Will Work for Panties Ch. 05

Time flies when you’re having fun. The second semester at college flew by quickly, and before I knew it spring had passed and summer had arrived. Already two years down and two left to go; halfway to go to the real world. Between school, holding down a part-time job, and building a relationship with my girlfriend there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day.

I had been gaining experience in construction while working for a contractor. We did general work, everything from finished carpentry to pouring concrete. Weekends in the spring were hellacious since many of his suburbanite clients had wanted to do things like add patios, build extensions to their kitchens, and otherwise sink untold thousands of dollars into improving the value of their homes. Thank goodness for a booming economy.

The boss was a good enough man, and he paid me well. I had to be in the union. That was fine even though I was only temporary help. The wages were good enough to help me squeeze through school. If only the union boys knew how I had arranged payment for work in the past. They would probably pour concrete around me and bury me next to Jimmy Hoffa.

I am a panty fetishist. Once upon a time – it seems so long ago now – I was caught red-handed raiding my aunt’s hamper looking for panties. It was stupid. I didn’t even lock the door to the bathroom where the hamper was located. That was careless. Ironically that embarrassing moment would lead to one of the oddest relationships that I could ever imagine. One that allowed me to put my knack for backbreaking labor to constructive use yet still feed my fetish.

I began working for panties. I didn’t hold a sign by the side of the road, and I certainly did not advertise in the local paper. My client list was exclusive and payment is set at three pairs of women’s panties for every job that I did. My client list consisted of my aforementioned aunt and her two sisters. They had all been understanding of my rather odd quirk and respectful of my privacy. I in turn probably performed somewhere in the neighborhood of $50,000 in labor around their homes combined.

Well, maybe not that much.

In addition to feeding my fetish, my aunt also got me together with her brother’s sister-in-law, Gail. We both attended the same college, but in different programs. We had been dating for about six months. By the way, I fell for her like a ton of cinder blocks.

That said, I’ll continue.

* * *

The spring passed and the summer arrived. My Aunt Sherrie’s sister, Patti, and her husband decided during the winter that they wanted to finish the basement to add two rooms to the house. Both Patti and David, her husband, knew that they could rely on yours truly to provide much of the labor for that job. David took for granted that I worked cheap, though he didn’t know how cheap. Patti on the other hand knew my price exactly.

It took two entire weekends of starting early in the morning and finishing late in the evening to get the whole job completed. Framing the walls and the floor, laying the proper insulation on the ground, and putting up the wallboard went fast enough on the first week. We painted the walls and ceiling and laid the carpeting the following weekend.

By the last day of the job I was alone in the basement admiring the completed job, wondering what goodies Patti would have in store for me. She had the most elegant taste in panties. Her favorite place to shop was a little lingerie store called The French Boutique, which was run by a woman who seemed to elevate the art of being sensuous to a science.

“Vincent, are you finished with the painting?” Patti called out to me from the to of the stairs.

“Yeah, I’m done. I was just cleaning up. It’ll take a while for the paint to dry, but the job is done at last,” I answered.

“Great. You must be hungry. Do you want a sandwich or something?” she asked.

“Sure, that’ll be great.”

I walked up the stairs to the kitchen and took the remaining paint and brushes to the garage. By the time that I returned she had a chicken salad sandwich sitting on the table for me.

“You’d better wash your hands. Here use the sink,” she said.

“Is David still around?” I asked

“No. He’s talking to our neighbors telling them what a great job he did finishing the basement.”

“Wow. What a prince,” I said sarcastically. The fact was that her husband David was all thumbs and got in the way more than he helped. In fact, if it hadn’t been for his “help” I would have finished the job in one weekend. What the hell, it was his house.

I rinsed my hands off in the sink with a quick splash of water. It was more ceremonial than anything. I sat down at the table and reached for my sandwich.

We talked for a while about the work I had just completed in her basement and about how I was looking forward to my junior year in college. The topic predictably got around to my relationship with Gail and how things were going between us.

“Pretty heavy,” was my initial reply.

“Oh, really? How heavy?” Patti asked.

