Ms. Tease Act 04

Act IV: Panties

In the morning I awake refreshed, despite the fact that it seems as if the whole night through I've dreamt of panties: t-bars, g-strings, thongs, briefs, bikinis, hiphuggers, no-shows, and boy shorts -- mounds of the things piled high, a veritable smorgasbord of women's underwear, filmy fabric raining down from the sky like manna. The dreams haven't escaped the notice of my penis either. Even after I've managed to awkwardly empty my bladder, he's still standing tall, ready for round two.

Or perhaps I should say round two hundred and two. By now I've lost track of all the orgasms she's been responsible for. True to my word, I'd checked my box immediately upon getting into work. There's nothing, though I tell myself I shouldn't be surprised. It's quite the leap from man-made vaginas and psuedo shower rescues to used panties. Gently-used or otherwise. Still, I can't help but again imagine her pulling that gray skirt up to her waist and tugging the tiny garment down, giving them a quick, inquisitive sniff to see what all the fuss is about before jamming them down amongst all the ancient memos, coupons, cooking gadgets, and pay stubs in my box -- so much workplace detritus.

She's due to come in at eight, and I'm distracted all throughout the day wondering whether she'll come through with the underwear she's promised me (if she demurs, I'm prepared to insist it was a promise). The kids pick up on the tension, keeping well back from me, making me feel like a shitty pretend dad. I'm surprised by my frustration level; I feel like a horny 16 year-old again -- every cell in my body in a state of sexual High Alert, every coed interaction analyzed and secreted away, culled closely for possible masturbatory material. Despite the workout I gave him the night before, my dick stirs restlessly inside my pants as the hours drag on.

When I check the clock, it's behaving sluggishly. I watch as the second hand makes a grudging revolution. It's as if this anticipation has slowed down time and I wonder if I'm not on to something -- retarding the aging process by way of sexual frustration. But despite its reluctance, the day finally passes in the manner they always do, replete with cliché teenage heartaches and histrionics, hurt feelings and recriminations.

Our shifts on Fridays have a two-hour overlap, and when she comes into the office to set down her purse, her eyes give no indication as to whether or not she's brought along any frilly gifts for me. Honestly I figure it for long shot, thinking she'll probably try to play it off as a joke. Then again, she did bring us our new best friend Gigi, my penis pipes in, forever the optimist.

Before I can get a read though, the little ones are all over her, swarming thickly and pummeling her with questions about what they're going to do. Despite the overlap, I know I won't see much of her. Her schedule's been designed to get the kids in our care out of the house for ice cream, and to rent movies in celebration of the end of the school week. I'd like to blast whatever fucker has set it up this way, but I can't, as that fucker is yours truly.

As the kids scatter to round up shoes and touch up their makeup on the off chance they'll be boys moving about in the world, she comes back into the office. When I look up she's smiling and twirling a dark swatch of fabric around one finger.

"Where were you hiding those?" I ask her.

"They've been in my purse all day," she says, stuffing the underwear in my box behind the door.

I can feel my face go red, but I manage to mumble something to that effect of 'brilliant' before her nervousness gets the better of her and she leaves the office again.

Once she's off with the kids, it's a chore to resist the temptation to jump up immediately and retrieve the panties from my box. But I make myself wait. I want her to be there when I hold them in my hand for the first time; I want her to bear witness to my unbridled gratitude and lust firsthand.

The raucous bunch returns ninety minutes later to relieve me. For once I'm on schedule and ready to hit the road. I can hear them storming up the walkway, high on sugar and the thought of two whole days without school. She and I talk about silly, unimportant matters for a couple minutes. I don't recall much of what is said; likely it's about the children. I do know that none of it is panty related. When I'm packed to leave, I stand and pass her on my way to my box. She's by the door, facing away from me and bending down to fiddle with something at floor level, a shoelace perhaps. The Capri pants she wears cling tightly to her body, an alluring red underwear string peeking out from the waistband. It's all I can do to keep myself from coming up behind her and taking hold of her hips, grinding myself up against her ass, sliding my hands beneath her shirt to cup her tits.

"I almost forgot the most important thing," I fib, causing her to straighten up and turn to me.

I can tell that the lust shows in my eyes. And though she remains silent, it's obvious that on some level she senses the thoughts running through my head. While she may have upped the ante once again, she still isn't willing to go all in, ducking out of the office as I retrieve the undies from where she's tucked them away. The panties are black with a splash of red, but I'm too worried about the kids spotting me to really inspect them, and so I stuff her panties down in my bag before gathering up the remainder of my belongings.

"Bye ladies," I tell the kids. They're all sitting attentively in the living room, drawn already into the latest action-comedy yawner -- Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker cursing and insinuating their way through some caper that pushes the limits of what can and cannot be shown in a PG-13 flick, that being the highest rating available to the children during their stay with us. "Thank you," I say to her, catching her eye.

She laughs and tells me I'm welcome, seated safely between two of our littler ones, clearly embarrassed. I hesitate a moment, but she stays put rather than walking me out and locking the door behind me as per her usual routine.

