Abby's Panties

Now I was browsing heels. Did I need a black pair to go with my black lingerie? Did I want a different color, white maybe, to contrast with my stockings, bra, and panties? Maybe I needed both? There were too many questions and too many distractions and those distractions were fantastic. I clicked on style after style. Some had pointed toes, some rounded. Some had open toes. Would I need to paint my toenails if I wore those? I thought maybe I did and that led to even more browsing, this time for nail polish in colors like blush and pomegranate to eggplant and disco ball silver. I remember Abby's nails; her hands were usually clear with just the tip of them painted white, her toes would vary depending on who knows what. What color would I need? Click, click, click, into my cart they went.

With the nail polish finished I went back to the heels. Those were far more interesting. Would my own steps make that staccato sound as I walked? I hoped so. I looked at boots that went up to the knee and one pair that went all the way to my thigh. I thought those were a little much. Maybe if I was certain of my size. Ultimately, I selected a little boot that reached just to the ankle. They were black with open toes, with a big, blocky 4-inch heel. I chose them because they had them in my size and in a wide with. My sneakers were wide. I was certain my heels had to be as well. I picked them because they'd make me paint my toenails and sitting there, with Keanu Reeves avenging the death of his puppy on my television, that thought held my attention way more than the violent gunplay on the screen. The thought of it was so deliciously naughty. Once again, I was bemoaning the fact that deliveries were not made in an instant.

John Wick ended while I continued browsing, my focus now on skirt and dresses. I made a few exploratory purchases. I went simple, your basic solids in colors that made more sense than jet and chalk. I ordered a trio of simple dresses. One blue, one black and one yellow, using the sizing charts to guess my size at around an eight or ten, or even a twelve. Three dresses in three different sizes. The ones that did not fit I'd drop off in one of those donation boxes I see around town. It gave me a silly little lopsided grin to think I might be a ten. I was aging well. I had a few wrinkles around my light green eyes. My hair was thick, a gift from my father. The color, light brown, the shade of wet sand, came from my mom. If this thing that had so enraptured me, this thing that didn't need labels, was to continue I'd have to either grow out my hair or buy a wig.

That thought led to another link, which led to another. I wound up looking at wigs thinking every one of them looked fake. Maybe it was the way there were shown on web pages, mobs of hair in every color and style imaginable just looked plastic sitting on a mannequins decapitated head. Still, I did like a few of them. I ended up ordering only one; surprised at how expensive they were. The wig I ordered was permed with just a delicate curl at the shoulders. It was a deep burgundy, more brown than red, unless the light caught it exactly right. Abby always seemed to dye her hair with streaks of crimson in it. Maybe. No, maybe had nothing to do with it. I choose the color because it reminded me of Abigail. She had always been so stylish and coiffed. She didn't primp constantly; I think her style came naturally.

Captain America was fighting Hydra when I finally turned the television off. If there was a movie between John Wick and Cap I could not say. Maybe there was. I turned off the laptop after putting another twelve-hundred-dollar dent in my credit card. It was a lot of money that was probably all going to go to waste. Still, it had been fun. Can you put a price tag on that? Didn't most people spend a fortune just to have a good time? Admittedly, shopping for dresses and heels, lingerie and wigs had been a blast.

I brushed my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror. My stuffed bra looked uneven. I stood at the mirror, posing, pushing my fake breasts together with my arms. I cupped my boobs, offering them to my reflection like Rafiki had presented little Simba in the Lion King. My smile caught my eye. I had missed it. My smile had faded when Abby had left - when I had driven her away. Seeing it now felt good, like I was welcoming a long-lost love back into my life.

I went to bed wearing that same sad smile.

(ii)

Sunday was a repeat of Saturday. The only difference was what I watched on TV, and what websites I visited.

I got up, grinning at my lopsided breasts. One side was still stuffed with socks, the other had lost its load, leaving me leaning like a car with two flat tires. I hurriedly grabbed the socks littering my bed and refilled the cup of my bra. I puffed up both cups, enjoying the tight grip around my chest and the strap rising over my shoulders. My hands caressed my nylon clad legs, savoring the electric tingle I felt, both where my fingers caressed the nylon and the upper part of my thigh now devoid of hair. It was so overwhelming that my hand snaked into my panties to take care of that part of me overly enamored by the silky softness that caressed it.