“We spend as much time together as possible with both of us holding down jobs in addition to schoolwork. We often get together in the library to study. It’s just too bad that she’s going away for the summer. I miss her already. I won’t get to see her for two months.”

“Will you talk to her?”

“Sure, I’ll call her all the time.”

“Well, that sounds pretty bland.” Patti offered.

“Well, when we have free time that isn’t dedicated to studying we take advantage and get intimate, but we haven’t, you know, crossed that final threshold. Know what I mean?”

“Oh well,’ she said, “there’ll be time enough for that.”

“I hope so.” I took another bite out of my sandwich before continuing. “The only thing that seems to stand in the way of my relationship with her is the fact that I’ve never told her about my fetish. You, Sherrie, and Bambi are the only ones who know.”

“You haven’t mentioned your fetish to her?”

“No, how in the heck am I going to do that? ‘Gail darling, I have a little confession. I’d like to get into your panties. Well actually, besides sex, I’d like to get into your panties literally.’ That would be a scene.”

“You never know, she might be as kinky as you.”

“I don’t think so. It’s like we start getting close one minute and then she backs off the next. It isn’t like she doesn’t want to fool around or anything, it’s more like there’s something on her mind that interrupts her train of thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes I feel like she’s hiding something, as if there’s something she wants to tell me but maybe she doesn’t trust me. We’ve been together for months now, and I just don’t understand why she acts like that. She knows how I feel about her; I tell her all the time.”

“If there is something that she’s keeping from you, it could be that she’s trying to figure out a way to tell you. It might be that you’re misreading her feelings, Vincent.”

I sat in Patti’s kitchen for the last half-hour and just poured my guts out to her. Patti was one of my closest confidants and the keeper of my own deeply held secret.

“You know, this only becomes an issue when it looks like we might actually get around to some sex,” I confessed. “I can start to cuddle up with her and try to make out, and she goes along and seems to enjoy it for a while, but if I try to get sexual she gets distant. It’s almost like she’s afraid of getting turned on if I try to fondle her breast or something. She shies away when I put my hands on her. She keeps telling me that she’s into me and everything, but I can’t help feeling like there’s something going on way in the back of her head.”

“How long have you two been going out now?” Patti asked.

“Well, since January. Six months,” I answered.

It had been six wonderful months since my Aunt Sherrie had asked her brother Brian to give me his sister-in-law’s phone number. We hit it off from our first date, and soon we were a pretty hot item.

“It might still be too soon for her,” she advised.

“I’ve thought about that, and I’ve even asked her. She just won’t open up to me. I’m crazy for this girl. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe I could talk to her, just to try and get things from a woman’s point of view,” she offered.

“I can’t ask you to do that. This is my problem to solve, if it is a problem. It might just be my hyperactive imagination.”

“Yeah, well we all know what that means,” she said.

I nearly spit up the soda that I was drinking. In fact I got a little backup of carbonation up my nostril when she made reference to a rather intense nocturnal event I suffered – okay, enjoyed – just around the time I met Gail.

“Oops, sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t want that to happen.”

“I just can’t believe that it’s anything more embarrassing than what I could tell her about myself,” I said.

“Well, maybe you have to tell her your secret before she tells you hers, if she has one,” she advised.

“Right, then after I tell her I have a hard-on for women’s underwear she tells me that she’s been thinking about becoming a nun,” I replied sarcastically.

“Well life is all about risks. If you want to share in other people’s lives sometimes you have to open up first. You admit that you’re sexually attracted to her and that you want to have sex with her, yet at the same time you’re concealing an important part of your own sexual identity from her,” she said.

I thought about the wisdom of those words. Then I decided to tease Patti.

“That’s kind of funny coming from you. You know my secret, but you’ve never been willing to tell me yours.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean that a long time ago you told me about how you can mix your fetishes with someone you care about, someone you love, and enjoy them more.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you now.”

“I know. But you also told me that you have your own fetish, and you won’t tell me what it is.”

