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The sun filtered in slowly, filling my room with a dull glow. Another day, or not. I was lying in my bed, eyes half open contemplating the pain of consciousness. There was nowhere I needed to be, I never had to work another day in my life. I was a wealthy man. I was a broken man too – not that it wasn’t deserved.
Still later, I was staring out my living room window, my perfectly clean *empty* living room. You reap what you sow. I learned important lessons, married after college to a woman I thought I loved, and partied and drank hard, selling and brokering oh so important things; had a horrible temper – and at the same maintained a perfect veneer of hypocritical moralism. My first wife had left me, and each and every child I had by her will have nothing to do with me. And then I remarried a wonderful woman. I had begun to pull my life together, felt this strange sensation of happiness. I had a wonderful beautiful supportive wife who understood me.
She was killed last year in a car wreck, by a road rage incident no less. My life at forty five was a ruin.
And then . . .
“Hi. Uh. Tom.??”
“Dad! It’s me, Sara. Hi!” My youngest. My God. I started to choke up. I had to think a little bit.
“Yes. Yes. Hello, Sara. Yes.”
“I’m in town – for a conference. I thought I would stop by to see you. I know it’s been a long time. I know it’s . . . I, uh, didn’t even know if this number still worked.”
“Well you got me. Sure Sure. That would be fine. Come over.”
“Wonderful. I can’t wait! I’ll see you then at 2:00.”
My youngest. She was the little accident that kept my wife and I together that additional two years. I turned to the clock – it was twelve noon. I was still in my underwear. I think I could get ready in two hours. I lifted myself from the chair at the window.
I lost all visitation rights for my children two years after our divorce and I lost the thread, had no idea where anyone was. Twenty years later I receive this call.
She arrived sometime around two. Her small frame silhouetted by the sunlight, smiling big white teeth at me. She came up to me quickly, this little bird, and gave me a hug.
I sat and stared at her. My mind was still in a fog most of the time. The last I had seen her she was ten, no more. She was this little awkward, quiet, skinny kid. Now she had on a simple pair of low jeans, and a top that rode above her hips so that her navel was set like a tear drop right at the center. When she moved it peeked in and out of view.
I learned she had graduated college, was top of her class, and had already received her Masters in Psychology. Her Phd program was next and it would be here.
I asked, “How do you get through to a doctorate at twenty? That’s what you are right.”
She smiled, proud, “I got through most of my undergraduate work in highschool and took an accelerated Masters.”
I nodded. “Wow. Smart, like your mother.” I watched her smile fade.
“I need to ask you something. And. . .” She looked down into her perfectly coifed little lap, her blonde locks falling around her shoulders. She was so small I remembered thinking to myself. This little girl. My little girl. She looked up, “You can say no.” She brushed the hair from her eyes.
I waited. I thought of the irony of this little psychology major sitting here and me in the throes of ruin. I was laughing inside.
“See, I thought maybe I could . . . stay here. . . I mean. I could clean. Take care of some things, in exchange for a room. I’ll buy my own food.”
She was leaning forward on the couch. Had her hands together. She was leaning back now on the sofa, throwing her hair back, and it brought her navel out once again – front and center folded in her concave tummy above narrow hips. She wasn’t wearing socks, just a pair of white sneakers, I thought that was somehow odd.
“I need some time to settle in and it won’t be very long. I get an internship in three months and start getting paid. And . .”
I was staring at her feet, no socks. “Ok,” was all I said. Just like that, and, “Sure. It would be fine.”
Then I got up and walked into the kitchen poured myself a red wine from the fridge. I felt the need to unwind. Someone in my life I thought.
“Sure yeah. We . . . uh, I have lots of room. You can help out, yeah.”
I sipped my wine. “Want some.”
She settled in the very next week and in no time it felt, it really felt like she had been there forever. Her temperament, her personality somehow fit so well with me. I felt so terrible about losing out on the years we could have had together.
She had some quirks though. She was so comfortable in her skin and that comfort meant that I got to see a lot of it.
