The Belgium Neighbour's Knickers

One Summer's day I watched through my bay window as the removal men unloaded their van and took all the boxes, white goods and other possessions up the concrete steps that led to the door of the first floor flat next door. The final item that they carried up the steps was a large clothes rail that was bustling with girly garments, many dresses and several coats of such styles that they suggested that they belonged to a young woman.

The following morning I saw the presumed owner of those clothes making her way down the concrete steps to the pavement dressed in a black business suit. A petite slim woman with fabulous long limbs dressed in a tight pencil skirt that finished just below her knees. Her elegant slender calves caught the sunlight in opaque black nylon hosiery as I watched intently every single step that she took in her descent to the pavement.

She wore a pair of fuschia coloured trainers with white cotton ankle socks which suggested to me that she intended to walk to her work.

Her long voluminous chestnut hair, carefully dishevelled, had such subtle rouge highlights that it was not possible to identify whether the colouring was natural or had been introduced by expert hairdressing. The wonderful mane reached down to her small pert arse and as she turned to walk down the hill her profile revealed a 'drop dead' gorgeous athletic body. Quite simply sex on legs.

Her beautiful face of flawless northern complexion contrasted with her generous bright red painted lips that threatened to pout and reciprocate any attention that might be given to them.

She appeared to be about twenty years of age. If ever I had been in her league I knew that at my time of life I was now at least twenty thousand leagues beneath it. That being so any intimacy that I craved with her would have to be displaced. I would have to shift the target of my carnal desire to her intimate undergarments that hugged her delectable body. They would be an obvious target, entirely appropriate to this compulsive lingerie fetishist. I wanted to fuck her knickers and her hosiery and lose my load within them as a substitute for her unobtainable delights.

She carried the straps of an expensive voluminous black leather bag over her shoulder and my first thought was to wonder if it might contain a spare pair of knickers or pantyhose hidden inside. She stopped at the bottom of the steps of my house and drew apart the flaps of her bag to peer inside. She pulled out a pair of black leather open toe court shoes with a moderately high chunky heel.

Had I been directing this scene of a movie, then when she withdrew the shoes there would have been a saucy dainty 'g' string with elaborate bows to the front and back panels, hanging limply from the heel of one of the shoes. At least it occurred in my imagination.

She lifted her mobile phone out of her bag and she dropped the shoes back into it and continued down the hill.

In another scene of a movie I imagined, I would be her co-worker. I would have the opportunity to rummage through her bag when she left it in the office and went out for lunch. Then I would remove the saucy 'g' string from her bag, enjoy it's texture and photograph it. I would set the camera to macro mode and photograph the bows and the label in those tiny panties so that I might identify the manufacturer or the shopping chain which offered them for purchase. I might have the opportunity to purchase an identical item myself albeit in a larger size. Whilst wearing or otherwise abusing them, their similarity to those of my sexy neighbour would strengthen my conviction that they actually belonged to her.

What compelling information is disclosed on those silky little labels. I hope they will identify the garment as a small or an extra small size. The smaller the better is not a golden rule of thumb but my fascination grows as the size of a pair of delicate panties decreases.

Some women cut the labels out of their knickers. It doesn't surprise me, particularly at the top end of the market when a pair of knickers can cost fifty quid and more. The label spoils the form. It's also true that people like to be represented by expensive labels, don't designers and manufacturers know it.

Some grand designer has gone to the trouble to balance, form, colour, mesh, lace, embroidery, buttons and bows and in recent years apertures in the front or back panels such that the finished article gives resonance to the mushy, succulent content within. A label sticking half way up one's back hardly does justice to their effort.

I'm enchanted by the smaller woman. What value for money having all that beauty packed into a petite body. Tiny ears, little fingers, slim arms and little toes just seem so ultimately feminine to me and the fact that they will be in perfect proportion is one wonder of nature. Having said that I'm certainly not adverse to a statuesque woman standing as tall as myself.

