tagFetishThe Panty War

The Panty War


Who understands the things that shape us, that mold us into the strange sexual beings we eventually become? I'll be eighty-one this coming November, and I think I know why, for me, it always began with the panties. It wasn't the flash of white that I caught when a school chum of mine came down the slide, or even later, the sheer black lace that covered the backside of a little Asian prostitute when she bent over and slid up her skirt in an alleyway—although those things certainly caught my attention and fed my growing appetite. My penchant for panties began in 1944, the year my father went off to war and left me alone with my mother.

I remember her crying at the docks as we watched the steamer pull away. She tried to hold out and put on a brave face for my father, although we could only have been pinpricks of color to his eyes by then, because the sailors on the ship were a blur of navy and white to me across the deck as they waved their goodbyes. Still, she tried—she was so brave to try—but in the end, she turned to me and sobbed in my arms, burying her hot, wet face against my neck. That was the first time I had ever seen that completely open, vulnerable side of my mother, but it wouldn't be the last over the next few years.

Something happened with my father gone. I was just nineteen years old, and should have been sailing off on that ship. My father was a veteran and going back for more. It was the brave and courageous thing to do, and a part of me thought so, and wanted to do the right thing, too. The decision had been taken out of my hands, though, not only because I was still a student, but also because my mother had given birth to me out of the country, and I was technically a dual-citizen. I always felt like I lived in two worlds, and that irony was never lost on me.

On the surface, it seemed that life went on. Our routines moved us through our days. My mother did loads of volunteer work during the war years, and she ran to the mailbox every day, looking for a letter. The days when one came, I could usually find her upstairs soaking in a hot bath, her hair pulled up, cheeks pink from the heat, the bubbles dissipated enough that I could see the tops of her breasts with their dark nipples floating in the water.

Sometimes I would go in and sit on the edge of the tub and talk to her. She was always bubbling over with news—where he was, how he was, that he loved us and missed us, that was all a given—the biggest news, though, was that he was safe. For that moment, in the instant when pen touched paper, he was still alive and moving in the world. That was enough for her to hold onto until the next letter.

I loved those days, too, when she took down her long, dark hair and asked me to wash it. I can still see the water spilling down her back and over her shoulders, beading on her skin before I poured another deluge over her head. There was something so trusting and vulnerable about her posture, the way she tilted her head back, eyes closed, that took my breath away.

There were times when I poured warm water over her hair long after any remnants of soap had been washed away. With her eyes closed, I could gaze freely on her body, at the soft, rounded curves of her waist and hips and thighs as my eyes moved in and out and around the bends. The dark triangle between her legs was just barely visible in that position, and I strained to see, wanting more, but was never satisfied. Even when she stepped out of the tub and motioned for me to hand her the towel, the dark mat of hair covered her flesh like a shroud.

Days when she wanted to be alone, I was met with the gentle closing of her bedroom door. It was never forceful or abrupt, although it often felt that way to me, standing on the other side and listening to the sound of her opening drawers and shuffling through her clothes. If the news was particularly good, though, and she was still brimming with it, she would allow me to accompany her to the bedroom. I would sit quietly on the edge of the bed and watch her dress.

My mother was a methodical woman, and I am much like her, now, in the slow, deliberate way that I do things. Every part of her was rubbed dry, from top to bottom. She was much rougher over her sleek, soft skin than I would have been, dragging the towel over her breasts and belly, tugging it between her legs. I loved watching her dry her calves, seeing her breasts swaying and getting a brief peek at the dark patch between her legs as she bent over.

Then she would open her drawer and pull out a pair of panties. Back then, almost all panties were made out of silk, still hand-sewn, and they fastened with buttons up one side. Most had some sort of lace or decoration on them. My mother's underwear was exquisite. I often wondered if my father bought it for her—or if she bought it for him. The pair that I still have is soft-as-butter silk, almost a flesh-color, with two mother-of-pearl buttons that fasten on each side.

To me, there is nothing more feminine than panties, and women are never more feminine than in that sublime moment when they are sliding a pair on. She would bend over, giving me another glimpse between her legs as she wiggled the shimmering fabric up over her hips. I would trace the scalloped lace edges with my eyes, over her thighs, toward the apex between and, if the light was just right, I could see the dark hair underneath showing through them. The buttons were my favorite part, seeing her twist around to do them up, one on each side. The first one was always the easiest, but the second sometimes gave her trouble.

I would wait in great anticipation on the edge of the bed to see if she would sigh and walk toward me, turning her exposed hip in my direction and asking, "Peter, would you mind?"

Those moments lasted years, when my fingers worked that tiny button, feeling the silk of the panties covering the velvet of her skin. She would smile a thank you, sometimes tousling my hair or chucking me under the chin as if I were still a boy.

Part of me was grateful to be still that, to her. Allowed into her room, to be a part of this, to help her bathe and dress. There were men off fighting a war in conditions I couldn't even begin to imagine, my own father among them, and yet I was here, in my mother's boudoir, getting a glimpse into a world that would hold much more power over me, then and for the rest of my life, than any other battle could. I was privileged to be there, and I knew it.

I suppose I should confess that my erection was present throughout this entire process, and I sat in a way that would allow me to hide it as much as I possibly could. She never looked or asked or even indicated that I might be in the least excited by what she was doing. To her, I was simply her boy, keeping her company and helping her get dressed. For me, it was a descent into hell and a glimpse towards heaven.

Before you conjecture about what might have happened, I will tell you that nothing more ever transpired between my mother and I, except what I have revealed here. This is no incestuous tale—at least, on its face. These days continued for the year and a half that my father was gone, and when the war ended and he came home, there were no more baths or invitations to join her in the bedroom.

I was confused at first—deeply hurt—by her actions. Still, my father was home again, and she was happy. Happier than I'd seen her in so long. She laughed often, and she started to sing again when she worked around the house or in the garden. I really couldn't begrudge her her happiness.

But I dreamed about her panties. I remembered the feel of silk against my fingers, the creamy smoothness of her flesh, the clean smell of her hair, the soft swell of her breasts, and at night, I would touch myself. There was an ache in my chest whenever I heard her, too, crying out in the night, but it would spur me on, frenzied as I jerked myself to completion.

Stealing into her room was no easy task, but I managed it. I took that butter-silk pair with the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons and hid them deep between my mattress and box spring. She lamented about them for weeks. Eventually, she stopped—but I didn't. It was my mother's panties that I wrapped around my adolescent cock and rubbed over my balls. It was my mother's panties that I came into again and again until I had to wash them secretly by hand and lay them flat in the closet to dry.

So here I am, eighty years old, and I still own a pair of my mother's panties. They are folded neatly, methodically, and tucked into a drawer full of panties that I have collected from women over the years. I do have that little Asian whore's pair, black lace and still stiff in the crotch from both my cum and her juices, along with hundreds of others. I managed to make it to a war, after all—but I was right. It was nothing compared to the world I was introduced to through my mother's panties.

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