When Annie and I set up house together I knew, in part, it was because I wanted to entirely change my life. I had worked really hard through college, waiting tables when I wasn't studying, and I had worked equally hard for the year since graduating. Now was a perfect time for a change. My job, an accountant for a large advertising firm, was really challenging and going well, but the rest of my life had been badly neglected. Sure, now I had Annie, but socially, physically, emotionally and spiritually, I was a bit of a wreck, so at 24 with my foot firmly planted on the bottom wrung of what I expected to be a very tall corporate ladder, I was due for a bit of a make-over and with my A-type personality I knew I would work hard to make it happen.
But, that said, by far the biggest change in my life was and would continue to be the inseparable duality of my newly discovered lesbianism and its singular focus, Annie. Three months after our first intimate touch and a month after moving into our new apartment, we were no longer experimenting with each other; we had fallen into a predicable pattern that was exciting, nurturing and naughty.
You have to give to get, I knew that, I knew that in getting the unbelievable thrill from having Annie as a fully obedient partner, I had to give her what she wanted: I had to feed her panty fetish. We never talked about it but when we moved in together, far from it going away, her fetish seemed to intensify. And it evolved.
I guess all couples develop a comfortable sexual routine together. We did, from the moment we set up house. I needed a lot of sex, it shocks me how much of it I need, and it was sex I crave, not warmth and love and intimacy: sex, raw sex, dirty sex, even degrading sex.
I hit on it the first night in our new apartment. I was naked on all fours on the bed, my tits and belly hanging down, my legs spread obscenely wide. It took her awhile but she finally got all the elements right and it became our standard: she would kneel on the floor at the end of the bed and lick and suck my rectum while she fondled my breasts and when the moment was right, I would lean my head down on the bed and offer her my pussy; she'd take my clit in her lips and suck until my shouting stopped. And then it would be absolutely quiet, me pressing myself into the bed, Annie pressing herself into me, her face on the small of my back. I loved it, it was the crescendo of everything I wanted and I felt so deliciously dirty it never took more than a few minutes for me to explode.
And then one night, things changed. When I was kneeling on the bed expecting the usual, Annie handed me a pair of panties and asked me to put them on. When I did, it made all the difference in the world ... to her. What had been a delicious, easy and fool-proof way for me to quickly get off, now became a prolonged production. With my ass sticking out there for her, Annie made love ... to my panties. Her fingers would trace lazy circles all over them, then she would follow their borders along my skin, poking under them in places, pinching the material, running her finger under them at the crotch, lightly pushing the material into my pussy, pushing the material into my anus. Only when she sensed my impatience did she take them off and get down and dirty with my rectum before biting onto my clit.
I didn't really get her panty thing; I thought she'd get over it, especially when we moved in together. But she didn't. I didn't know it at first but when I started paying attention to it, her fetish seemed to be everywhere.
The first thing I noticed was that, just as when she lived alone, now she always had a pair of my panties under her pillow, even though I was pressed into her side every night. Didn't get it. Then, after about a month of living together, I noticed that my panty drawer started to change. Going were the variety of panties I had; they were being replaced by cheap nylon granny style, either yellow or rose, with a thick cotton gusset. Then, after a few weeks I noticed that those were the only panties in my drawer, cheap nylon yellow or rose — all my usuals I guess had been pitched, and then I noticed that the drawer sometimes was really full of them and at other times not nearly so full. It kind of freaked me out a little and I was going to talk to her about this wierd panty thing but decided against it. Who cares if she liked my panties, she had already admitted as much. Big deal. And I told myself that it was no big deal when I discovered my panties ... in her purse, then, when I went looking for them, in her jacket pocket and in her camera bag, always the rose or yellow, always the cheap nylon.
In fact, while initially I was a little troubled by it, after awhile I started to really like this panty thing of hers because it made our sex so much better. I am a taker, I want her to service me, sad but true and I had been feeling a little guilty that in my taking I hadn't been doing much giving. As far as I knew, she rarely had an orgasm while mine were as regular as the multiple-vitamins I took.
That all changed when I started to feed her fetish.
I didn't like it that she left my panties on when she licked my anus. But I didn't say anything, instead, one night I took my panties off early during a session and, as a result, had a better than average cum, but when it was over, rather than just collapsing on the bed like I usually did, I rolled over and used the panties to clean myself, like, really thoroughly, then I just dropped them there on the bed. That's the only time I had to do it. From then on in I wore her yellow or rose nylon granny panties for no more than a few minutes before she took them off, licked, felt and sucked me to a predictably terrific orgasm then, when I rolled over on my back with my legs wide open, she would carefully, meticulously, clean me with them. And I loved to watch her do it, it just seemed to matter so much to her.
But things were far from perfect with us.
On a Thursday night I was talking to her pussy, as I often did, punctuating my sentences with nuzzling pecks. "I joined a gym today, I've tried it out a few times in the past month and decided to go for it."
This surprised her enough that she lifted her head from my thigh and looked at me, "You're kidding."
"My birthday's next week. You'll want to get something special for me," I gave a little tongue to my nuzzle, for emphasis. "I need something to wear in the gym so I thought we'd go out on Saturday and try to find it." When she started to object I bit her on a lip, hard enough that she jumped and cried, 'Heyhhh.'
It's one of the great curiosities of our relationship that the lesbian, Annie, and the lover, me, have essentially changed roles: she is doing everything she can to conceal her sexual identify while I, in a giggly kind of way, am trying to create one. She'll go out for the occasional drink, if the bar is dark enough, but she won't, in effect, allow us to be seen together as a couple. It's been like this from the get-go so I haven't taken offense, but after a month or so of living together it has crossed the line of absurdity; we're either a couple or we're not, who cares what your family thinks? Well, she does, she doesn't want them to get wind of her sexual aberration — the way they would think of it — before she could find the courage to tell them about it.
I knew Annie's parents, I knew why she would want to keep her secret from them but she didn't see much of them anymore so ... and anyway, I was starting to feel like a second class citizen, "We're going to the mall on Saturday, we're going to pick out exercise stuff together; then we're going out to dinner; then we're going to a movie, you can pick it; then we're going out for a drink and maybe talk to some people. Got it? We're going to step outside these fucking walls together and we're going to socialize." I knew this would traumatize her but I didn't care, my life needed to change and it wasn't going to change without her.
I tried to cheer her up with my tongue but I wasn't getting anywhere so I rolled away and pretended to be getting myself off but the atmosphere was way too tense for that and I was just about to quit when she rolled into me and started kissing the back of my frigging hand. "What kind of gym is it?"
"The exercise kind of gym," I said, encouraged to go deeper.
"Men and women?"
"Ya, both."
And it just hung there, her lips were on the hand that was slowly frigging but I knew they were pensive lips, not passionate, and that's when it occurred to me. I roughly pushed her head away and sat up, looking down on her. "You're jealous," but I wasn't certain I was right, it seemed too stupid and then it got more stupid, "Of whom, the girls or the boys?"
She didn't answer and she didn't look at me.
"Which?" I demanded.
She still wouldn't look at me, still wouldn't talk.
"Goddam it, which?"