Mornings took the most getting used to on that score. She would come out of her room in the morning and pad into the kitchen wearing these oh so thin tops, these little half T shirts, and tiny matching bottoms; ankara escort pink, yellow, white. Some kind of cottony fabric. Not panties really, but not much more. One morning I gestured to her standing in front of me sipping her coffee and asked, “What are those?”
She said, “What?” and looked down at herself, “Oh these!” She laughed and tugged at them from her hip. “They call them boypants.”
“I never seen any boys wear them?”
“No. I think they are FOR boys . . to like look at!” She laughed, “Like them?”
She was swaying her hips at me just then, standing on one leg then the other, looking down at me since I was sitting. A sort of invitation to stare at her middle and I obliged, looking at her knees to navel.
She stood on one leg and let her hip tip up and then spun on her foot to the sink. I watched her bottom swirl and then step away. Her boypants today were a light yellow, and her top was so thin I could see her skin pinken the fabric. I didn’t see any bra. She looked amazing and her middle went on and on, her navel was this little thin vertical line.
“You didn’t answer,” She looked down at herself pouting.
“Oh, I like them fine.” She was satisfied then.
When I read the paper she had another habit that was gradually making me crazy. I sat at the table with my coffee to one side and would fold the paper and lay it out on the table to read it. She would come up behind me and lean down holding her cup and read it over my shoulder. I could feel the heat of her breathing, the warmth of her cheek just an inch from mine. I could smell the powder of her skin. Cinnamon.
“Does this bother you??”
It did not bother me. She should ask does this distract you.
Her cheek would sometimes brush mine, rough because I had not shaved, and I could feel her warmth behind me from time to time as I paged through my paper. When she was about to leave she would turn her head and kiss me on the cheek. Once or twice her breathing would catch in my ear and it would tingle up through my center. I could feel myself flush suddenly with her breath in my ear.
For the first time in years I was beginning to feel pleasure.
She had to have known her effect on me. I could see the twinkle in her eyes, of self awareness. The warmth of her body when she brushed the back of my shoulder, her hand right at my neck when she set the coffee in front of me. The little scratch when she would dig her nail into me as she took her hand away, sending shivers down my spine. And this went on for months.
Our morning ritual became for me my addiction. She wore all manner of outfits, a never ending array. She said one time apologetically, “I’m a bit of a clothes horse.” And I loved to watch her movements, so liquid as she flitted and glided through the house. Her coy eyes fluttering, little lines when she laughed, and so expressive; eyes opening wide when making some point or about to laugh, and her little girls song of ‘good mornings’ and ‘goodbyes.’ The way she clapped her hands together, the way she tipped her head to her shoulder to look back at me. And those teeth. My little girl.
The morning I could not forget – ever – was seeing her, her back to me at the kitchen sink. That image is burned in my memory. I had grabbed my paper. She always made the coffee now, and when I set at the table and looked up at her back to me, I saw her bare legs rising endless up from the floor as they always did. Barefooted, as they always were (I loved looking at her legs).
But . . . but this time rising up up to a little line of red string at each hip. She was wearing this little red pair of panties! The concave of the middle of her back arching over the top edge of her red panties which set right at the crack of her ass. Her white smooth skin curving out from her thighs, and her narrow narrow waist bared to just below her shoulder blades. Soft bare white smooth skin and I felt an immediate erection which led me to pull myself close the table. I did not want to risk the walk to the pot of coffee.
Her top was a silk camisole this morning, and if any other day was a sign it was all she wore. Also red, satin, soft light. And then – She turned around, pivoting on one foot. The camisole hanging loose tipping down lightly between her breasts, their weight filling the fabric, flaring at her ribs. Her panties forming the smallest triangle below her navel. Her abdomen this expanse of flesh rising from the little triangle, showing off the bone of each hip, her little tear drop navel, the frame of her ribs to just below her breasts.
“You forgot your coffee,” and she padded barefoot over to where I dared not go.
“You’re . . .”
She looked at me, her bright almond eyes.
“Your panties. You have on panties.”
She looked down and back into my eyes. Not a trace of embarrassment. She just said, “Its Valentines Day! It’s my little tradition. I wear these on Valentines Day. Like them?”
I escort ankara did. I nodded my head.
She brought the cup over to me and stood directly before me. I looked up at her, into her eyes. I took a breath, “Thanks.”
