Abby's Panties

Chapter 1

(i)

I'm not sure how unique I am, and let's face it -- I'm as unique as everyone else - but I discovered my fascination with wearing women's clothes late in life. I was thirty-nine years old, two months shy of turning forty, when I happened upon a pair of my ex-wife's panties. I was cleaning the house, something which I both enjoy doing, and pretty much did exclusively when I was married. I found them behind the dryer as I was planning on removing and cleaning the dryer vent, one of the many tasks of a diligent homeowner.

The panties were nothing sexy. I think Abby, Abigail when she was being formal, called them her period panties. They were a misty blue, with a small flower stitched in the center waistband. The gusset was stained. They were plain and boring and covered with an ashen dust bunny the size of Oklahoma. I picked them off the floor, holding them in my hand. That lone, forgotten pair of panties was the only thing Abby had left behind when she moved out.

Turning forty, starting the later years of my life, was not something I was looking forward to. Thirty had not been bad, by then I was married; had a beautiful two-story house in the Peachtree suburbs of Atlanta, and had my own consulting business, designing flight plans for regional airports, earning almost a quarter million dollars a year. Yes, thirty-year-old me had the proverbial bull by the horns.

Thirty-year-old me also had stresses that I was not able to fully comprehend so how was I going to handle them? I had nine employees all relying on me. I had countless contacts demanding my time, my focus, and my energy. I worked long hours, six, sometimes seven days a week. Yes, I made good money, but I did not have the time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. And, sadly, I seemed to have lost the time I should have given my marriage. Ask any couple why they divorced, and you will get two different stories with the truth usually hiding somewhere in between. In my case, I was the reason. It was one of the many things that Abby and I both agreed upon.

Artists suffer for their art; I suffered for the all mighty dollar. Don't get me wrong, I was happy with what I did, and the money was good. Very good. Before I turned forty, and six months after my divorce, my house was paid for, two cars and one awesome twenty-eight-foot boat were equally all mine. Ever though I never got to take the boat out onto Lake Lanier, it still brought me joy seeing it sitting in my driveway. The lawyers had been paid, Abigail had been set for life, and I still had a couple of million in the bank.

But what good was that money when a pair of plain, light blue panties holding onto a mountain of dust could bring a tear to my eye? What I had was good, but it did not compensate for what I had lost.

Abby was a blind date set up by my sister. She was all the family I had left after our parents had died on what was supposed to be a happy holiday in Colorado. Instead, a drunk driver ended their lives leaving Jennifer and I to fend for ourselves. "You'll love her," Jennifer said. "She has your sense of humor."

"Uh huh," I said, my eyebrows rising.

"Seriously, John, what do you have to lose?" Jennifer and I were sitting in my living room, sipping Miller Light, and watching the Falcons lose to the Jets. "I've told her about you and she's," my sis paused, looked around the room like she was afraid to be overheard before whispering, "interested."

I think I laughed. I know I swatted her with a pillow. "Fine," I said. "Give me her number." It hadn't taken that much convincing.

My first date with Abby was on a Wednesday night. I met her a pool hall where we shared spicy hot wings, cold beer, and a half-dozen games of pool. "Am I being hustled?" I asked as she beat me the third game in a row.

"Maybe." She stuck out her tongue. It was a cute tongue.

We chatted about nothing deep. She told me about her parents living in Colorado, "because the wanted to smoke pot," she said. And about her brother, "He's in the Navy." She went on and on about the Japanese Fighting Fish she kept on the dresser in the bedroom.

"I can't wait to see it," I said then hung my rosy cheeks as I realized what I had implied. Had I really just invited myself to her bedroom? I just met her. It was far too early to talk about things like that. I started to stammer out an apology, feeling ashamed.

Abby just laughed and batted her eyes.

I won two out of the next three games, sinking the eight ball on my last shot with a victory dance that wasn't the least bit diminished for only wining a third of the games. Abby applauded with good-natured grace.

I drove her home and shook her hand, promising to call. It had been a glorious first date. I did not have many of those. That date was about six months after I started my business. The long hours started slowly at first, only escalating about a year after I saw the lovely red fish with purple fins swimming in a tiny bowl on Abby's dresser. "That's Mulan," Abby said as I eyed the fish for the first time.