My sexually submissive demeanour clamours to be the victim of some act of role playing dominance on the part of a sexual partner and the intensity of the submission is always amplified when it is carried out by a creature that could never physically overpower me. That, they may well easily manage as a consequence of their attractive assets or the naughty qualities of their imagination and indeed the irresistible fragrances of various parts of their divine bodies that message a man's psyche and leave him broken and vulnerable.

Then it is hardly surprising that I have an intense fetish for women's feet. Delicate perfectly sculptured appendages that have the added attraction of being blessed with an intensity of pheromonal fragrance, almost a second, scented, humid cunt.

In that finite moment when I saw her for the first time, I was hooked.

The following Saturday I saw her from my kitchen window working in her garden. I was longing to know more about her, to have some facts to work with to feed my imagination for when I would be gripping my shaft and pulling myself off with her in mind. Her name would be better than nothing. I longed to whimper that name with abandon as she fucked with my mind and body.

My neighbour was wearing cut-off denim shorts and a black swimwear bikini top, her shoulders were extraordinary, running precisely perpendicular to her spine. Her whole perfect body hanging from that fabulous boney lintel.

Her feet were shod in red crocs and the wrinkled soles of her small feet were exposed as she knelt down on a kneeling mat. Her back was to me as she busily worked with a garden trowel digging border plants into the row of newly upturned soil at the end of her garden.

Her limbs were lean and I was fascinated by her slim arms, noting that with my big hands I would easily be able to wrap my index finger and thumb around her wrist and the two digits would happily meet. I doubted that she could achieve the same feat with my aroused cock.

She had bundled her rich shining chestnut locks above her head in a glorious doughnut-shaped ring and as I peered with hyperopic eyes from my window my mouth went dry when I noticed that the item that she had used to fasten it was non-other than a frothy white nylon knee high sock.

The reinforced toe and leg band were hanging loosely from either side of the knot at the back of her head. I had longed to see such a fashion again since I first enjoyed it in the nineteen eighties.

"You naughty, horny little tease," I thought to myself.

Little did I know at that moment just how accurate my assessment would be.

I picked up a stack of terracotta plant pots that I had been intending to take out into my garden. I had the intention of making my appearance seem nothing more than a routine. As though I had a purpose to be in my garden and then as a matter of pure courtesy I would introduce myself as her kind and helpful willing neighbour and not as the beast that longed to shoot his stuff into her 'borrowed' lingerie.

As I opened my kitchen door to the garden and stepped out, my neighbour was alerted by the sound and turned around to see who was there.

"Hello, you must be my new neighbour," I politely suggested.

"That's right, pleased to meet you I'm DirtyDream," she replied.

She spoke with a European accent but I did not enquire where she was from because I didn't want to appear too interested.

She didn't introduce herself as 'DirtyDream' she said 'Dorene' but that's how my willing self interpreted her words.

"Pleased to meet you Dorene and welcome to the neighbourhood. I'm Henry. It's really nice around here, lots of pleasant people, a good neighbourhood, I'm sure you'll enjoy settling in here," I replied.

"Hi, Henry. Yes, it seems very nice," she disclosed.

"Well, better get on with tidying up my flat, look forward to seeing you later," I said.

"Yep, you too," she replied informally.

I went back inside, I was glad to have made contact with her, pleased too that I hadn't overplayed my hand even though I was rather keen to tell her that I would happily fix a washing line for her to my clothes post which was installed on the boundary between our two gardens. I didn't want to alert her to the fact that I wanted to glimpse her intimate clothing on the washing line.

There was always the possibility that she might put out her smalls on a drying rack as is common these days and even without raising any suspicion I might get access to her feminine underclothing. I was in no doubt that if she did do such a thing and happen to forget to bring her washing in at night some article would definitely not be there in the morning since there was little fencing between the gardens.

Any number of people might be the culprit of such a misdemeanour. It's simply not the case that one can purloin such intimate items particularly if one might be the sole person with the occasion to commit that criminal deed, thus leaving oneself as the number one suspect. Indeed if any of the other blokes in the neighbourhood felt like me they might get there first.