She turned and walking back to the counter, stood with one hip up the way she did, sipping at her coffee, and the panties folding a crease down her backside, bunching up between her legs.
What was she doing to me? She didn’t even realize.
Laundry had been MY chore, my only chore ever really, assigned me by my late wife. And, It was important to me. I had never done anything around the house. Never contributed to the family, to the home. She had changed that in me by laundry.
When my little Sara moved in I had continued doing the laundry. Laundry really was a very simple chore but there was an aspect I had not anticipated. When I stood in the basement sorting all the dirty laundry into their respective cold, warm, hot, whites, reds, I found myself holding a pair of Sara’s panties. And then another. Another. I simply took them, held them a moment, felt their fabric, their lightness in my hand, and tossed them into their appropriate piles.
I ignored the fleeting titillation, of holding her undergarments, her ‘privates.’ I could recognize the various items she wore, could picture her in some because she would wear them around the house. She had bras tangling in the pile, her small T shirts too, half tops, boypants, camisoles, white and pink, powder blue. Little animals on some of her panties, one pair that said Thursday. Silk and cotton; eggshell panties worn thin, one or two with small holes in the crotch, some of thin silk, thongs – all small and revealing, all teasing my imagination. The material in my hand each time I lifted a pair, turning them sometimes front to back. No more than one inch of fabric between her legs. It set my heart in motion, I enjoyed the feeling.
But one morning after she had left for her office, alone in the basement – I caught sight of those red panties she had worn on Valentines Day, and suddenly I could see her standing there before me in my minds eye. I could feel my pulse quicken as I picked them up and turned them inside out. Just the smallest lightest little fabric. They untied at each hip. You could simply pull a string to untie them.
I turned them inside out to see just a tan line running down the inside of her crotch across a little white square of fabric. That area of fabric that covered her THERE. *Her pussy* I closed my eyes. And I held it in my hand, touched the stain, the stiffened fabric, glanced at it a moment longer than normal and tossed it in the appropriate pile.
But then went back, picked it up again, looked around. My heart pounding, lifted the little triangle to my nose and inhaled. Her smell.
What is it about the smell of pussy?
Ask any man who will answer honestly. Fresh and hungry. A smell which is at once like lifting the rich earth itself from damp soil and breathing it in. And every man has done it, whether is was his mothers panties as a boy, perhaps his sisters, or girlfriends one day while sitting in her room, or his friends wife secretly at a dinner party. Or a nieces panties dropped near the hamper spotted on a visit over the holidays. Every man has done it.
The scent gives the same feeling inside the ancient brain as if you were watching a girl lift her ass to your waiting eyes, lifting her skirt above her waist. Exposing her cunt to you pulling her lips open, of letting you in. It is at once clean and dirty; touches that animal part of us. The scent of a woman and of sweat.
And there is something sweet, so very sweet, of innocence, something like honey, like cinnamon on your tongue. My little girl. My little girls smell. I could feel my libido rise, my mouth water, my breath quicken, my cock stiffen as I held her panties to my mouth breathing in.
Of Pleasure giving way to Lust.
I stood down there that day inspecting and smelling her panties, inspecting each one. Feeling the fabric, examining their shape, testing their smell, touching them with my tongue. Some were clean, hardly worn, with a very soft bouquet. But some rich, beautiful, intoxicating! I was so happy that day, deep within this secret.
That evening she came home, set her things in the closet and lay out her papers on the kitchen table as was her habit. Then she was off to her room for a little while, changing into her nightshirt for the evening (also her habit), and then back out to sit a little with her various papers, reading, note taking, talking into her little recorder. So professional she was in the evenings.
I looked at the back of her, now standing and bending over the table, her back to me. I followed the line of her back, arching so softly to her narrow waist, her hips widening beneath the night shirt which set right at mid thigh lifting higher each time she bent over her papers. I simply watched, eyeing ankara escort bayan where the lines of her panties would fall beneath the fabric.
I could in fact see those red panties in my imagination, I was reliving that morning she stood in the kitchen, teasing me. I was watching her rising and falling over the table, her long hair trailing along her back, falling down around her shoulders. I swear I could smell her just then.