_____________________________

Once showered and changed, I pull the panties from my bag to examine them at my leisure, turning them over a time or two until I figure out which way is up. They're made of some satiny-slick fabric -- black, with a strip of red lace running along the outer edges of the waistband and leg holes, a heart made up of red sequins on the front panel. I wonder if they were a Valentine's Day gift, feeling a twinge of unexpected jealousy for the lucky bastard who got to peel them dripping from her body.

I place the underwear down on my desk, feeding the cats and then mixing myself a cocktail, drinking it down in two big gulps. I find myself nervous for some reason, but I'm unsure as to why. I stare across the room at the panties. I want nothing more than to bury my face in the generous gift, but again I make myself wait while I pour another drink and move to the couch.

For a while I just sip my scotch, glancing time and again at her panties just sitting there. Damned if I can figure out how they ended up here, the curious chain of events that brought the underwear from store to home, and then from home to body, and finally from her body to here, sitting innocuously on my desk. Impulsively I take up my phone and send her a text message.

"Wow. Impressive choice," I type, hoping she's in the mood to play some. I take another swallow as I wait for her to text me back, reflecting on how we seem to take on alternate personalities behind the distant veil of text, dropping hints and innuendos haphazardly like stones down a well.

"I chose those because I have two pairs, and I got a lot of use outta them. Lol," the text comes back, infusing my genitals with a surge of blood.

I move to the desk and hold the panties up, imagining her moving around in them, the little sequined panel pressed up against her mound. But it annoys me -- unreasonably I know -- that I only got them due to some sort of panty surplus.

"Mmm...lots of use," I type. "That hurts though. Here I was thinking I was special."

As I wait for her reply, I take the underwear and bring them up to my face, covering my nose and mouth, closing my eyes as I breathe through them, as if her panties were a filter, taking the scent of them deep inside me. I'm grateful that she hasn't doused them in perfume -- the smell that she carries around with her. It's there, but it's only an accent, one note of many going hand-in-hand with the smell of the detergent she's washed them in.

I turn the undies inside out, locating the little padded area that presses up against the seam of her, bringing it up to my face again, breathing in through my nose for a long time before I finally smell it: the core scent of her, the secret tangy sweetness of her body. It's faint but unmistakable, and I breathe it in again and again, my nostrils flaring. I wish I could get to the wellspring of the enchanting aroma. My cock has gone erect, painfully so in the confines of the tight boxers. The phone beeps while I'm in the process of digging it out of my fly.

"I actually thought you'd want a pair I wore. I mean you could just go and buy new ones. Me wearing them makes them special :-)"

It's exactly what I want to hear. I'm amazed by how much she understands my need and tell her so.

"Exactly correct. You are the only one who understands me. At the risk of freaking you out: either you have some hypnotic perfume, or you are a truly blessed individual scent-wise. Lol."

The response comes quicker this time.

"Haha, they've been washed."

Washed or not, I know that she's smelled them too, trying to ensure she's not giving away too many of her secrets all at once. But I know also that she's too close to her own distinctive emanations to be able to pick up something so faint, a scent she's been moving around inside for twenty years now, since the first blossom of blood came and colored her thigh. Twenty years of acclimatization no match for twenty years spent doggedly trying to root it out, every sense geared towards detection, a single nostril hair twitching and sending along information to the brain.

"For the record I wasn't smelling them," I tell her, smelling them again. The scotch and the scent of her pussy are starting to go to my head. "I'm no perv. I was lying down and they fell and landed on my face. Lol. And you can never wash out that scent."

"Fell on your face? That's funny. Haven't really had that happen to me yet. Lol."

The image of her with her own panties perched on her face makes me grab my dick in my right hand. I slap it loudly against the palm of my other, feeling a little unstable as I snatch up her underwear again and breathe hard and deep. I wish I could hyperventilate myself, make her scent a part of my being. I'm so horny suddenly that I want to fuck the couch, the bookcase, the refrigerator. Even the cat looks tempting.

"Never had panties on your face?! Then you haven't lived girl. Smack me if I get out of line. I may be hitting the scotch a little bit."

"Okay, 4 sure :-P"

"Lol. You were a little too eager to agree to that," I text back.

I almost wish she'd do it too. I can imagine us wrestling around as she scolds me for my mischievousness, my penis hard between us and pressing up against her flat stomach until she has me subdued. Her hands go to my wrists, pinning them over my head as her knees dig into my shoulders, giving me a clear view up her skirt to the twin pair of panties with the little sequined heart. The scent of her is stronger now. I try to lift my head to get my tongue on the heart, but it's impossible in my current position and she dances playfully out of reach.

The image fades and I pour another scotch, taking her undies again and looking close at the crotch for clues, anything to get me closer to the mystery of her. And then I see it: A single soft blond hair off to the side of the padded area, one end anchored in the fabric. I pull it out and hold it to the light. I'm having trouble believing that anyone's pubic hair could be so soft as I reach down and compare it with the coarseness of my own cropped bush.

"I think you left me a solitary hair," I text, unable to keep the secret. I want her to know I'm on to her. "Did you want me to save it for you, or can I keep it?"

"Uuuuuggghhh!" it comes back. "Are you serious?"

