Washing His Wife's Panties

Two months after meeting Nicole, she texted Peter a picture of three pairs of her panties neatly laid out on her bedspread and asked, "Which ones should I wear tonight?"

She was going out on a date with Julian who she'd met online. After meeting Peter, she'd left her ad up and continued responding to men.

The image of her panties and the text felt like an arrow that nicked Peter's heart. He was falling in love with Nicole. He knew she was in touch with other men. He didn't know that being "in touch," included a kind of sexual anticipation.

"But why wouldn't it?" he thought, uneasily. Peter and Nicole had, after meeting for the first time at a small coffee shop, ended up kissing and caressing in her car then going back to her place and spending the night in her big queen sized bed.

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The night before she'd texted him the panty picture, just after Peter had arrived at her place, Julian called to confirm their date. Peter heard them exchange a few words before Nicole, with an intent look on her face, one that left Peter feeling excluded, left the room to finish the call.

When she returned she didn't acknowledge the call. Instead she asked how Peter's day had gone. Peter shook his head and winced. He was overcome, hurt, and jealous.

In the few months they'd been together, he and Nicole had already spent many nights in each other's arms. They were lovers. They'd dined together, talked endlessly and he'd even met her father for a long wine filled dinner. When they were apart he was full of the kind of anxious dreamy wistfulness lovers share. Peter was smitten with Nicole. She had an easy bright smile that caused her eyes to sparkle and drew him to her. She was tall and slender, lithe, like a Paris model, with womanly hips and full breasts with small nipples that were almost always hard. She loved to write and talk about anything, though not always. At times, she was quiet and reserved and Peter felt a need to try to draw her out.

He expected a brief description of the phone call. Her question seemed a diversion, a message that she wasn't interested in his feelings. But his jealousy felt wrong, a feeling that might turn her away from him and cause him to lose her. He rationalized that this was temporary. It would end. There was something else about his jealousy, aside from the wound, something, that, were he more conscientious he would have realized.

It stirred him sexually.

That night, in her bed, he pulled her panties off and found she'd been waxed earlier in the day. This was the first time he'd seen her vagina cleared of pubic hair. He leaned back sitting on his knees to observe. Her skin there, her outer lips, looked as soft as a ripe peach. They laid flat, smoothly rounded, slightly incurving, coming together, leaving a thin slit that concealed her opening and appeared to close her up as if she were a young virgin. There was no hint of the flowering-like invitation to enter. He had not noticed this about her sex. Now this sealing up mesmerized and tugged at Peter as if her closed petals inspired a need to dispel the mysteriousness that swirled about his mind by plunging in.

With his thumb he stroked the top of her lips over her barely concealed her clit. Inside she was wet, he knew. Whenever he entered her he always came out glistening. She parted her long legs which caused her lips to part slightly. He stared at her sex, grunted with a gratitude, a sense of good fortune. Nicole must have felt this, for she rose and exhibited herself, undulating by grinding her hips in a slow nearly imperceptible circle. He rolled her thighs apart with his hands, gripping them firmly, parting her lips even more.

She arched her hips, clearly yearning for entry. Peter dipped the tip of his thumb in her and she let out a gasp, closed her eyes, parted her legs. She sat up, reaching for him, desperate, and grabbed his hips and pulled him into her. She needed him now, now, now.

Only then did the crease of her sex part and the pink wetness of her opening become visible. Peter took her.

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The next morning after they'd been awake for a while Peter couldn't contain his jealousy. For him their bond had deepened in their lovemaking and the thought of her date that night stung him. Before he walked out the door, he asked what her plans were with Julian.

"We're meeting for coffee." Nicole said and paused, gazing at him as if she knew the question was the tip of a larger flame inside him. "Are you feeling jealous? I wouldn't blame you if you were. I would be."

"No, no," Peter said slowly, exhaling and looking down.

Nicole knew he wasn't telling the truth.

"I was married for 10 years," she said. "I think we have potential but it's not healthy to fling myself into a new relationship so quickly."

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That afternoon Peter got the picture of Nicole's three pairs of panties laid out on her bedspread.