I chastised myself too. Behave.
Then one day it happened. The inevitable. I was in the basement. I was sorting, and at the moment I held a small delicate, lace edged pair of her panties to my nose, breathing in, enjoying her delicate bouquet – she turned the corner, paused a moment.
“Oh, Um.” She stared at me. Then, Eyes Wide. “Sorry. I uh,” at the moment of realization on her face, she turned and left.
I sat down in a chair put my head down in my hands. What had I done? I had gone too far.
When finally I came upstairs, Sara was in her room. The door closed. I waited. Like a child I waited, panic in my eyes. Real pain. I felt tears forming in my eyes. I didn’t want to lose her again, to be alone. It was foolish, why did I do it? My daughter reappears in my life, my empty life, and . . .
. . .
Then I simply heard, “Dad! It’s dinner. It’s ready.” The completely normal trill of my little girl from down the hall. I looked around, I must have fallen asleep.
I rose, lifted myself from the bed. Remembering, I felt depressed, and I slogged into the dining room sat down at the empty table. She was in the kitchen.
She came out with a lovely roast and set it on the table.
I averted my eyes. She did not. She stared at me quizzically, wrinkling her nose. I think she was waiting for ME to say something before finally starting, “Um, about . . .”
And I blurted out a stream of words at the table, “I’m sorry sweetie. I’m so sorry. . .” It came out of me. “I never before. . .you don’t understand . . .it never . . .” I lied.
She stopped me, paused. “Dad its fine . . . relax. I mean it’s not, terribly unusual.” Pausing, “There are strong biological reasons. Pheromones. You thought you were alone. It’s ok.”
I was silent, mouth open.
And then with mischief in her eyes, “You certainly seem to be doing more than laundry then?”
I looked across the table to her. She was wearing a pair of her sweats that she usually wears when she is going to work out in the gym. “Never again. I am so sorry Sara.”
“I doubt it will be the last time. . .if you are going to keep doing the laundry. And I sure don’t want to start doing it.”
“There, now we’ve taken care of that haven’t we?” And she reached for a dish, “Potatoes?”
“For your perverted old man,” I mumbled as I reached for the dish.
She even laughed a little when I said that, “Well . . . its more a fetish, really. Perhaps it can find its way into one of my papers. But I don’t think perverted is quite right either. More fetishist.” She was smiling, being clever.
“It really is normal dad. I doubt there isn’t a man in the world that hasn’t . . .you know. . . Pervert indicates ‘per-version,’ – it’s latin – per- ‘out’ or ‘not’ and -version ‘right’ – of doing what is not right, not normal. I’m afraid this is COMPLETELY normal. . . It has a completely different psychological source.”
She took a breath, my little psychologist was literally sparkling right now.
I could see her cheeks flush a bit as she went on, as I looked at her. She ate a few bites and then looking at me again and asked, “When is the last time you’ve been out. I mean dating dad?”
I was silent.
“No. Really. I am interested.”
“Not since my wife died.”
I hadn’t even mentioned that to her. I knew she knew.
“And how long is that?”
“Fourteen months now, two weeks.”
“Wow. Dad. God. I’m sorry.” She paused. “That’s a long time to go without sex. No wonder. Well, you should think about it. Truth be told your interest in, uh . . . my panties (her eyes got wide) would indicate you might be ready to think about it.”
She was so calm about this. I don’t really think she even cared. She was teasing me.
I nodded my head.
I looked at her now, her head was turned to one side and I followed the path of her collar bone beneath the edge of her top peeking through blonde hairs.
“Daddy could you spot me?”
She poked her head into my study later that evening.
“I’m upping my weights and need a spotter.”
She had changed somewhat and was wearing a shorter top so that I could see where her sweats set which was down right at her hips. She was all in pink.
She lay on the bench press and I stood right at the top end stradling the bench. Her head came down to the edge of my open legs. It seemed close, very intimate to me. I stood there with my legs open around the bench she was looking up at me smiling. I could see the muscles of her arms tense as she pressed the weight up – all concentration, breathing out as she pressed, then resting the weight in its cradle. I simply held my hands out ready to catch the weight should she falter. Her spotter.
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