True, during graduate school in upstate NY, early 1980's
Who was she? What did she look like? Why did she throw this away?
The answers weren't important, yet.
I had my prize: a petite-to-medium size lipstick-red panty with a lacy trim. I had retrieved it furtively from my dorm's laundry room, where it lay crumpled at the back of a table. Its brash color was a beacon, begging me to pick it up, hide it deep inside my laundry basket under a week's worth of clothes and lab coats, and take it back to my room.
It was several weeks since my last visit to a New York City cathouse, so the yearning for something sexual-even if only tangentially sexual-was overpowering.
And now, alone in my dorm room, I had it. The nylon fabric was sheer and supple. It had slight wear and tear in a few spots but was still quite serviceable. Strange, since graduate students tend to be a frugal, sensible bunch.
It was freshly laundered, perhaps earlier that evening. Stranger still. Why would anyone bother to wash an article and then throw it away?
I unfolded the panty carefully as if it were a fragile wrapped gift and exposed the white cotton crotch panel. This-the part that caresses the soft moist vulvar lips, the part that slurps up the juices of womanly sexual arousal, the part that covers the warm slick tunnel that men seek to fill-was the panties essence.
A thin yellow discoloration ran down the middle of the panel. It was a well-used panty, to be sure. It was not a piece of frilly lingerie worn occasionally for sex nights with the hubby. I raised the panel to my nose and sniffed hard. It released the faint but unmistakable sour musky aroma of pussy. Not even a recent laundering and a capful of fabric softener was able to destroy this most lovely of female scents.
The odor quickly evoked a memory of a brothel romp some years earlier... The sixty-nine position. Her lowering her cunt on my face. My hands squeezing her large, rounded breasts. The urgent breathing. Her arousal and mine. That unforgettable smell of pussy. Our orgasms.
The erection developed quickly and hurt in the confines my jeans. By instinct, my fingers unbuckled the belt and pulled down the zipper. My pants dropped to my feet. And, it was time to masturbate.
I wrapped the panty around my cock and started to stroke. The panel felt good around my shaft. Perhaps, it was the softness of the fabric; perhaps, it was the knowledge that it had touched a real cunt not too long ago.
But, what was the former owner like? I thought for a few moments. From the size of the panty, it would have belonged to one of a half-dozen classmates. All were small-framed. All had B-cup tits. All were of average but decent looks. All had brown hair, sensibly-styled and easy for a busy graduate student to groom in the morning. But, which one was she?
I began to fantasize about this girl-or more precisely, a composite of these girls. She would be lying down on my bed, wearing only her lipstick-red panty. She would cup her tits and playfully pinch her nipples with her fingers. She would slowly pull down her panty and spread her legs wide. She would put a finger inside herself and whisper to me that she was ready.
I shuddered and unloaded a thick ribbon of semen into the panty. My cock shot out several more loads, filling the white cotton crotch panel with a sticky mess.
It was over. This will tide me over for a while, I thought, until I can get to a cathouse again.
I stuffed the dirty panty down to the bottom of a waste can. After pulling up my pants, I sat down at my desk and hit the textbooks.
Ever since, I've wondered, who was this girl? And, what would she think of her discarded panty being the object of a classmate's masturbatory lust? Whatever the answer, I hope she continues to leave behind her used intimate apparel for others to 'enjoy.'