He'd stared at the picture for minutes, swallowed his jealousy, and comforted himself with the thought that she was being so open. The picture also stirred him into a state of semi- erection. After a deep breath he typed out.

"I like the pink polka dots."

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That evening, after he'd known she'd left for the date, Peter's jealously hooked him. He couldn't get Nicole and Julian out of his mind.

"How could she?" went round and round and round his mind. He was injured and the balm he needed only she could apply.

Though he knew he shouldn't, he drove to her place and waited in his car on the street outside her condominium. He texted her once, trying to sound upbeat, loving, unconcerned. Everything he wasn't.

At half past eleven she tapped on his car window, surprising him. He explained that he was sorry but he was hurt, he missed her.

"I'm in love with you," he said.

"I know you are, darling. I love you too," she said, flatly.

She invited him in as if nothing was wrong. She was sympathetic and gentle, apply her words like bandages over the wound she'd created.

They got in bed together. She was tender, as if Peter were a child who'd been mistreated and was safe at home now. She caressed his cheek and gave him a peck on the lips.

"Everything is going to be okay darling." Her speech was softer than it normally was and slowed down, affirming and relaxed. She gently refused his advances. removing his hand with both of hers but snuggling in closer to him, cuddling, caressing and kissing him but avoiding his cock which was in full upright salute, hungry for her, in need of her body's reassurance. Nicole noticed his fervor and, though denying him, cherished it as sign of a desire for her he could not squelch, the kind of desire she needed from a man.

"Did you have fun? " he asked trembling, after she'd rebuffed him for the third time.

"I did" she said, her eyes twinkling with the light that shown through her bedroom window. She pulled him close and kissed him to stop him from asking more questions. "I need to sleep, Peter. I want you to hold me while I fall asleep in your arms. You're the only man whose arms I want to sleep in."

In minutes she was asleep, snoring softly like a child. Peter lay awake. They spooned. He tried to close his eyes and relax by listening for her breath but the jealous wound opened again inside him and he felt his heart begin pounding.

He got up and crept into her closet and found the pink polka dot panties in her dirty clothes. The crotch was soaked. He inhaled deeply. The scent was like the sea, as if she'd been swimming in salt water but there was a flat smell too, one he was sure was the scent of semen. He began stroking himself while he held her panties up to his nose and breathed in the scent. Eventually, on edge, he put the panties at the tip of his cock and came, then tossed the soiled underwear back in her dirty clothes hamper. He went back to bed, though he didn't fall asleep for hours.

The next morning Nicole said nothing. He made coffee and brought it to her in bed. She scrolled through Twitter and several times hoisted her phone in front of Peter's face and said, "Can you believe the lies. Look at this."

It seemed, whatever had happened the night before with Julian was no longer with her. She was free and content which contrasted terribly to the divide Peter felt. But he rolled with her positivity. They spent the afternoon at art galleries and had an early dinner at an offbeat café.

As the day passed, Peter's worries subsided, though he wondered how she could be so loving and happy with him after fucking another man last night. The rhetorical question comforted him, at least until they said good night and she told him she had work to do and wanted to spend the night and next day alone.

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At the end of the week they went out to dinner at an exclusive steak house. Sitting close in a round booth, Peter couldn't keep his hands to himself. His urge to touch Nicole was driven by a need to close a distance between them. He reached for her thigh under the table. They held hands. He drew circles in her palm and when he wasn't touching her thigh, or arm, or fingertips, or caressing her cheek his hand went to her back where he rubbed her soothingly.

Nicole relished his touch, relished the urgency he displayed. She loved Peter's sensuality, how he touched and toyed and played with her body. It affirmed and buoyed her.

But that night, in bed, despite his ever present probing hands, and the genuine joy they'd shared over a few glasses of wine, she didn't want to have sex. She didn't want Peter inside her. She only wanted to cuddle. She wanted to slow him down at the same time she wanted to feel his hardness probing for her opening. There was something She wanted that was satisfied by her denial. It was selfish, yet whole, a need she felt he must get used to.

She spoke tenderly. "Our relationship can't be just about sex darling. I'm not comfortable with that. Let's go to sleep. I'm really tired."

And again, as she'd done the last time they'd slept together, she fell asleep quickly and began softly snoring in a deep peaceful sleep.

