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PANTY STORY # 83
Spring, 1979. A glorious time to be twenty. The dope was cheap and the sex was free. I partook of both as often as the wallet was able and the flesh was willing.
As one of the few straight guys in my theatre program which teemed with eager young actresses, I had pretty good success luring girls into my bedroom. But most often, I would endeavor to visit my date's apartment, because I could find the odd stolen moment to explore the top drawer of her dresser.
As I have previously chronicled, I thought my obsession with the panty would drop away when I went off to college and female companionship became more readily available. Quite the contrary, seeing so many splendid variations of my totem modeled on so many lovely frames actually deepened my fixation. Whenever I spied a girl that interested me, I had to know what kind of panties she was wearing and what treasures were stored in her bureau.
It became my practice to have sex with the girl in the night and, if at all possible, to fuck her panties in the morning. And, later, when I sensed that the relationship might be waning, I often took the opportunity to add her very best pair to my burgeoning collection.
By my senior year, I had amassed a spectacular stash of panties which I kept locked in a suitcase under my bed. All were nylon bikinis. All were size 5 or 6. All colors: red, black, powder blue, yellow, the many varieties of pink. But mainly I gravitated to white. The absolute whiteness of nylon panties is what always sent me reeling. That shocking, perfect white that doesn't exist anywhere else. Panty white.
There was a younger girl who had entered the school in the fall. I passed her in the hallways from time to time. Never paid her much mind. Though once she caught my eye with a thin cotton dress she sported, and my imagination had crept up her hem. She was not, however, my type. I have always preferred thin girls with smallish plums, and this particular girl was quite chesty. She had a lovely face and a mountain of shiny black hair. Not what I would call beautiful but very pretty.
My impression of her changed quite abruptly, several months later. She had landed the lead in some musical the school was producing. I settled into my seat, prepared for an education in ennui. And my expectations were met to dull perfection, until this girl made her entrance. On stage, she was transformed. She radiated light. She was stunningly provocative. I couldn't tear my eyes from her. She was the sexiest woman alive.
I resolved to have her.
It took some time, longer than I hoped. More than a month. But something about her told me I needed to be subtle in my approach. I put myself in her proximity as often as I could, but I rarely spoke to her. And though I had to fight myself, I never, ever stared at her. Just the occasional glance. I smiled vaguely at her jokes, even as her coterie of homosexual hangers-on (for she was now the queen of the drama school) would guffaw at her slightest hiccup. I hoped eventually SHE would come to ME.
About the time I was becoming bored with this game, she sidled up to me at a party and said, "you ready?" Oh, was I ever ready.
Up in my room, she sat on the bed. I knelt before her, smiling, and told her how much I had wanted this to happen, how often I had thought about her over the past few weeks. I began kissing her calves, then her knees and moved up her thighs. My hands explored under her dress. I slid her panties down into the light. They exceeded all expectation. Beautiful, tiny, whiter than white. White lace hearts adorned the front. Perfection. I pulled them off her ankles and dropped them on the floor, my mouth working on her mound.
After some time, I pulled off my pants and prepared to enter her. But she recoiled slightly. I understood. She didn't want that. It was okay with me. I set off to finish the job just as I had started it—with my tongue. As I was pleasuring her, I noticed the panties laying beside me. I thought, "what the hell." I surreptitiously began rubbing them against myself with one hand as I worked on her. She came loudly, violently. She sent me into a frenzy. I forgot what I was doing. I stood up, her panties wrapped around my cock, pumping like the fetishist fiend that I was. I came like a locomotive, harder than I had ever come before. I fell in bed beside her, spent.
That was the first time I had ever masturbated with panties in front of a woman.
A minute or so later, I stirred, suddenly embarrassed to find her panties still twisted around my crotch. I tried to sneak them off to the side, but she put her hand on me. "Sorry," I said. "Sorry."