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds. I didn’t want to be too aggressive with her after all she had done for me. I didn’t just mean the panties either; Patti was truly someone I cared for very deeply. I would do anything for her.

“I mean even Aunt Sherrie opened up to me that way,” I continued. “For crying out loud, she groped me in her living room just to get a rise out of my … pants.”

“Tent. She calls it a tent. And I know; she told me. I couldn’t believe that she carried things that far. Sometimes that girl has big discipline problems.”

“Girl?” I wouldn’t call my aunt that.

“Well, she’ll always be my kid sister.”

“I would have thought that Bambi would be the wild one.”

”She is,” answered Patti. “You really have no idea how wild.”

Okay.

“So come on, tell me,” I pressed and took the last bit of my sandwich.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what your fetish is,” I answered with a mouthful of chicken salad. I tried to seem a bit mischievous by almost daring her to tell me.

I knew that she wouldn’t. Patti was too reserved, too disciplined. That reserve added greatly to my attraction to her. She was so unattainable. She always played things close to the vest, and the possibility of her revealing her fetish to me was just too remote. I sat there, still holding her hand, and she squeezed. We just sat there for a few minutes looking at each other. Actually I looked at her and she stared into space.

“Do you really want to know?” She surprised me by asking.

“Yes. I do.”

No way is she going to tell me.

Patti squeezed my hand again.

“Okay I will.”

She squeezed again.

Oh boy.

“This is my fetish,” and with that she held up my hand.

“What is?” I was perplexed.

“Your hand. Your hands. Men’s hands. Vincent, I have a hand fetish,” she confessed, but it made no sense to me.

A fucking what fetish?

“A what fetish?” I asked.

“A hand fetish. I have a fetish for men’s hands.”

She really squeezed hard now and looked me straight in the eyes. She had a curious little smile on her face, half Mona Lisa and half bank robber passing a note to the teller.

“Vincent, I get aroused – turned on – by men’s hands. Some men, many men actually, have a foot fetish. Mine is just a little different. A man’s strong hands, like my husband’s or yours, well … they arouse me. It’s been a big turn-on for me for as long as I can remember.

“I dated different boys in high school, and I always wound up judging them by their hands. I sort of compared the hands of the different boys I dated. I dated a football player who had fantastic hands. They were big and strong, and I just melted whenever he touched me. To this day I can’t resist them.”

“You’d better not let your husband find out,” I quipped.

“That’s who I’m talking about, silly,” she replied with a smirk.

Maybe David wasn’t all thumbs after all.

She put it all out there in the open. All I could do was sit there with my jaw hanging somewhere down around my belly button and feel her warm hands as she held mine. Now that she had told me her turn-on she was rubbing my fingers and staring at them.

“So do you mean to tell me that after all this time, after almost two years of confiding in you and talking to you about my innermost thoughts and problems while you held my hand to comfort me, you weren’t really comforting me?” I was incredulous.

“Sure I was,” she said. “But I was also getting turned on at the time.” She smiled something wicked.

“I feel so used.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Well … no. Not really.”

I just shook my head back and forth.

The things you find out about people.

“So, you’re turned on by hands? Men’s hands? I just don’t get it.” I didn’t. She needed to explain this to me.

“There are things that turn on some people that others don’t understand. It is all about accepting the things that arouse you and that arouse the ones you love. Some men are turned-on by women’s feet or legs; foot fetishists are out there everywhere. Others are turned on by panties, like you. I for one don’t understand why you get so horny over a simple piece of fabric, but I can accept that you do and help you.” She offered up the explanation, but it just didn’t seem to sink into my head.

“Yeah, but panties are sexy,” I attempted my own feeble justification.

“Only because you think they are; only because your mind has made a link between women’s panties and sex. I on the other hand have made a link between a man’s hands and sex,” she replied.

“Yeah, but hands? That’s just nuts.” It was the best retort I could summon.

“What is so nuts about hands?” she asked. She could have been a little defensive. I came close to ridiculing her, and she did nothing to deserve that. It was my own failure to understand the scope of human sexuality at that time that got in the way. Fortunately for me, Patti was a very patient woman.