"She's pretty," I said. I gave the fish another lingering glance before turning my head at the sound of a zipper falling. Abby was slowly siding the zipper down the side of her little black dress. She kept her eyes on me, watching my reactions. Could she see how she was affecting me? Could she see how I kept my focus on her hands, watching as the zipper fell, taking in the alabaster skin revealed to me one languid inch at a time? Did she see the smile rising on my lips?

She shook her head as I stepped towards her. "There," she said. Abby had a lovely bedroom set. A huge king-sized bed dominated the back wall. The bed was flanked by a pair of matching end tables. An Amazon Alexa was sitting on her side of the bed, showing the time. It wasn't until later that I realized that if Abby had one side of the bed, then the other was mine. Even then I had seen us becoming something more than two people going on dates. The dresser, sporting the feisty Mulan, was sitting opposite the bed. In the corner was a deep green chair with a matching hassock. "Sit," she said.

I took a seat. When I licked my lips, Abby laughed.

She continued her strip tease. She finished unzipping her dress. On her face there was a look that was both predatory and joyous. She was smiling with her mouth but her dark brown eyes were alight with a fiery intensity. Overhead a ceiling fan was spinning, but somehow, even under the breeze, the room was getting hotter.

Abby pulled her dress open, revealing her bra. It was a deep blue, the color of the night sky with the full moon shining overhead. Black lace adorned the edges. I wondered briefly if her panties matched and knew that my question would be answered soon enough. I savored the anticipating by licking my lips again. It was as involuntary as breathing and it revealed my burning interest to Abigail, who was smiling as she toyed with her dress, pulling the cloth higher to hide what she had just revealed, only to lower it once more.

Abby waggled a finger at me as I beckoned her closer. "Come here," my fingers said, "no," her own fingers replied.

Abby zipped the dress, only to lower the zipper immediately. She was smiling, her eyes riveted to mine. She knew what she was doing, knew the affect she was having on me. My hips shifted, trying to relieve the pressure I was feeling.

Her grin growing wider, Abby finally let the dress fall to her sexy black heels. I did not know at the time what kind of shoes they were, pumps, or how tall they were, four-inch. That knowledge came later. She stepped over her dress, undulating towards me in her deep blue bra and, my question answered, matching panties. Her black stockings, sheer from the thigh down, with thick lace at the top, stayed up by themselves. She was a vision.

She walked towards me and put her heel on the hassock, directly between my parted knees. Her knee wavered from side to side. My attention was focused where her thighs met, at the soft fabric between her legs. As her knee moved, I could see everything, then nothing, then everything again. She was toying with me. When I reached for her, she shook her head and backed away, smiling even larger.

Abby backed up until she hit the bed. She sat down and shimmied backward, moving higher on the bed, then higher still. She lay flat, crossing her hands behind her head and spreading her legs. She lay there, open and available, her head supported by her arms. She stared at me, her beautiful brown eyes full of mischief, merriment, and something else. Something hungry. "Do me," she said, her voice deep and needy. There was no hesitation as I leapt onto the bed.

After that night we were officially a couple; we became inseparable. Abby moved in four months later and we were engaged six months after that. Jennifer had been my best man, and her toast had the guests laughing so hard that I thought my aunt Jeri would pass out from lack of oxygen. On our honeymoon, we flew to Rome before driving to an upscale villa I had rented in Tuscany. We spent ten days in a world all our own. There had been a long, three-day stretch where neither of us had donned a single piece of clothing. Those were the good, simple days before work took my time like a vampire taking blood.

As work compounded, something had to give, and sadly, that something had been my relationship with Abby. The inseparable couple began to separate. I would go to work sometimes before Abby woke for the day, and I would return from work long after she got home. At first, she would make us both dinner, and I'd come home to find a covered plate waiting for me in the microwave, ready for me to hit start. Then Abby started to cook for one, and finally, she wouldn't cook at all.