"It's fine. It's okay," she said. She carefully slipped her panties off me and held them to the light. "These are my favorites. They're pretty, aren't they?" "Yes," I stammered.
"You should see my collection," she said.
Her...collection? Had I heard her right? Her collection? Lying here on my bed, with my stash secreted in a suitcase below us, did this girl just say her COLLECTION?
"I have hundreds," she said. "My Dad makes them. He has a factory in Georgia. He sends them to me to test them out. I'll show ‘em to you sometime if you want."
If I WANT? Hundreds? Like these? Shit, I wanted to go right then.
Two nights later, I got my chance. We went to her apartment, had a few drinks, chatted. I tried to play it cool. But my brain was on overload, as it had been for two solid days. I tried to concentrate on what she was saying but my mind kept wandering into her bedroom, ripping open drawers. Finally, when I thought I would faint, she said, "you want to see my panties?"
"Panties?" I said, attempting nonchalance. "Oh, sure. Your collection."
I followed her into the bedroom. She told me to sit on the bed. She went to her dresser and opened not the top drawer—but the large middle drawer. As promised, it was crammed to the top with panties. She grabbed them by the fistful and threw them on the bed. "Pick some out. I'll model them for you."
I felt very shy. My face must've been beet red. "Go on,” she said. So, I began to look through them, slowly at first, and began to sort them out. The ones I didn't like, I tossed off the bed. The ones I liked, and there were lots of those, I piled together. And there were still mounds of panties that never made it out of her drawer.
And so I got my fashion show. She tried on perhaps a dozen pairs, strutting around the room, checking herself in the mirror, commenting on my choices and finally tossing the used ones back at me. She finally came and laid down on the bed beside me. I began to make love to her, the two of us in a pile of panties. I was afraid I was gonna come before I ever got inside her. But it wouldn't have mattered. She stopped me as before.
"I don't like that. You know what I like. Do what I like." I stripped my clothes off and went down on her again, acutely aware of each pair of panties on the bed. As I knelt at her lap, she even rubbed a pair in my face. Finally, she came.
"Lay on your back," she said. Too dumbfounded to speak, I rolled over. She picked up a pink pair off the bed—to this day I can remember what they looked like—and began rubbing them in a circular motion on my chest, slowly working her way down to my cock. I was afraid the sucker was going to jump off my body, I was so excited. And then she ever-so-gently teased me with them, lightly running them over me until I thought I would burst. Until finally she grabbed me with the panties, just once—hard—and I came.
For the next two months, this would be our relationship. I would give her oral sex and then we would play in her panty drawer. Sometimes, she would dump all the panties on me and I would masturbate and other times she would tease me with other games. Occasionally, I would wear her panties while I went down on her.
I was in love with this girl.
The quarter ended and I graduated. I moved back home to earn some money before starting graduate school in the fall. She got hired at a summer stock theatre. We parted ways, promising we'd see each other soon. She even wrapped up a couple of my favorite panties for "safekeeping" and gave them to me.
We exchanged a letter or two. Kept missing each other on the phone. Six weeks later, I couldn't stand it anymore. I conned my friend to leave with me on a Friday night and we drove nine hours to the theatre. I showed up at the theatre Saturday morning. We found her at rehearsal. The moment I saw her I knew something was wrong. She didn't look thrilled to see me. In fact, she looked distressed.
She pulled me aside and told me she was seeing someone else, had been all along, and that they were serious. As it turns out, it was this red haired putz named Michael whom I hated. Why couldn't it have been someone I didn't know? I tried to talk her out of it, but it was hopeless. I never got to see her—or the collection—again.
They married. What a fucking waste. He went to work for her Dad, the panty manufacturer. Imagine that. I have. Avocation becomes vocation. Panty fiend and panty maker. It might have been a pretty good life.
Except...it doesn't have a happy ending. One day, the red haired putz comes home from work and finds his wife sharing her collection with...another woman.
Guess that explains all the oral sex.