Peter too, eventually drifted off to sleep but woke ravenous and hard an hour later, just after midnight. He rubbed his erection, stone stiff against her thigh, grasping her tightly with his arm. She awoke, startled, and tried to push him off. Peter wouldn't move. He humped her thigh..

"No!" she hissed.

But Peter didn't stop. He forced his way over top, pinning her. His cock was like a bone in need of a socket, a thick rod between them with one purpose.

She pushed on his chest with both hands. "Stop," she yelled.

He ignored her and worked his heaviness down on her. The weight of his hips, his knee, the other knee opened her legs. She tried to roll, left then right. There was no escaping. He parted her legs and pressed his shaft to her entrance.

Using all her force, she pushed her hands hard against his chest, yelling "No."

Her effort only increased his resolve.

She couldn't close her legs. She tried. She didn't yield. She turned her face away. He kissed and licked her neck like an animal. She closed her eyes. He plunged in. She was soaking wet and warm. The warmth bathed his cock and he took it as an invitation. Peter grunted. "I'm fucking you. Fuck me. Fuck me...fuck me little slut.." He thrust wildly and harshly, bone to bone, causing Nicole to cry out with each thrust as if she were hurt. He expended himself quickly and rolled away.

He lay on his back, his chest rising with the pounding of his heart.

Nicole lay on her back as well and folded her hands across her belly. She turned to Peter. "Give me a washcloth," she whispered.

Peter couldn't look at her in the morning. His guilt was like a mosquito in his ear, and he tried to slap memories of the previous night away. He distracted himself, made Nicole's coffee, stirred in a little milk, fed her dog, loaded the dishwasher, and brought her coffee and newspaper back to bed.

She put her hand on his thigh and turned to him. Aware it seemed, of his troubled mind, she said, "You didn't do anything last night that I didn't want."

She added "Remember darling, how we had that conversation about saying red if either of us was doing something we didn't like?"

Peter felt instantly relieved. He'd forgotten they'd agreed to a safe word.

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That Friday, Nicole went on another date with Julian. And again, late that night Peter drove to her place and waited outside in his car. And again Nicole invited him in. She comforted and soothed Peter but refused to let him enter her. She whispered, appreciatively, "I know it's difficult for you. I love how you're trying to accept it."

Later, after Nicole fell asleep, he snuck into her closet again and put his nose into the crotch of several pairs of her panties until he found the ones he was sure she'd worn that night. This time, after inhaling the pungent, slightly acrid scent and the other flat scent he was sure was semen, he put the wet crotch of the panty in his mouth and sucked. He added his spit to the mix while swirling the panty fabric against his tongue. As he did his cock surged, and he stroked himself. Quickly, his orgasm approached and he took Nicole's panties from his mouth and blasted his spunk into them.

For months this pattern repeated itself. Peter snuck into her closet after every date, found her pair of used panties, sniffed them, tasted them and ejaculated into them. The ritual comforted him, dispelled his jealousy at least for a day or two before the jealousy returned, causing pain and a cycle of endless worries. Peter felt he needed to know what Nicole and Julian were up too. He needed to hear the truth, in her words. But he couldn't bring himself to ask, to open that door. Instead he sought her panties.

After she's given him a key to her place, he would sometimes drive over when she was at work, and slip into her closet to perform his panty ritual.

He'd become a connoisseur of her underwear. He knew them all. All but a few were of a simple opaque, cotton, variety, that fit comfortably around her small bottom and up to the middle of her hips. The designs were plain: pink stripes, blue polka dots, plain shell pink, a darker gray blue, one had a pattern of cupid angels all about to release his arrow. He imagined the cotton breathed and flexed, absorbed her delicate shifts and lifts. Except after a date, rarely would he feel a wetness or spy a stain or detect a scent and when he did it was so subtle he'd breathe in deeply and conjure a story, someone other than Julian.

He'd picture the ex-athlete who just started at her workplace, who asked her for help with the copier. He imagined the stain signaled a flash of desire, of the nervous uncomfortable shift that he'd detected once or twice when she was in the presence of an attractive male. He smirked too at the idea that her panties absorbed and contained her, as if they had a duty to prevent her from overreacting when the stranger touched her arm or made eye contact.