Sated and breathing heavily, one sock now missing from my bra, I started my day with a trip to the bathroom to clean the pipes, so to speak. I flushed the toilet before returning to my dresser to grab a clean sock to replace the one I'd just soiled. That dirty sock went into the hamper. I'd have to do laundry and after breakfast I'd have to do the dishes.

Abby and I had not really shared in the household chores. I enjoyed cleaning, something else my father gave me from his time in the Army, and Abby had hated it. That thought became ensnared in my brain and as soon as I finished breakfast - a three egg omelet with cheddar cheese, crumbled bacon, and shitake mushrooms - I put the dirty dishes in the sink and raced to the computer. With my newfound fascination with lingerie, thanks to Abby's panties, and my fondness for cleaning, I had to combine the two. The thought had grabbed me like a snake sinking its fangs into delicate skin, unable to let go until the poison had been delivered. A few clicks of the mouse, even more letters in the search engine, and my eyes went wide.

I was looking at maids' dresses. They had them in every color imaginable. I saw reds and blues, yellows, and pinks. There were satin dresses with huge, puffy petticoats. And simple gingham dresses with large shoulder straps. Some were more utilitarian than others but those didn't appeal to me. They didn't hold the same fascination as the skimpier, sexier ones. I spotted the saucy French Maids' costume replete with lacy hat, simple white apron, and frilly lace around the impossibly short skirt. Wearing that the tops of my stockings would be visible as well as the tiny clasps of my garter belt. My mouth grew dry just looking at it. I had to have one.

I browsed over a dozen sites, unaware until that moment how many different stores existed for men to give in to their fantasies. I wasn't surprised, I had just been oblivious. I stumbled upon one site that made custom dresses, sewn to the perfect size. That was the one I wanted. I filled out the order form, putting in my neck size and my chest size. Every measurement imaginable. The ones I didn't know I was able to get with a piece of string cut to the length of whatever I was sizing, and the measuring tape from my three-car garage. The price was steep, as was the disappointing three week wait, but it would be worth it. I ordered extra petticoats in both black and white, not sure which I would like more but wanting to have a choice. I hesitated when it asked if I wanted to add a lock. The idea was interesting, to be locked into my dress. My arousal won out, so the lock was added. Even if I never used the lock, just the idea made me tingle.

I kept browsing, my mind focused on the maids' dress. I'd barely placed the order and already I was hoping it would be delivered early. Unable to think of anything else I went to an earlier site and ordered the ready-made maid dresses. They'd arrive sooner. They may not fit as well but they would satisfy the itch that was already maddening.

Satisfied, I pranced into the kitchen, already imagining I was the maid in my own house, tasked to make the kitchen spotless before the mistress of the house arrived from her long day managing tellers at the bank downtown. I did the dishes with a sway to my hips, a perpetual grin on my face. Maybe it was silly, but I was having fun. How long had it been since that happened?

I did the dishes and after that I started laundry. While the first load was going, I decided to give the house a thorough cleaning, trapped in my maid persona. I gave each room ample attention, cleaning things I'd neglected for far too long. I dusted ceiling fans, wiped every flat surface, both horizontal as expected but vertical as well. I couldn't recall a single time I'd every washed the sides of my desk, but the outer edges and the two sides of the center section as well. By the time I was done cleaning, my back was sore, my hands red from the chemicals, and my house smelled every bit as good as it looked. Through it all, from mopping and vacuuming, to folding the towels and hanging my pants, my smile had not once drifted from my face.

It wasn't until I went to bed, wearing a pink camisole with a pair of matching panties, that it dawned on me that for the whole weekend, from the time I left early on Friday until I was shutting my eyes on a decidedly delicious weekend that work had not entered my mind.

