She was about a third of the way through sorting and folding the hodgepodge of clothes in the trunk. Suddenly she spoke with an intriguing catch in her voice, a noticeably different tone from that of the casual chitchat we’d been engaged in. “Now these I need,” was what she said.
I looked up. In her hands was a pair of retro panties, by far the most beautiful thing I’d seen today in Megan’s attic–apart from Megan herself.
Based on what I’d absorbed from old Playboys (many of which were in my parents’ attic), they looked like they must have been from the 1950’s or 1960’s. They were full-cut, black nylon panties–those high-waisted, generous undies from before bikini cuts took over. They had straight hems at the leg openings, where they would modestly clasp a lady’s upper thighs. And what made this pair special was that almost every inch was covered in lace ruffles, like you might find on the front of a tacky tuxedo shirt from the 1980’s. But this was a lot better than a tuxedo shirt, I assure you.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “What are those?”
“Aunt Clarissa’s panties,” Megan answered thoughtfully. She clutched the garment to her chest.
…I stroked the quilted texture of the comforter as I imagined what Megan would look like in Aunt Clarissa’s panties.
I did not have to imagine for long.
She was wearing the panties, and only the panties. Looking her over, I saw soft brown hair, luscious eyes with long lazy lashes, milky shoulders, quiet, bare little breasts, and a dream of a petite, convex tummy. And I saw Aunt Clarissa’s panties–now so effectively occupied.
Thank goodness these panties had not gone legging off to California. Though Megan always looked lovely, she looked lovely at this moment in a new, special way. The fancy pants covered her very tidily. Not a hint of bareness could be seen on her ass, her hips, or of course her more intimate areas. She was totally contained–but oh, how vividly. Her feminine shape and her female sensuality were emphasized rather than obscured by these snug-fitting, ruffle-embellished underpants. There was the subtle roundness of her bottom–tightly clothed. There was the place where her thighs ended, in a geography that could only be a woman’s–a geography covered enticingly in nylon vegetation. With giddy ruffles decorating her topography, she looked like a carnival, like a feast. I relished the prospect of fondling every bit of lace, of letting her feel my fingers through the soft interface of the alluring garment.
She paraded in front of the bed, sweetly and shyly, with only a hint of exhibitionistic flair. She spun and shimmied, letting me enjoy the aerodynamic sizzle of the fluttering ruffles, which reminded me of the thin metal jingles on a tambourine. How I wanted to play Megan’s percussion!
As if she had read my mind, Megan began to dance gracefully toward the bed in double-time, her hands on her knees and her sassy rear pointed my way. I gave her the gentle slap she was inviting–right on the ruffles–and she rewarded me with a sensuous “Ooh!” Then she turned around and sat in my lap.
The feeling of her lace and nylon on my upper thighs was ticklishly delicious, and I felt every one of my leg hairs tingling. Meanwhile, the pressure of Megan’s firm ass cheeks against the bulge in my briefs was pushing me into high gear. With a compulsive enthusiasm, I began to caress her all over her sissy pants, stroking and petting and teasing her from hips to bottom to mound, passionately stimulating her panty-clad flesh.
As she gave in to sensation, Megan quivered, melted, and leaned into me. At this angle, her delicate breasts pressed against my bare chest, and I knew it was time to honor them. I shaped and fondled them with reverence, pinching the nipples lightly in passing.
By now, I was too big for my breeches, and Megan slid my briefs down and away. Below the waist, I saw that she was gyrating.
“So,” I said between kisses to her neck. “What’s going on in Aunt Clarissa’s panties these days?”
“Mmm . . . something nice,” Megan replied.
I reached a hand between her thighs, to stroke the nylon right where it most counted. I felt her softness, her delicacy. The contact made me sigh. “You always feel so very female when I touch you there,” I commented.
“What can I say,” she answered breathlessly. “It’s a girl thing.”