I kept my voyeuristic eye on her as she continued with her planting in the garden. I was busy wondering what the panties might be like beneath her denim shorts, how her labia would look snuggled within them and everything else about her panties style, colour, type of material, pattern and the rest. That she might not be wearing anything at all beneath the shorts or that she might be wearing the matching panty of the black bikini swimwear never occurred to me. Bikini swimwear is made to be seen by anyone and knickers are not, at least not without permission.

Excitement relates to the forbidden. A decent man will go to lengths to obtain the permission to sink his cock into the pussy of a woman he fancies but would never attempt such a thing without that accord. Permission must be granted. Soiling the panties, stockings, bras and slips of a woman in secret often occurs without such agreement. The right is never granted and the incantation of the action never falters.

I watched as Dorene selected a packet of seeds that lay beside her and I reflected on how I would love to plant my seed within her, distribute it across her skin or at least bury it into the gusset of a pair of her soiled knickers or the salty toe of her office pantyhose. The closest relation to her bleating self.

During the following weeks of Summer she never once put out any washing at all as far as I was aware. I became increasingly desperate to discover something more about her underwear. Certainly, it would include opaque black pantyhose and white cotton socks that were part of her work attire. Furthermore, there would be some naughty little nylon knee high stockings, after all, she had already used one as a hair band but there my knowledge ended.

As Autumn approached and the nights drew in, my fascination to discover more of her intimate garments increased in intensity. One night when I arrived home very late and very drunk I went inside and noted that the contents of my kitchen rubbish bin were beginning to hum. The fish skin I had deposited in there two nights before was very ripe indeed. The following day was rubbish day and the bin men would be coming early in the morning to empty the wheely bins in the front street. I extracted the black plastic sack from my kitchen bin, tied the top together and made my drunken way cautiously down the stairs to the front door. I proceeded through it and down the front steps to the street. I lifted the lid of my wheely bin and dropped the bag inside before retracing my steps back to my kitchen.

I was arranging a new black bag in the rubbish bin when it suddenly occurred to me that there might be something of interest in Dorene's wheely bin. Nylon hosiery has a finite life. There might be a pair of her discarded pantyhose or a pair of her nylon knee highs in her bin. I was a little ashamed that I might have such a thought but nonetheless, my fascination with the woman got the better of me. As it was so late at night and the street was quiet, no one was going to see me lift the lid of her bin and look to see if she had deposited any rubbish within it.

Carefully, I made my way down to the street and when I lifted the lid of her bin, there was a single black bag within it. Reaching my hand inside I extracted the sack, closed the lid silently and stealthily made my way back into my own flat and up to the kitchen.

My hands were shaking with anticipation as I untied the knot at the top of the sack and peered within. The bag was only partially filled and there was a plain white plastic carrier bag with the handles tied together. I pulled it out and began to untie the knot. Within it was a plethora of tissue, cotton buds and make-up removal pads but underneath and peeking out in several places was the unmistakable froth of black nylon stocking. I reached inside the bag and felt utterly euphoric as I pulled it free of the bag. A single leg of the pantyhose followed the bunch of soft material in my hand. I watched mesmerised as I lifted my hand above my head until the reinforced toe of the leg of the pantyhose was level with my eyes.

Bingo! I had won. All that was left to do was cover my tracks. I reassembled her black rubbish sack and quietly retraced my steps downstairs. I lifted the neighbour's bin lid but I lost my grip on the handle and it crashed down loudly. I looked up to my neighbour's window and I felt terrified when I saw that there was still a light burning in the room above. The gap between the curtains in the window closed before my eyes. Had I been seen messing about with her bin? With the nonchalance and callousness of a drunken man, I shrugged off any such concern before returning breathlessly to my winnings which I had placed on the work surface in my kitchen.

The varnished wooden surface of the kitchen table was clear of clutter and vacant and seemed like the ideal surface in which to draw out the bundle of nylon and examine precisely this prize treasure as though it was a priceless archaeological relic. The pantyhose had probably been removed by Dorene in the bathroom prior to her taking a shower. The white plastic bag in which I found them contained only tissue, cotton buds and makeup removal pads. CSI U.K. would conclude that the plastic bag had been used to line the waste bin in her bathroom.

