged her slender waist. And beneath the same dainty flowers on the simple bodice-type top of her dress, swelled the innocent mounds of her developing womanhood.
We walked, talked, and laughed together. And in air filled with the sweet summer fragrances, we wondered together about the lonesome, haunting calls of the loons on the lake. I stopped, took both her hands in mine, and facing her, was smitten by the beauty of sun speckles playing through wisps of her reddish-blond hair, teased ever-so-lightly by the breeze. Awkwardly, on tip-toes I kissed only her forehead and I breathed in deeply the wonderful smell of her fresh-washed hair.
We walked hand in hand, Lorraine giggling at images she saw in the fluffy clouds over the lake. I followed her patter, but became distracted, more interested in what the mischievous breezes were doing under, and inside, the hem of her dress, which, in the style of the day came just to the top of her knees. The tiny puffs of air could not lift the skirts skyward, but the billowings and rustlings made very clear the breezes were having a rollicking good time in there. And I could only imagine that my lovely Lorraine was more than pleased to have them cavort between her wonderful thighs.
Near a patch of wild daisies we stopped. As Lorraine searched every corner of the sky for the shapes and images that delighted her, I quietly sat down in the warm, fragrant grass close by the white open-toed sandals on her delicate feet. Then, to maintain her balance, I guess... or maybe to better accommodate the breezes, my beautiful Lorraine moved her right foot to a point about 13 inches from her left. She stood there, gently rocking at the hips, shifting her weight from foot to foot, scanning the sky for the next fleeting shape, both hands cupped above her eyes. The moment became charged, intoxicating, irresistible.
Who could blame sweet Lorraine, unashamed for the show she presents as a gift to her love-smitten beau...
I called Lorraine’s attention to the lazy, growing vapor trail of a far-away jet moving into a position directly above us. To youthful inexperience, this offered my logical cover to scoot slightly forward, lying flat on my back, head cradled in my hands which now rested between Lorraine’s lovely feet—my forehead but a few inches below the flowered hem of her crisp summer dress.
In a small puff of air I lost sight of her face, as the front hem of her dress now danced directly over the bridge of my nose. In that moment of beauty and truth, in that far simpler day, I first ventured — quite unprepared — into her Garden of Eden, her secret place. And how often I’ve wished I could find it again!
Could even the genius of Disney create a more Magical Kingdom than this...
My heart pounded fiercely as I craned my neck backwards, and first glimpsed the expanse of pale yellow panties—nylon stretched tightly between delicate baby-blue elastics which softly framed the top of each tanned-ivory leg. I determined to see every sight, to savor and devour it all. I bathed in the delicious sensations that seemed to touch every nerve cell in my body.
I studied in detail the rounded bulge of her maiden-mound, framed front and back with soft, puffy gussets, the seams stretching side-to-side to the delicate baby-blue trim of her tight yellow panties.
By now I was understanding little of what Lorraine was saying. Her chatter and occasional giggling, however, acted like a musical aphrodisiac, completing the sensory overload I was feeling. As she slowly rocked side to side, I watched breathlessly the soft puckers and folds that appeared out of nowhere, whispering their way across the shiny surface of the gossamer fabric that held Lorraine’s most-feminine parts.
Somehow in the mists of my sensory stupor, I understood through her giggling Lorraine was asking whether I liked the shade of pink! I finally understood she was no longer talking about the clouds and sky, but about the frothy hem of her nylon slip. Instantly, both of her hands pulled the sides of her skirts, and at the same moment she took a small step backwards. I was now looking directly into her soft brown eyes. Although startled and momentarily embarrassed at my predicament, I noticed the twitching at the corners of her beautiful lips—a smile. And the sparkle in her eyes matched the smile on her lips. She asked, "Were you liking the view?" Still on my back, with an enormous frog in my throat, I stammered, "I... I... I... It..." And I wondered if I would ever be able to speak to her again.
Before I could manage a single intelligible word, Lorraine, still smiling, took a step forward, resuming her previous rocking, with her feet a few inches further apart. As I hesitantly resumed my exploring I noticed a slightly dark, moist spot had appeared between the tightly-stretched baby blue borders of her panty crotch. And a light, musty aroma was mixing with the smells of the flowers and grass. A few wispy hairs peeked out from the edges of the elastic. At the time I did not know what it all meant, but found the sensations strangely beautiful and pleasant.
Lorraine had resumed her patter about the sky and clouds, and people she could see boating and fishing on the lake.
For a moment the rocking stopped, but soon she began again, now rocking front-to-back. With the slightest assist from the breezes I was now marveling at the shimmering expanse of yellow constraining the globes of her well-rounded ass. She rolls back on her hips and the summer air lifts the hem or her dress showing the smooth roundness of her tummy, caressed by the same creamy whisper of nylon. The breeze ventures higher, and there—between a puffy fold of yellow, and the satiny skin surrounding her navel I found the finishing touch—the delicate baby blue waist-band of her panties, confirming the leg-bands were not a mistake. The frame and the picture were now complete. All was now as it needed to be!
Damnation to all, who, ignoring the cost, brand the journeys of innocents, "Innocence Lost."
And not a moment too soon... from a hundred yards away her mother—who saw all too well our adventure—shrieked, "Lorraine!!!" In a moment my Eden had wheeled and was gone. I never again saw her alone in a dress.
Intervening years have yielded many wonderful sexual relationships—marriage to a wonderful woman, children and grandchildren. Since that simpler time so many years ago I have sought out, found, and enjoyed numerous glorious excursions into so many Gardens of Eden. The view of fine thighs and soft panties still leaves me breathless with wonder. Few things in life satisfy as much as stolen glimpses of the feminine form deliciously wrapped in any form of fine lingerie—bra, panties, slips, petticoats.
But the sensory images of that first visit to the Garden remain forever etched in a frequently-visited corner of my mind. Unfortunately, so does the scolding screech of her mother’s voice, which stands as the fearsome angel, posted at the Garden gate, "forbidding all who would enter there-in."