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.
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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.