"You don't take time for me anymore," she would say, causing an argument. Not because she was wrong, but because she was right. I felt guilty and so I lashed out. I regret that now. At the time, however, it seemed like she was attacking me. "You know I'm doing this for us," I would lie. And, yes, it was a lie. When I was at work, I never thought about Abby. Not because I didn't love her. No, the sad truth is I still love her, and I know that she still loves me. When I was at work I would concentrate on work and nothing more. The rest of the world did not seem to matter. Abigail included.

She moved out on a Thursday. I had been so focused on setting up a new regional hub for a tiny airline in Richmond, Virginia, that I hadn't even noticed that night. It wasn't until I woke up the next day and I spotted the empty closets and the dresser drawers hanging open that I thought something was off. It was seeing Mulan missing from atop the dresser that brought an eerie, dawning realization that she had left.

I cried that day and I was crying now, standing next to the dryer, holding those stained period panties. They were all I had left of the woman I still loved. "Abby," I said to my empty laundry room. I made my way to the bedroom mindlessly, unaware that I was moving or that I had a destination until I arrived. I brushed the panties clean, holding them reverently to my face as the last dust bunny fell to the floor. "Abby," I said again. I sniffed the odorless panties, saddened that I couldn't smell her perfume.

I put the panties on the bed and stripped off my clothes. Standing naked, I stepped into those abandoned panties. I slid them up my legs. They were snug. They did not fit right. The elastic at the waist tore with a loud ripping sound. Still I pulled, tugging them into place. They were overly tight, reminding me of the tightey-whitey's I had worn as a kid. The ones that were too tight to wear after I'd outgrown them, but not ragged enough to throw away.

Wearing Abby's panties made me feel closer to my ex-wife, like we were connected by those worn cotton fibers. I felt something else, too. A rising excitement rose within me. It reminded me of the time when I was seven and standing next to a rack of magazines, with shelves of candies, chips, condiments, and condoms looking on, I had snuck a comic book into my jeans. Walking out of the store, my ill-gotten goods hidden inside my pants had made me feel both invulnerable and frightened at the same time. It felt like I had gained a victory over the universe. That I had managed to get away with something that I knew was wrong and loving that feeling. That feeling had brought about a small wave of kleptomania that only ended when I inevitably got caught and had to spend a humiliating week standing in front of McAllister's Mercantile, holding a sign advertising my crime. Everyone I knew had come to witness my shame. I never stole again.

Now, however, wearing Abby's period panties I was once again feeling that sense of overcoming some treacherous obstacle or playing tug-of-war with the forbidden. I was frightened and even though I was alone in my house, I couldn't help but turn my head at every sound: the air conditioning clicking on, the house settling, a dog barking outside - all caused my head to swivel. I felt closer to Abigail, and for a moment, I wasn't thinking about work. My job had totally slipped my mind. I was thinking about Abby. I was thinking about the panties, straining against my waist and my suddenly interested erection. I felt naughty and needy and when my hands slipped into my panties I giggled, then laughed until my vision dimmed. How many times had my hand slipped into Abby's panties? And now, here I was, doing it again. My hand became Abby's hand and when I was spent, my eyes now dry and those boring panties wet, I removed the panties only to wash them reverently in the sink, hanging them over the shower curtain to dry.

It was only after I was clean and dressed did work once again overpower my thoughts. My focus returned to what I would have to do when the new work week started in the morning. I frowned, already missing that rapturous half-hour when my mind wasn't concentrating on work and had instead been reveling in the moment, even if that moment had been caused by something both interesting and delightfully naughty. Those panties, left behind at the end of my marriage, had somehow become important.

I thought of work, missing the distraction of the panties still drying in my bathroom. I made dinner, wondering how I could help the new regional airline gain two extra flights a day, a move that would increase their presence and their bottom line. I made notes on the pad of paper next to my hand as I ate dinner, moving numbers and cities around like pegs on a cribbage board. Work had once again dominated my every thought. It was only that brief period, wearing Abby's castaway panties, that work had been relegated to some other time.

As I got ready for bed, brushing my teeth, I stared at the panties still draped over the shower curtain. There was something to wearing them that had been calming. Was it those specific panties or would any pair work? What about a bra? A dress? The thoughts came faster and faster, moving at the same speed as my toothbrush. When I rinsed my mouth, I spotted blood in the sink. I had been studying those panties, oblivious to my brushing. Focused wasn't a good work. I had been absorbed. Once again, those panties had taken all other thoughts from my head.