I unfolded the pantyhose and discovered that they were inside out. I put them the right way. I slipped my hand into the legs of the hose and something stirred in my trousers and my mouth was becoming increasingly dry. There was a sizeable ladder along the thigh part of one leg. With my hand in the feet of the hose, I could see many tiny snags that occur when a woman has removed her shoes and walked around without them. In my mind's eye, I could see her stockinged feet treading boards and my humble self, in reverence before her kneeling and kissing and worshiping her feet. Adoring her. The reinforced toe and the heel revealed tiny white particles, skin cells that had been chafed from her feet. The opportunity existed to imbibe, a part, albeit a tiny part of this horny fems body. The garment had a provenance which bestowed upon it an infinite value.

To delay the conclusion of an ambition is a human value that distinguishes us from most other life forms on our planet. So it was with my filthy intentions towards Dorene's unwashed hose. I wanted to savour the moment so I went to my bedroom and placed the garment beneath my pillows and went to get myself ready for bed. The emotive nature of the unexpected turn of events had had an incredibly sobering effect on me. Despite my night out on the town I no longer felt inebriated although I did have a fuzzy head and the liquor had had its way with my libido. As I climbed into my bed it was merely my intention to examine the frothy black treasure and then sleep with the satisfaction that at last, I had something intimate belonging to Dorene that would help satisfy my immeasurable craving for her horny body.

I pulled my duvet over me and I extracted the delicate article from beneath my pillow. I pressed the bunched up hose against my cheek and immediately my greedy nose began to collect the aromas of that heaven sent treasure. An overwhelming olfactory pleasure. That they had been discarded unwashed along with the makeup removal pads summated to a compendium of flavour, fragrance and scent of my absent neighbour.

I fell deeply into sleep, a consequence of alcoholic and emotional intoxication, but when I awoke in the morning the pantyhose were before my eyes still resting on my pillow. The pantyhose were royal. It was too early in the day for me to employ the protocol with which to address, to worship them, so I rolled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom instead. Having done the necessaries I went back to my bedroom and while routinely eyeing royalty on its feather filled throne I decided to make myself some coffee. It occurred to me that I did not want the aromatic qualities of Dorene's pantyhose to deteriorate. I took a zip-lock food bag from the kitchen drawer and in my bedroom, I put the pantyhose within it and zipped it.

I was still preoccupied with saving the pleasure of my treasure so whilst enjoying two cups of coffee I made myself a spliff with some fabulous marijuana I kept and in that enhanced state I returned to my bedroom.

I love to wear pantyhose while I masturbate. I love to see my cock and balls trapped behind the mesh of the nylon panty. The feeling afforded by their softness and yet restrictive nature of the material raises my excitement to an ultimate intensity. On this occasion, I had no intention of contaminating the purity of Dorene's hose with man smell and anyway they were many sizes too small for me.

Instead, I put on a pair of knickers selected from those that I have bought for myself. I chose a pair of full cut black panties with a mesh front with a pattern of black embroidery emulating delicate stalks and leaves. There was the usual little bow sewn in the middle of the front part of the waistband.

The label informed that their size was extra large and that they were of polyamide, polyester and elastane. Rather cheap knickers from a French hypermarket chain but nonetheless naughty. The back panel also in transparent mesh was plain except for a little pleat extending downwards a short distance from the centre of the waistband.

I sat on the edge of my bed, pulled the waistband below my balls and with my right hand I firmly gripped my shaft and with my left hand I held Dorene's pantyhose to my face. I held one of the toes against my mouth and exhaled through the nylon to give it some humidity and reactivate the fragrances of her toes.

The ensuing aroma of nylon and pheromone, although subtle, smelled earthy and irresistible and made my cock grow. My best mate was now as hard as the wooden handle of a coal shovel and the head of my cock grew rouge blue and looked really angry and capable of no good. I released my grip on my shaft but that changed nothing, it needed no support, it throbbed and pulsed in a slow rhythmic manner. The head bowed and rose repeatedly as it responded to the pumping of blood from my adrenaline infused heart. It reminded me of the behaviour of a certain familiar animal in the farmyard. Cock-a-doodle-doo.