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PANTY STORY # 74
Rustling in my covers one September morning prior to school, I discovered my manhood for the first time. Rigid. Inconceivably large. I was fascinated.
Tentatively, I explored myself, amazed by the myriad sensations, stunned by what was happening to my body...until, quite unexpectedly, I found bliss. A sensation like no other. A shocking warmth burst in my chest and spread to my extremities. I sank into my sheets, spent and ecstatic. I had no idea what I had just done, but I knew with absolute certainty that I would rush home after school that day and do it again and again until I could do it no more.
And I knew one more thing: the next time I did it, I would do it with a pair of panties.
Where this idea came from I do not know. I have spent many hours contemplating this moment, for it was then that my life-long obsession was born. I do not recall having any unusual interest in women's undergarments until that exact time. But from somewhere deep in my thirteen-year-old subconscious sprang forth a crystalline image of my sexual totem, the panty. Delicate. Dainty. And forbidden.
I spent the next few days worshipping at my Mother's laundry hamper. She wore pretty, expensive high-waisted nylon panties adorned with lace around the leg openings. I went to the family bathroom hourly, emptied the clothes onto the floor, rummaging until I located every pair I could lay my hands on. I lay on my back, completely naked, and covered myself as best I could from head to toe. I wanted to drown in panties. Something about this felt so very...right—as if I were fulfilling an already-written sexual script that I had to follow. It was as if I was a fetishist even before I had ever experienced orgasm. My fetishism, it seemed, was etched on my brain from birth. My obsession was waiting for my body to develop enough to discover it.
I wanted some panties of my own.
My Mother's collection, though nice, didn't quite fulfill my the perfect image I held in my head. Besides, it was damned inconvenient traipsing off the bathroom all the time. Then there was the fear of discovery. It was just too messy. No, I wanted some panties I could secrete in my room that I could examine and contemplate at any hour, day or night. And I knew just where to get them.
I must admit at this juncture that I would have preferred going to the store and buying some. I had never stolen anything before. (Or since, for that matter, with one very significant exception—many times, too). I even concocted a fabulous story that I thought I would try out at the local department store, something to do with a sister in the hospital, but when I got there I realized it was hopeless. I was beet red, sweating, shaking and terrified beyond description. No, if I wanted panties, I was going to have to purloin them.
My best friend Bobby had a sister a year older than us. Sheila, her name was. She was beautiful with long, straight hair the color of desert sand. She possessed a slender, delicate frame and fascinating little breasts (a body type that, to this day, I favor). Passing through their downstairs hallway several months earlier, I spied her at the top of the stairs dressed only in her bra and panties. I froze stock-still staring up at her. Sheila made no attempt to cover herself at all. She was a wild child, who was already running with boys who owned motorcycles. She said, "you can look if you want to." And so I did. I looked. Long and hard. Until her mother called out to her from somewhere upstairs.
So I knew where I was going to get my panties. All I had to do was be in the right place at the right time. Bobby and I were always sleeping over at each other's houses, so it was not difficult to wangle an invitation for Friday night. My plan was to find a quiet moment, steal quickly into her room, slide open her top drawer and take my pick. One pair. Just one, so that she wouldn't notice. But as it turned out, she had a friend stay over that night, as well. So she was home the whole time. And Bobby had two little brothers who were always underfoot. And both his parents were there, too. So, the girls hid away in her room all night. I could hear them through the door, whispering and giggling. Occasionally, as if to torment me, they would emerge from the room to quickly grab a snack, dressed only in their t-shirts...and pretty panties. It was maddening. The opportunity passed.
The next day was pretty much the same story. After lunch, Bobby and I went down the pool to swim for a few hours. When we returned, the house was still teaming with people and my Dad was going to pick me up soon, so I forlornly resolved to wait for another time. We went up to his room and changed out of our suits. His mother, god bless her, then called out. Told us to bring out suits down to her. I watched as she tossed them into the dryer with a load of freshly washed clothes. The washer and dryer were housed in a closet just off the family room. We plopped down in front of the TV, me and Bobby, the two little brothers and the two sweet-looking girls, their rumps poking enticingly from their cutoffs. It was hot out and everyone was escaping the mid-day sun.
Half-hour later, my father honked outside. I scooped up my bag and headed for the door, thanking Bobby's mother for her kind hospitality, etc. Then she reminded me not to forget my swim suit. Told me to get it out of the dryer. I opened the still-purring machine. When the laundry stopped turning, right on top—as if by design—perched the most perfect little pair of panties I could imagine. I rubbed them between my fingers wistfully. God, I wanted them. But I couldn't. There were six other people in the room with me, including the two girls, for godsakes. It was madness. I dropped them. I fished around in the clothes until I located my suit. I pulled it to the front of the dryer. I took one last gaze at those panties, the splendid little panties......and I jammed them inside my suit and wadded the whole mess up and stumbled to the door. I took one last look in the room. No one had noticed a damned thing.
I rode all the way home with my suit on my lap, my treasure buried in its folds. At least I hoped so. My Dad was chattering away at me, but I could scarcely hear a word, The blood was pounding in my ears. I had stolen a pair of panties. Could he tell? Would Bobby's Mother notice and call my Mother? Would Sheila realize I had stolen her panties? Would she tell everyone?
When we got home, I made some feeble small-talk with my Mom and then high- tailed it for my lair. I sat down at my desk and place the bathing suit in front of me. Slowly, I unwrapped it. And there they were. The panties. Sheila's panties. My panties.
I held them to the light.
They were tiny. Bikinis. White. Nylon. Unadorned. Perfect. Clean. Feminine. Delicate. Dainty. And so tiny. I couldn't get over how small they were. I could scarcely believe that they would fit a girl's bottom, they were so small. The tag said, Size 4. Vanity Fair.
I probably read that tag a thousand times over the next few years, even as my collection grew with splendid examples from my cousins dressers, my sister's friend's overnight cases, various friend's sisters' vanities, from a girlfriend's beach bag. I had eighteen pair when I left for college at age seventeen.
Sadly, I tossed them out the day I left for college, thinking I had outgrown such things. But I was wrong about that. A month later I was back in action, swiping a frilly pair from a friend's dorm room. And soon others, as the opportunity presented itself. A year or two later, I began to venture into the stores and buy them whenever the mood struck me and I had a few extra bucks. The odd looks and embarrassing titters from salesladies and female customers were easier to take than the guilt of theft. In fact, I learned to rather enjoy the delicious shame, the perversity of the situation. Of my situation. Of my obsession.
I just turned forty. I have been fortunate to find for my second wife a beautiful, intelligent young woman with some peculiar sexual passions of her own. My interest in her panties seems to stimulate her. I buy her dozens of pairs and she wears them for me. And, trust me, I am grateful to her beyond words.