One day, around noon, when he was in her closet stroking his thick erection and about to ejaculate into a pair of her panties, he looked up and found himself face to face with Nicole. She'd stopped by the house on the way to a doctor's appointment he'd forgotten about.

"What are you doing?" she asked and laughed.

Stunned, Peter felt sharp, red pinpricks flash across his face. He stammered and stood straighter, his erect penis bobbed out in front of him.

Nicole was amused. The edifice he'd built up came down. He clenched a pair of her pink panties in his right fist.

"Are you fucking him?" burst from his lips.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes. "Now, now Peter," she said evenly.

"Are you having sex with him Nicole? I need to know."

"I enjoy his mind, his wit, the way he sees the world and how direct he is with me," she said, steadily.

"Are you fucking him?" He groveled and stammered, though the forcefulness in his voice had been replaced by an impotence.

"Are you?" he asked much more quietly.

"It's better left to your imagination, Peter. Better you bury yourself in my panties and live with the idea of never being sure. You'll be a better man, a better lover if you can tolerate not knowing."

She eyed him keenly expecting him to agree. But Peter didn't respond.

She went on. "It'll give me space I need. I can love more than one person at at a time. You're a man. You can't. You need to focus on me. And besides, Peter, that's what you want. You want to capture me just like I've captured you but that's not the way things are meant to be between us. That's why you're in here jacking off into my panties. You're trying to come to terms with a reality that's difficult."

Peter slumped.

"I know you've been doing this for months. I have a task for you. I want you to start caring for my panties. I want you to wash them weekly, fold and put them in my drawer, and lay out a pair for me to wear on the nights I'm going out with Julian."

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A month later she opened a small brown box and removed a cock cage she'd ordered. She fit the two pieces around his cock and produced a tiny lock which she placed through a hole near the top that connected the pieces and secured it so that he'd be unable to remove it.

While it was awkward and hurt, Peter never complained.

It made it easier that from the time she put the cage on she never went out to see Julian. He was no longer traveling to their town.

Once a week Nicole would remove his cage, have Peter get on his hands and knees on their bed with a pair of her panties spread out flat beneath his cock. She would stroke his shaft until she could feel him on the edge of orgasm and then she'd stop. She'd do this repeatedly driving Peter mad with a desire for release. Eventually she'd go too far, causing Peter to spurt his frothy semen into her panties. Sometimes she'd let go of his cock after that first spurt so that his orgasm was incomplete, leaving Peter in agony, yearning for a complete orgasm.

Nicole refused intercourse with Peter. Every week she'd tell him, "Maybe next week."

She wore the key to his chastity device on a small silver bracelet. To Peter this felt like a symbol of the depth of their intimacy. He brought her little gifts of perfume and scarves and little chocolates, which she adored and always seemed grateful to receive.

Just after their first year together they became engaged, then married just a few months later during the holiday season.

Peter knew his wife masturbated regularly when she was alone and while this had initially troubled him he accepted it as a need for privacy, something she'd told him she needed. After all, Julian had disappeared and though she kept her ad up online and periodically showed Peter a picture or two of an interested suitor, she never followed through.

Nicole told her friends that she'd never been happier. She loved Peter and loved her freedom. Marriage didn't weigh upon her in the least as she'd often heard her other friends complain.

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Around Valentine's Day, after several months absence, Nicole announced one evening that Julian had contacted her and that they had a date planned at the end of the week. Peter was surprised by the surge of jealousy that overcame him.

The night of her date with Julian, Nicole was gone until almost midnight, which tormented Peter. His deepest fears had returned, fears he couldn't turn aside. He felt terribly hurt that Nicole was out with Julian again. He thought they'd grown closer, more intimate, that they were a couple now, a monogamous couple, like most all couples were.

Yet, throughout the night Peter's cock hardened and strained as he imagined them. Of course the little locked cage prevented him from reaching a full erection and satisfying his urge. He paced and panicked with a kind of lifted resolve. Yes, she was gone but she'd return. Nicole's seeming renewed fondness for Julian injured and renewed him simultaneously, like a drug she injected that he couldn't be sure was curative or destructive.