A Washing Line Tale 1

The short path that ran between two rows of backgardens was a regular part of young Alan's route home from work. On this particular long hot summer day, he was struck by a woman hanging out her washing. She was a shapely long-haired blonde, and was pinning a pair of black nylon panties to the line. Alan slowed, his heart pumping, and stared as much as he dared to. There was nobody else on the path, and he was transfixed: rooted to the spot.

As she bent down to the basket he could see the outline of her curved buttocks; oh, those thighs and buttocks. His mouth went dry and his mind spun. She swung her long, silken, lustrous hair back over her shoulders, picked up the empty basket and sauntered in the backdoor.

The lingerie fluttered tantalizingly in the warm summer breeze; it seemed to have a life of its own. It spoke of her, the untouchable sensuous blonde. It had wrapped her skin, and stretched itself against her smooth, unblemished flesh. He thought especially of those black panties as they hugged her inner thighs, the reinforced crotch nestling against her most private, intimate parts. Those soft, beautiful private parts, so soft, so rich, so untouchable. Alan went and looked at the front of the house. It suddenly had a special meaning for him because it contained her; the woman of his dreams.

She was moving inside; if only he had X-ray vision. He ached to see her. It was then that he resolved to steal the black panties! He must have them; it would be like owning a part of the beautiful Goddess.

At this point a few words need to said about young Alan. He was what is known as a spotty adolescent, and was far from tall dark and handsome. No girl would swoon at his feet, he was the spotty one with the long nose, who was always laughed at and left out. Perfect material, dear reader, for the fetish, unable to form real relationships, but driven by the explosive power of sex that will not be denied.

Being honest, stealing grated on Alan's conscience, but oh how he needed those black nylon panties. He resolved to leave payment in an envelope which he would pin to the washing line. This would ease his guilty conscience, and make his behaviour more acceptable. With trembling hands and racing pulse he crept out that night, and scaled the fence. He could just make out the washing. My God, they were still there! He unpegged the panties and replaced them with the envelope.

The house curtains were drawn but a little light escaped into the garden. Then the backdoor opened and she looked out. Alan crouched, holding his valuable prize .The door closed, and he quickly leapt the fence and scuttled homeward with a beating heart. The fetish often lives nearer to the edge than the run of the mill young man, sometimes colliding with the law, always with open public opinion.

There they lay on his white bed sheet. He could hardly bear to touch the sacred item. They felt so soft on his cheek and he fervently kissed the crotch that had nestled between those lovely long legs. "My," he sighed, "I wish I was her panty crotch just surrounded by her exquisite bottom all-day - oh heaven, what heaven."

Alan was rock hard, his whole being centred on sex. The tension was electric, unbearable. He relieved himself in moments, the orgasm spreading through his body, enveloping him, holding him in tingling suspense, convulsing in a spasm of joy . In the aftermath he felt lost, anchorless, yet he did not want to part from those precious panties, so he carefully folded them up in a clean handkerchief to take to work the next day.

Imagine the shock when he saw hanging on the line a large brown envelope. 'My God, what was in it?' he though. His mind ran through all sorts of possible explanations - a trap to catch him, a love letter from her?! Another pair of panties, perhaps a different colour? He decided to collect it that same night. He had no choice, as fate had called him, as it does us all, and he would resolve the tantalizing mystery.

All it said in large letters was, "Meet me tomorrow at the back fence - 3pm." Nothing more. Once again the mystery drew him on inexorably.

Try as we might we cannot escape our innermost desires as they compel us to act sooner or later. But what of Sally, the lady in question? How had this incident played upon her feminine mind? Sally had pictured her admirer as a tall, handsome, lonely man desperate for a woman's love, who had seen her and fallen at first sight. A secret man of passion, who would be her lover and inflame her. After all, her husband did not appreciate her. He took her totally for granted. What she needed was a secret lover. She thrilled at the very thought of it.

Well, you may smile as she preens herself in front of her mirror, putting on the finishing touches of makeup, still undecided as to what to wear. She must look provocative but not tarty; she must show her lovely long legs to effect. She slipped on her high-heeled summer sandals, smoothed her nylon tights, and brushed back her long blonde flowing hair. She looked despairingly at her plump tummy; damnation, why had she let her figure go? She used to be so lithe and swan like. Sally had a panty corset which she wore to hold herself in, and make her curve in the right places. It was tight but she wriggled into it and looked more satisfied with herself.

At last she was ready. She glanced at the clock it was well past 3pm, so she hurried outside and down the garden. Just imagine the shock on poor Sally's face when her handsome lover turned into a spotty runt of a teenager who stared adoringly at her as if he would bore through her with his eyes. She felt anger well up inside her. "I suppose you think this is funny," she snapped at him.

Alan coloured and remained speechless. "Get inside and follow me." She unbolted the gate and led the sheepish boy into her garage.

"You know I could call the police and report you for this."

"Please don't," he mumbled, "I'm sorry. I meant no harm."

Anger and frustration welled up in Sally! She felt cheated and abused by this runt of a boy. 'I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry.' she thought.

"Turn out your pockets this minute." She glared at him. Alan did as he was told in silence. He began to be fearful of this woman who was older than he expected, but tantalizingly sexy. He stared as she began to go through his things. "Turn round and face the wall, boy," she almost growled at him. "And don't you dare look around."

The young man's smallness and his dumb obedience just made Sally angrier with him. After a few minute's silence, she said, "Right....now listen, I know where you live, your name, and where you work. I have decided to punish you and let you go, but don't you ever let me see you again, understand?"'

"Yes," he faintly replied.

She made him bend over the tool bench, then picked a long bamboo and thrashed him, to relieve her pent up anger and frustration. After the second stroke he began to whimper. This made her even angrier and she laid into him with a vengeance. Remember reader, there was no sexuality in her actions; she was just plain angry, and very disappointed. He was the root cause of all this, so he had to pay; it was a woman's scorn. Alan could take no more! "Please stop!" he begged, and turned in tears, holding his bottom.

"Get out!" she shouted and raised the stick to strike him in the face. Alan ran for the door and shot down the garden. Sally grabbed his wallet and threw it over the fence, as she was fuming with indignation.

This was the incident that set Alan on the road of masochism; he was already inadequate, and it pushed him over the edge. Although only 18 years old, he began to fantasize about being punished by older ladies and this was linked forever in his perverted mind to their panties. Ah, reader, such is the human predicament; a small incident can trigger a lifetime's behaviour pattern. I hear you say, and what of Sally? She found her lover quite easily at evening school and gave no more thought to the poor spotty teenager with the long nose.