"Lol. A soft little thing. Likely fuzz from a sweater. A man can dream can't he?"

"Uuggghhh! Lol. You got me."

I can't tell if she's playing along, or admitting I've got her hair. I don't want to disgust her, but I'm desperate to hear her tell me about her pussy, to exalt in the virtues of its super-soft hairs and careful folds. I want to know all its secrets: the look, the texture, the smell, the taste. Oh fuck, the taste...

"Yup. A little blond thing," I type out. "Yours then? Brilliant. It's been awhile, but I'm pretty sure it was in the right vicinity. Lol."

She's not biting.

"Okay CSI," comes the reply.

The response makes me laugh out loud when I read it. Perhaps she knows me better than I thought. I finish my scotch and pour another, thinking of myself as some hipster lab technician as I add a splash of water to the elixir. If only I had the proper facilities, I know I could view her panties under a special light to check for any residual bodily fluids. I could use shiny tweezers to carefully transfer the soft blond hair into an evidence vial for safekeeping. I could even get a court order to take down her pants as the attorneys looked on, getting my face up real close and using tiny scissors to collect a sample of her pussy hair for DNA confirmation. Better yet, I could set up an elaborate network of glass tubing and beakers to somehow distill the essence of her scent trapped down in the weave of the fabric, re-liquefy it and gulp it down.

"Lol. Now that's funny. Funny but painfully hot," I type. "Though I get the feeling I'll never get any more panties after this :-("

The response never comes. I make myself yet another drink while I wait, trying to avoid becoming despondent. But all my patience is for naught; the phone remains stubbornly silent. As I pace the apartment, my dick is still half-hard and bobbing there in front of me. At times I take hold and give it a stroke or two, taking up her panties and breathing her heady scent some more until it has me lightheaded. I'm at a loss as to what to do. I know my penis can't take much more of this, but clearly I've spooked her.

"Okay, I can take a hint," I type out finally. "I'll do my damndest to keep you out of my masturbatory fantasies tonight. But am having little luck lately."

A minute later I add: "Okay, I'm lying. For quite a while actually."

Nothing.

I put down the panties and pick up the phone, checking to make sure I haven't accidentally put it on vibrate, and then ensuring that the little battery icon has enough juice. But everything seems to be in working order. Reconciled to flying solo, I grit my teeth and lay down on the couch, taking myself in hand and working my dick in slow strokes up and down.

The text comes as I'm within minutes of coming.

"It's cool. I'm just working on the new girl's meds."

Cool? Not this again, I moan. Looking down at myself, I take hold of the base of my cock, squeezing it so that it flushes a darker color and then waving it in the air a few times, as if that will somehow help her to see the state she's got me in. I wish I could use the fool thing like a wand, command her to forget about her silly work and pick up the thread again.

"Devil," I text back in my despair. "I'd really like to take my...and...stick it...(censored)."

"R U drinking?"

The text startles me. I realize I've had plenty, and go to dump the dregs of my scotch down the drain before texting her back.

"No, not any more anyway. And not at all a factor in why I sent that last text..."

"Oh, okay. Just seems like the later it gets, the bolder you get. Lol."

Her assessment of the situation is spot-on. I feel ashamed that I haven't what it takes to make my move when I'm sober, spew the same tired pickup lines I see the smarmy motherfuckers in bars using, men with better track records than mine. I justify my cowardice by telling myself it's simply not my style, though I too know that if you throw enough rocks up in the air, one's bound to bounce off the top of your head from time to time.

"Lol. True enough. Apologies. Doesn't mean the sentiment isn't genuine though. Thought that counts and all..."

"Haha. No need to apologize."

The message bolsters my courage once more, and before I can think about it, I dash off my reply.

"Lies. What I'd really like to do is take my head and...(censored) under your skirt and...(censored)...lick your...(censored) up and down and..."

As soon as I hit send I know I've gone too far. I look down at my cock in accusation, but at this point he cares not a whit for either decorum or future working conditions. Quickly I send out another text to try and soften the effect.

"Okay, the scotch may have let that one slip," I type, before the alcohol roaring in my bloodstream makes itself known a third time. "But it doesn't make it any less true. Mmm...standing invitation girl. I better say goodnight now. Lol."

"Goodnight," it comes back.

It isn't much of a response, and I get the impression that I may have pushed Ms. Tease into an early retirement with my recklessness. My penis insists that I worry about it later, and for once we're in total agreement. Placing her panties back over my nose and mouth, I begin to jerk off in earnest. Before long I'm able to work my way past the perfume and detergent again. I wonder how many drops of her juice have fallen from her body only to be caught in the very fabric now covering my face. The thought pushes me over the edge. My tongue goes out and over the material, my balls drawing up tight to my body as I begin to come. Quickly I turn to one side, taking the panties from my face, worried I'll soil them with an errant blast. I groan loudly as my dick convulses, the semen flying several feet in the air as it leaves my body, pattering down on the rug, millions of little pollywog spermies navigating the carpet fibers -- evidence for future CSI wannabes -- draining me until the torrent subsides, leaving me breathing hard and wrung out.