Panty Raid, Panty Trade

"I must admit that's a sight I've never seen before," commented Marisa, "but I'm glad you're aroused. Don't get any ideas about having sex, but this reminds me of a funny song lyric: 'Me and men are like pianos—when they get upright, I feel grand!' So just make friends with that thong, and I'll be checking in every now and then on your erection." I told her about my plan to hike, and we agreed that I could go out around 2:30—but just the thong until then, and of course the thong during the hike.

There are plenty of ways to describe the thoughts that dominated my mind for the next hour or so—there's no turning back, the die is cast, it's too late baby, the cat's amongst the pigeons, you can't put the genie back in the bottle or the toothpaste back in the tube. I'm not sure which of those phrases, if any, I used at the time, but I felt the weight of my changed situation. Over the next few days, every time I left the room I might encounter a woman who knew I was in panties, perhaps hers. That was powerful—erotic and terrifying at once. Marisa checked in several times as promised, and though I felt anxiety over my vulnerability, my cock stayed hard throughout, easing only when I put on cargo pants and trail runners for my hike.

The hike was quite pleasant, also quite solitary, but my mind kept churning over my situation. I thought about how to stay relatively calm, if possible, and how to enjoy the erotic thrill while not freaking out over possible humiliation or outing. I thought I might try to act as if everyone already knew, and I thought I might try to act as if no one knew. I labeled some of my fears as projection, and recognized that I would likely experience a three-day projection fest, guessing at what various women would think of me (sissy, pervert, faggot, etc.). I told myself "What other people think of me is none of my business." This is great advice, I believe, but hard to embrace in extremis.

Day after day Marisa, bless her heart, found ways to keep the pressure high. First, she revealed to me late Thursday night that she had completed all the panty trades—eight women already had my panties and knew my secret! On Friday she clearly went out of her way to involve me in conversations and also introduce me to colleagues I didn't already know—some men, but lots of women. At first I suspected she was tipping her hand by introducing me to women who had my panties, but as the number climbed well past a dozen I surmised she just wanted to set up as many face-to-face encounters as possible. And whatever counsel I had given myself to prepare for such moments, it was impossible to avoid thinking "This woman might have my pink sissy panties back in her room, or here in her purse!"

Meanwhile Marisa had me changing panties multiple times a day, and I wore a wide range of styles and brands, from practical/comfortable/economical to sexy/luxurious/expensive. There was also a range of sizes. Most of the panties fit me reasonably well, but there was one quite large pair (high-waisted granny panties) and one tiny pair that I could barely squeeze into. When asked, Marisa confirmed that she'd wanted to be sure I couldn't rule out any particularly large or petite women.

All day Friday my mind ping-ponged between my panty adventure and the normal parts of the conference (papers, networking, meals, and my fly-fishing trip). And then it was Saturday morning, time for my conference presentation, the occasion of maximum vulnerability and self-consciousness.

As I looked around the room while being introduced, I counted close to forty people in attendance, a very respectable crowd for the last day of the conference. Ordinarily an audience of that size would include seven or eight women, but today there were fifteen. This was no statistical anomaly: surely some "women in the know" were present, and quite possibly all of them. And why wouldn't they be? Whatever they thought about this caper of Marisa's, or about me, it would be interesting to watch a guy known to be wearing panties try to talk coherently about statistical modeling of chip architecture efficiencies.

The talk went well, so I'm told. I did it on autopilot while my attention was focused on the women in the room, how they were looking at me, whether anyone was smiling or winking, and so on. I could not read anything in the women's expressions or body language. Even Marisa, seated about halfway back, gave no indication that this was an unusual situation, and we didn't speak again until we were back in the room after lunch. In short, the thirty-minute talk and fifteen-minute Q&A were business as usual on the exterior and a maelstrom of excitement and fear in my mind.

This odd dichotomy of interior and exterior states persisted throughout the day, easing as some attendees headed for the airport. This meant that the resort could now offer Marisa a room of her own, but she declined—we were both happy with the status quo through Monday morning.

Many of us who stayed devoted Sunday to a guided tour of Glacier National Park, transported in two large vans. We did a short glacier walk, went to two of the three visitor centers, stopped at Two Medicine, and of course ascended the Going to the Sun Road, a spectacular roadway with stunning vistas.

Marisa was in my van, or I was in hers, along with a suspiciously high number of the women on the tour. Six of the eleven guests in our van were women, and of course I wondered how many of them were "women in the know." Marisa had put me in the yellow thong for the day, and at times I was seated between two women who might be well informed about my fetish or even wearing my panties right then and there.

The truly astonishing thing about this whole adventure—given the intricacy of Marisa's plan, the number of women involved, my absolute vulnerability to unmasking and humiliation—was that nothing bad happened. I was deeply grateful to go through that whole experience without being confronted, outed, or even teased. In short, every single woman apparently kept her "Stays in Whitefish" pledge throughout the conference.

Whether that remained the case in the following weeks, months, and years I will leave to your imagination, at least for now. But lest my escape seem anticlimactic, here's a quick recap of Monday morning....

Marisa and I were on different flights back to the Bay Area (she to SF, me to San Jose), but we were going leave the resort on the same airport shuttle. A few minutes before my alarm was set to go off, Marisa gently shook me awake. She had already been out to pick up coffee and scones for both of us.

"Would you like to come upstairs and masturbate for me?" she asked. "I think that would be a perfect ending to our adventure." I thought so too, and after quick stop to pee I joined her upstairs. She reminded me that I could borrow a bra, and I accepted. She gave me a simple underwire bra in black, size 38C, not much smaller than the 40D I usually wear. I hadn't packed my breast forms, of course, so the cups were just kind of sitting on my chest empty. Maybe you have had that experience yourself? "I have an idea," Marisa said. "Don't go anywhere!" Very funny.

She disappeared into the walk-in closet, opened the safe, and emerged with a large pile of panties—the ones she'd been assigning me to wear plus maybe half a dozen of her own.

"Let's have black panties to match the bra," she suggested. I took off the granny panties she'd had me sleep in and changed into a lacy black pair of Marisa's. They were high-waisted, just enough to cover my stiffening cock. She then began stuffing my bra with panties until the cups were well filled. She had me lie on top of the king bed, which she had roughly made up, saying "We have an hour before the shuttle leaves, so take your time, and you can cum right into the panties—don't worry about that."

"Thank you," I said. "Can I ask one more thing?"

"Sure..."

"Could you give me a pair of your panties to hold in my mouth?"

"Of course! Fresh or worn?"

Decisions, decisions. "Worn, please."

She went to her dirty laundry drawer—the same one I'd used, natch—and pulled out a pair of bright purple boy shorts. She sniffed them quickly and said "these will do nicely" as she held them to my nose and I inhaled the scent of her sex.

"Open wide," she said, then put about half the panties crotch-first into my mouth, leaving the rest hanging out.

If I were just making things up, rather than narrating a true story, a few of Marisa's friends might show up now, cell phones at the ready to get a photo of me stroking my cock, and maybe waving the panties they'd traded for. That possibility did cross my mind at the time, but surprisingly I wasn't worried about it anymore. I basked in the extra excitement of these impromptu fantasies, and as I approached orgasm after a slow, deliberate buildup I almost wished someone would pop in.

That didn't happen, but I did have a great orgasm and wonderful "after-care" from Marisa, who gave me hugs, praised my courage, complimented my body, and thanked me for turning a routine conference into an unforgettable experience.

To be continued, or not... one never knows, does one?