Rod was a carpenter by trade. His grandfather had taught him the basics. While other kids of his age were merely playing with their toys, young Rodney was actually making them. Ironic then, that a craftsman au fait with shaping a mortise and tenon to fit like the proverbial glove, would now be installing ready-made bedroom furniture delivered in a flat pack. He consoled himself with the fact that support batons still needed properly fitting, and beading and finishing strips still needed precision cutting and mitering. He rejected any notion that such work was in any way demeaning for one so skilled.
Rod was a happy man, conscientious, trustworthy and well-liked. His customers were invariably delighted with what he produced - especially the ladies, who as one might expect, frequently confessed to being over the moon with their freshly-appointed boudoirs. Rod thus built for himself a reputation, amusingly, for being 'good in the bedroom'.
Sadly for Rod, the commonplace meaning of the phrase never seemed to apply these days. He was divorced, and reluctant to make any further commitment in that direction. But he was still a catch, being only late thirties, ruggedly masculine, muscular, with large workman's hands, and a copious amount of black chest hair, though thinning a little on top. Also in his favour was that it was not generally known that he habitually indulged an overwhelming fetish for ladies underwear.
He hadn't deliberately chosen to work in bedrooms, where drawers full of unmentionables were more likely than not to be found, it was just the way it had coincidentally turned out. Anyway, the lady of the house would normally move out everything wearable to safekeeping prior to the upheaval of a new installation. But not always...
Jennifer was an only child. With the recent passing of her mother, she now had lost both parents, having devoted her best years to looking after her widowed mum. Her own body clock had by no means ticked down, but she had given up any ambition of having a family of her own - looking after infirm parents, with the associated running around, worrying, waiting in hospitals, cooking, cleaning and nursing, seemed a more than adequate substitute for motherhood, albeit without the joy. And she had long come to accept that she was not spectacularly attractive, being petite with a sharp nose, thin eyebrows, a small mouth, and devoid of eyecatching bodily features normally associated with the female stereotype of mans' desire. But she had inherited the family house and residual wealth, and was set for a comfortable existence. And first thing on the agenda was a new fitted bedroom.
The Davisson Renaissance-style full-height wardrobe, with corner extension, built-in dressing table and bedside units would be a two day job, Rod informed her. Jenny should clear out the contents of the drawers and cupboards of the existing free-standing units prior to his morning arrival. He would deal with their removal, and begin the new construction work. The people delivering the new bed would arrive on the day following. He applauded her choice of pear-wood finish. Not that pear-wood was any better than anything else, it was the standard way of alleviating customers' anxiety that they'd made the right decision.
On day one, Rod turned up, dead to time. Jenny offered him a cup of tea, which for the moment, he declined with thanks. So, she ushered him straight to the double bedroom destined, hopefully, to become metaphorically, and literally, the place of her dreams. He noted that she had piled up clothes on the top of the bed. This was not a good idea - there inevitably would be dust and debris resulting from his drilling. But with the old bed not due to be collected until the next day, he figured that she probably thought that was as good a place as any until she could find somewhere better. And in the pile, Rod couldn't help but notice, there were several items of lingerie! He neglected to advise her to shift the pile elsewhere.
By mid-morning, progress was well underway, and Jenny brought Rod some coffee. "I have to go out for a meeting with my solicitor about mum's will," she said. "Is it alright if I leave you to it for two or three hours? You know where the kitchen and bathroom are. Feel free to use the facilities."
Yes, it fitted in with Rod's plan. Very well, in fact. Rod wasn't a devious person in any other respect than that of organising the management of his secret fetish. If he was obsessive about luxuriating in female undergarments, he was equally obsessive about minimising the chance of ever being found out. He would buy lingerie new or used, from charity shops or department stores, but never in the vicinity of where he lived - there always was the chance that someone in the shop knew someone who knew someone else who knew him, etc etc, and his foibles would get him denounced as an undesirable weirdo. As if anyone cared.
But Rod cared, and therefore planned such shopping sorties around visits to bustling London or to other towns. Even mail order was dicey, he believed. There was a lady courier who often would deliver to houses in the district, chatting on doorsteps as she did her round. "You know that chap at number 23? I don't know how many parcels of sexy undies he's had delivered, and he lives there on his own..." would be the gossip, as Rod imagined it.
Right from the moment he espied Jenny's pile of garments on the bed, he figured that should he get a clear hour to himself, he could have a good rummage, a feel, and perhaps try on a few items. He would be able to disguise the fact that the heap had been rearranged, by claiming to have relocated it to protect it from the dust. Something he probably should, and would have done anyway. "See you later," Jenny called as she slipped out the front door to her car parked in the street. Rod watched through the window as the car pulled away.
It was soon time for a break. Things had gone well. Rod took off his overalls. He sat on the edge of the bed and started to sift through the pile - skirts, dresses, slacks, blouses, tights, stockings, bras, panties, slips, dressing wraps, nighties, and some rather austere foundation garments. Certainly a large selection of items, he thought, even if they weren't exactly Agent Provocateur products. A few nice pieces though. Go for it, he told himself, stripping off. He started with the silky white stockings - a rare find in this day and age, and carefully, though ultimately clumsily, pulled them on. He enjoyed their clinging feel and cooling effect, although they came up a bit short on his thigh.
A multi-panelled black corselette seemed to be the ideal support for them, but after painstakingly securing a number of hooks and sliding it round his midriff, he realised that without adjusting the suspender lengths, the clasps were not going to reach the stocking tops. And that was going to be too risky, in terms of restoring things to their exact original state. So he let the suspenders dangle, and completed the ensemble with a generously-cut bottle-green bra, which again was well short of the size needed to span his chest, so he chose to let it hang from his shoulders while he caressed his man-breasts through the delectably soft satin. All the time, he kept an eye on his erection. Soiling anything would be fatal, and was a must to avoid.