Chapter 3

(i)

The next morning, I wore panties to work for the very first time. Standing next to the pile of lingerie sitting atop my dresser - I was still too enamored to hide everything in a drawer - I stared at my pile of treasures, for that's what they were to me then. Treasures. Something worth guarding. Something worth protecting. Those tiny wisps of soft fabric had become important, not because of what they were, but because of what they did. They had somehow allowed me to detach my mind from work, giving me something deliciously naughty to focus on in lieu of the mundane. Now, running my fingers over my silky panties, I tried to decide which pair would be the ones I wore to work. And I wanted to wear them to work. Just the thought of having a secret hidden beneath my pants was arousing me in a way that made me miss Abby even more. Thinking of my ex-wife seemed to solidify my thoughts. I grabbed Abby's panties and pulled them up my legs. They were too tight so it was foolish to wear them but that was where my mind had gone. I settled Abby's panties into place, shifting my hips even as my breathing escalated. I shut my eyes and let out a long, languid sigh.

I drove to work feeling the tight confines of those simple, slightly dingy panties. They were gripping me tighter than a miser holding onto a hundred-dollar bill. I pulled into the office, surprised that I wasn't the first to arrive. Even getting ready for work had allowed me to unclench a little bit. My employees were good, they did not need me to hold their hands, so why had I? Was the acquisition of money really that all-encompassing and if so, didn't the panties I was wearing disprove that very thought?

Work was easy. Any problem that came was handled by my staff. I attended two virtual meetings, and during the second one, a pretty woman wearing a smart tan business suit gave her request to add Dallas as another hub. I listened politely, telling her that adding Dallas was easy and I'd be in touch once I heard back from management at DFW, but all the while I was wondering what panties she was wearing. I was wearing Abby's period panties. Was this woman wearing something similar, plain panties, stained from use, or was she wearing something sexy, something that matched her bra. That had to have been the shortest meeting I'd ever attended even as the clock lied and said it had gone on for nearly two hours.

I ordered pizza for the office for lunch, giving Alice a surprise. "You're eating lunch?"

"We all are," I said. "It'll be here by noon. Please send an email to everyone letting them know."

Alice raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I was feeling okay. "Sure will." She smiled, "Thanks."

The workday ended and I left, not first, but more importantly not last. I drove home, and instead of stopping for a sandwich I opted to have a nice steak dinner from a local chain steakhouse that originated in Texas.

I waited ten minutes for a seat at a half-booth. I ordered a ribeye -- medium rare -- with mashed potatoes and asparagus. I nibbled on a dinner roll slathered with cinnamon butter while sipping an icy sweet tea. On the television sets around the bar I could see the rundown on the NFL season. Normally the scores would hold my attention but right then I was more interested in the fact that I wasn't still at work and that I'd eaten not only lunch, but an early dinner and something that wasn't wrapped in a piece of plain white paper.

Dinner was great and by the time I got home I was ready to put on a bra and slide some stockings on my soft, hairless legs. I had my pants off before I reached the bedroom. My shirt found its way to my floor next to my bed. I grabbed a black garter belt, fastened it in the front and spun the clasp to the back. I donned a pair of silky stockings, trembling at the tender, electric caress. I affixed the garter belt to the stockings and then for fun I snapped the taut garter belt tabs. It reminded me of growing up with Jennifer and how, when she'd first started wearing a bra, I would run up behind her just to pull the back strap through her shirt, only to let it go, snapping it against her skin. Now I was doing that same thing to me. Jennifer had complained, begging my parents to make me stop. I wasn't complaining; I found the whole thing overtly erotic. Each time the tight elastic smacked into my thigh I'd twitch a little more, until my knees crossed, and I was breathing heavily.

I took care of myself, causing my heavy breathing to become shallow as well. Sated, physically at least - my mind was still a flurry of erotic thoughts -- I opened my laptop to continue shopping. Sitting in my little booth at the restaurant I had watched the other patrons as well as the waitress that had been buzzing from booth to booth and table to table. The waitresses had been wearing jeans so I could only imagine how they would look in skirts or dresses, but there had been a few patrons that had been dressed in more feminine attired. That was what appealed to me. Dresses. Summer had already dwindled to a recent memory; we were comfortably ensconced in Autumn, so sun dresses was something to look forward too, but the dresses I had seen while dining had fueled my desire to continue building my wardrobe.