I rinsed my mouth until there was no more blood, put the toothbrush in the little cup next to the sink, and grabbed the panties. I slipped them on. I heard another thread give way; I wouldn't be wearing these panties long if that kept up. Not that that mattered at that moment. I hastened the panties into place. I looked quizzically at the man in the mirror, observing with more sadness than I wanted to admit, that it had been some time since I had seen a smile.

I slept in Abby's panties. And for the first time, in far too long, I drifted to sleep without wondering what the next day would bring. Because of those panties I was able to turn my mind off and just let sleep come.

(ii)

I awoke the next morning feeling lighter than I had in a long time. I slipped off the covers only to be surprised by Abby's panties. More than that, I found that once again they needed to be cleaned. Had I ever, in all my years, had a wet dream? As I awoke that Monday morning, I couldn't recall a single time that had happened.

I showered, first in the panties to clean them, then out of them. I shaved, eyeing the panties once again hanging on the edge of the shower to dry. I brushed my teeth, staring at the panties. Leaving the shower, I gave a backwards glance to those innocent panties. Oh, but they weren't that innocent. There was something about them, something that was both soothing and arousing.

I finished getting ready for work. I dressed in my normal briefs. I didn't feel anything for them. They were just a normal, slightly baggy pair of grey plaid boxers. Pants, shirt, tie, shoes and socks and I was ready for the day. Only when I made it to the kitchen, where I made a large cup of black coffee to go, was I able to put the panties out of my mind. And with that, came all the complex problems work would bring. If I can't get two extra flights, maybe I could get one. Maybe if we added Canton as a hub instead of Cleveland, we could get the client an extra round-trip run. All the normal difficulties, the ones I liked solving, returned to my mind with the thundering power of a stampede, trampling the memory of the panties hanging over the railing in my shower.

I motored through a drive-thru for a fast food sandwich, knowing that it would probably be the only thing I ate during the day. My secretary, a matronly woman with snowy hair always pulled into a tight bun, would offer to bring me lunch. "Can I bring you anything to eat, Mister Thompson?"

"No, thank you, Alice," I would say. "I'll eat later." Later always seemed to be late at night driving home where I would invariably stop and pick up something for dinner, usually a deli sandwich made with smoked turkey, swiss cheese and spicy mustard.

"You need to eat something," she would say. She didn't scold me, she didn't lecture me, but she did let me know that I was wrong. The best way to describe it was mothering. "You're too thin."

I smiled, taking her criticism for a compliment. "Thank you, Alice," I would say before returning to work.

I finished the day. I glanced at the clock -- 8:43. Once again I was the last to leave. I locked the office, unlocked my car, and drove to the deli, making it there right before they closed. I ordered, roast beef on a toasted baguette with a homemade pickle. I ate on the way home.

It wasn't until I entered the bathroom that Abby's panties caught my eye anew. Just seeing them resting innocently on the shower curtain rod created a magical shift in my perspective. Work disappeared to be replaced with memories of the day before and with those memories came thoughts of Abby.

I picked up the panties. They were dry but a little stiff even though I had cleaned them well. No matter. I stripped off my clothes only to pull those panties up my legs. The elastic at the waist gave a little more. Now when I walked, I would constantly have to pull the panties back into place. Alice had called me thin, and I am skinny, but I'm still a man and I was still just a bit stockier than Abby had been. Once again, I wondered if it had to be Abby's panties that caused my thoughts to drift away from work and towards other things.

Towards Abby.

There's an old song about hearts not breaking evenly. I learned that when Abby left. Her heart had been breaking slowly. They day I found her gone, my heart had broken all at once, like a mirror falling off the wall to shatter into a thousand angry shards. I can't say which is worse. I cried when Abby left, she later told me that she cried daily for a full month. No, hearts don't break evenly. And they heal just as lopsided. I've not spoken to Abby since the day our divorce became final, but I still thought about her every day. "I've always loved you," I told her they day the judge slammed her gavel down, ending my marriage with a sharp, dreadful thump. I hope she's moved on. I truly hope she doesn't miss me as much as I miss her.