“Well, because they’re just hands. Look at mine; they still have plaster and paint on them. They’re filthy, yet you’ve been holding them this whole time. Do you mean to tell me that these filthy hands get you going?” I though that was a brilliant point. Little did I realize that I had just kicked the door open to the explanation that I needed.

“Well, let’s get them cleaned up and take a closer look at them. Shall we?” she said.

It wasn’t a question that needed an answer. I would have followed Patti anywhere. She stood up and led me to the kitchen sink. Patti turned on the water and we waited a few seconds for it to get hot. She squirted some dishwashing soap into the sink and it created a rising mound of bubbles.

“Come here, let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.

She took my right hand and immersed it in the hot soapy water. She also took a bar of soap by the sink and started rubbing it around my hand. She lathered up my hand and cleaned my palms and between my fingers. She rubbed the soap around the back of my hand and around my knuckles. She lathered it up aggressively and held it under the water. I could feel my hand getting softer and warmer in the hot water.

“Okay, hold on to your hat Vincent, but this is the big part of my fetish. This is what I like to do. I do it with my husband all the time.”

“What, you wash his hands,” I asked.

“That’s right, sweetie. I wash his hands. I love to wash a man’s hands. I love to feel the soapy warmth of a pair of strong hands.” She was staring at my palm as she rubbed my fingers.

“I love to rub the soap around and feel each finger,” she continued looking down into the sink. “I love to feel how strong each finger is and how large the palm is.

“I love to feel the little callous right here where the finger joins the palm.” She turned over my hand and rubbed the dead piece of skin under my middle finger and then looked up at me. “I love to feel them get warm and wet, and I love to fantasize about them holding me. I love to think about a pair of warm wet hands running themselves all over my body, gently caressing my skin, fondling my breasts and arousing me.

“Panties? Panties are just fabric. What good are they when they’re empty? But a warm pair of living hands, now that’s something to fantasize about. That’s what I think is sexy.”

You could have knocked me over with a flimsy nylon g-string. If Patti had not been holding my hand I might have just fallen over backwards. All this time I had no idea. All this time I was living in he dark.

“So, do you want to wash the other one?” I asked sarcastically.

Patti didn’t answer me. She simply took my left hand into the water and washed it as thoroughly as she did the right hand. The whole time she just stood next to me at the sink, silently washing my left hand and then my right hand again. She stared down into the dirty water of the sink and admired my hands as she lathered them up repeatedly and washed them off once, then twice, then three times. If I had any sense I would have worried about her husband walking into the room. I didn’t.

My heart thumped harder, and my penis grew rigid as she caressed my wet, soapy hand.

I now had a pair of warm, wet, pruned hands. Patti just kept running her fingers over my palms and then down the back of my fingers. I lost track of time, but I felt the need to break away. All this hand play was causing havoc in my pants. Patti was getting that same look in her eyes that Aunt Sherrie had the day she groped my groin. I was as hard as a rock and I wanted to go home and jerk off. All this because of holding a woman’s hand.

“Ahh, Patti,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I think they’re clean now.”

Patti turned and took a dishtowel from a drawer near the sink.

“I’ll just dry you off,” she said with a glazed look in her eyes.

“Part of the big finish I hope,” I said to her.

“Mmm.”

She had a big grin across her face, like the cat that swallowed the canary. Maybe she grinned because I was so stunned. Maybe she grinned because my horizons were just a little more open. Or maybe she grinned because she had just shared a unique moment of intimacy with me. I hoped it was the later.

“Don’t worry, Vincent. I’m not going to grope you.”

Shit. I would have enjoyed that.

My hands were dry now, and I started to back away from her. However, she did not let go of my hand just yet.

“I hope you aren’t in a hurry to leave,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t paid you for the job yet.”

“Oh yeah. You owe me three pairs of cold, lifeless panties for two weekends worth of construction work with my warm, sexy hands.”

“Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” she said. “The bad news is that I don’t have any panties here for you.”

“And the good news?” I asked.

“The good news is that you and I are going to the boutique together.”