Still uncertain of my sizes I was only browsing styles and patterns. I spotted dresses adorned with orchids or tulips or some other bright, colorful flower. I eyed solids of every shape. I learned the difference between a shift and a sheath and decided I wanted both. I bookmarked two dozen pages, disheartened that I shouldn't place another order until my first order arrived. I had a lot of money and while I could afford to order the dresses even if it were to just throw them away, I felt guilty doing that. Waiting, while disappointing, was the right thing to do. By the time that first order of dresses arrived I would know my size and then I could go shopping with all the focus I had always given my job. Maybe Abby was right, maybe I was an all-in kind of guy. If so, why had I not given Abby my all? Why had she been the one I'd diminished, putting work above all else, causing her to fall aside piece by piece until she had to walk away. The shame of it all, a reality that still saddened me, that even as she was leaving, after I'd broken her heart at a snail's pace, I had been thinking about work. It took about a dozen snaps of my garter belt straps against my denuded skin to bring a grin back to my face. "I'm sorry, honey," I said to the empty room, my frown quick to return, and glacial to replace.

I stopped browsing dresses as a new thought rushed into my brain. If I knew my size, why couldn't I just go to the mall and buy a dress? Would that be fun? Scary? Both? Should I get dressed and head to the mall. Would I'd disappear into the countless swarm of shoppers? Become a faceless blob in a crowd or would I be spotted, deciphered, and ridiculed? The idea of shopping was appealing but I wasn't ready for that. Yet. That last thought made me grin. Could I make myself presentable? Make it so that anyone giving me a passing glance wouldn't see me as me, but as a woman? The idea was intoxicating, and it led me down a longer, deeper, rabbit hole.

I began browsing makeup tutorials on the YouTube. It felt weird learning not only what foundation was but how to apply it by a young, teenaged girl. There wasn't anything sexual in my efforts, but it still felt a little uncomfortable to search for make up tricks only to find a young girl, no more than fourteen teaching how to perfectly blend makeup to hide your blemishes. Feeling icky, I refined my search, now watching professional women who did makeup for movies teach me the same thing. That didn't make me feel like a pervert.

Without makeup of my own, I watched a few videos, subscribed to a few pages, then went about ordering my own mascara, eyeliner, blush, lipstick, lip gloss, foundation. I chose palates full of colors from tan and cream to blue and green. I picked eyeline pencils with tips that was as fine as a needle to as broad as dump truck and every size in between. On the recommendation of the video presenter, I went with high dollar, high quality makeup. "You don't want your makeup to clump," my teacher had said. "Quality makeup will last longer and look better."

After placing my newest order, I went back and watched a few more videos. Using a Q-tip from the bathroom I practiced adding eye shadow. I wasn't adding any color to my eyelids; I was practicing the strokes needed, doing my best to ape the movements of the woman on my computer screen. I could not visualize if what I was doing was right -- I'd need some color for that -- but it seemed helpful in getting my hand and arm used to the motions. Later in the week, after my newest order arrived, I'd try again. And, given time, I would succeed.

(ii)

The first of my orders were waiting for me when I got home from work on Wednesday night. There were four boxes sitting on my front step, one small, the others a bit larger. I carried everything into the house before stripping down to the yellow panties I was wearing. The night before, on a mad crusade, I had thrown out all my boxers and briefs. The panties had so enraptured me that I had decided that I would wear them exclusively. It wasn't like I was removing my pants for anyone and the naughty thrill I felt, sitting in my office, wearing silky panties with lace trim had not diminished. If cornered I would say that life was easier now that I was wearing panties. I still came to work early, I just no longer cared if I was first and if I was the last to leave, that was fine, but if not, well, that was fine, too. How that simple fabric held such power wasn't something I pondered. Truthfully, who cared how the medicine worked if the treatment was successful? The panties let me unwind by letting me focus on something else. They helped distract me from the stress of running my very profitable business, so what harm could they be?

I opened the small box first. It was the faux breasts affixed to a clear plastic harness that was almost like a bra. They breasts felt heavy. I was a little disappointed; they did not have the bounce that I had hoped for, but they would fill out my bra. Standing naked save for my panties I worked my arms through the open straps and pulled the bottom ring around my chest. I tugged, pulling everything into place. I stood there wearing my fake boobs. The harness held everything in place. I jumped, hoping to see my breasts jiggle. They did, slightly, though they settled into place quickly. I cupped my breasts, holding them with my hands. I tweaked the fake nipples, finding the exercise to be both silly but fun, too.