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Monday, June 04, 2007
Knickers
“What took you so long?”
“I was checking my email on my phone.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
I blushed. “Yeah… If I don’t check it frequently, it tends to stack up and get a little overwhelming.” I put my phone down on the chair and kicked off my sandals. He shifted over on the bed, and I lay down on it, resting my head on his shoulder.
“Many to deal with then?” he asked, sliding his arm across my back and stroking my neck. I snuggled closer to him and laid my hand on his chest.
“Nah. Just four: not urgent. I’ll deal with them when I get home.”
He nodded and pulled me close. We lay there in silence for a minute and I wondered if we had enough time for a quick shag. I lazily ran my fingers over his torso, delicately grazing his nipples through his shirt as I did so; I hoped it might lead to something more.
“Whilst you were upstairs, I noticed you had left your knickers on the table,“ he remarked, casually.
“Oh, right,” I replied, still working on the gentle nipple-action.
“Yeah, I saw them lying there, so I picked them up and smelled them.”
“What?” Surprised, I pulled away from him and frowned.
“Your pants; I smelled them.”
I cringed. “Why would you do that?”
“There’s nothing wrong; I just wanted to smell them.”
“But why?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I just did.”
I groaned and felt myself flush with embarrassment. Reaching for the pillow behind me, I smothered it over my face to hide my red cheeks.
“Come on,” he said, in a reassuring voice. “Why are you embarrassed? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I can’t believe you smelled my pants!” I moaned, through the pillow.
“I can’t believe you – of all people – are embarrassed,” he joked, nudging me.
“I know,” I whimpered, my voice still muffled. “But I am; I don’t know why.”
And I didn’t. It wasn’t that I was ashamed about my body or that I have issues with hygiene, or my own personal ‘aroma’, or what he might have thought about it. It’s not like it would be the first time a man had lifted my underwear to his nose and breathed in my scent. In the past I have found it both captivating and arousing when I’ve watched a man inhale my desire and then his cock stiffened in response; knowing it had turned him on was a huge turn-on for me. But when a man I barely knew had smelt my underwear without my being there to witness it, it felt wrong somehow. I might have been fine with him having his tongue between my legs just hours before, but I felt more exposed, vulnerable and naked now than during the cunnilingus; I almost felt violated.
“It’s not because I’m weird or anything,” he volunteered apologetically, reading my mind. “I don’t go around secretly smelling women’s knickers – honest! I just wanted to smell you.” He reached over and removed the pillow which was still clamped down on my face. “Come on, stop hiding!”
I lay there, now pillow-less, trying to compose myself, and put my hands over my face to cover my continued blushing.
“Anyway,” he continued, “after you told me in the pub last night that you were so wet you had to blot your pants with toilet toll, I just had to smell that for myself.” He chuckled.
I smiled inwardly, remembering how highly aroused I had been. How my attraction to him had taken me by surprise; I hadn’t expected to fuck him and I certainly hadn’t expected to want to fuck him so very much. But his description of all the things he was going to do to me, directed into my ear via a soft whisper, combined with a firm hand on my thigh, had made me yearn for him to be inside me. Somehow, after hours of non-sexual conversation, the dynamic had radically changed. Before I could analyse how, or why it had, his lips were on mine; my hands were traversing the brief expanse of naked skin between his shirt and his jeans; and his fingertips were drawing small circles along the back of my neck. We both sat there, wanting, and it was no longer a question of if we would get naked, but when. I wondered if all this was imprinted into my underwear like some kind of invisible scent marker: my transparent excitement; my undeniable desire; each moment of the arousal he induced in me; all captured into the lacy material of my thong.
I waited till I returned home to discover the evidence of this for myself; immediately pulling my knickers out of my handbag and inhaling them deeply. The musky aroma of my arousal from the previous night was faintly perceptible; I was almost disappointed by how slight the smell seemed, given how turned on I had been.
As I filled the sink with water, ready to hand-wash my underwear, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I should have offered him the delicate g-string to keep. He might have appreciated the gesture, I suppose; perhaps he would have enjoyed the olfactory memento of our time together. But because they were some of my favourite pants, there’s no way I would permanently hand them over to a man I was certain I wasn’t going to see again; no matter how much of a knicker-sniffer he was, and even if I did have a lot of orgasms with him.
“I was checking my email on my phone.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
I blushed. “Yeah… If I don’t check it frequently, it tends to stack up and get a little overwhelming.” I put my phone down on the chair and kicked off my sandals. He shifted over on the bed, and I lay down on it, resting my head on his shoulder.
“Many to deal with then?” he asked, sliding his arm across my back and stroking my neck. I snuggled closer to him and laid my hand on his chest.
“Nah. Just four: not urgent. I’ll deal with them when I get home.”
He nodded and pulled me close. We lay there in silence for a minute and I wondered if we had enough time for a quick shag. I lazily ran my fingers over his torso, delicately grazing his nipples through his shirt as I did so; I hoped it might lead to something more.
“Whilst you were upstairs, I noticed you had left your knickers on the table,“ he remarked, casually.
“Oh, right,” I replied, still working on the gentle nipple-action.
“Yeah, I saw them lying there, so I picked them up and smelled them.”
“What?” Surprised, I pulled away from him and frowned.
“Your pants; I smelled them.”
I cringed. “Why would you do that?”
“There’s nothing wrong; I just wanted to smell them.”
“But why?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I just did.”
I groaned and felt myself flush with embarrassment. Reaching for the pillow behind me, I smothered it over my face to hide my red cheeks.
“Come on,” he said, in a reassuring voice. “Why are you embarrassed? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I can’t believe you smelled my pants!” I moaned, through the pillow.
“I can’t believe you – of all people – are embarrassed,” he joked, nudging me.
“I know,” I whimpered, my voice still muffled. “But I am; I don’t know why.”
And I didn’t. It wasn’t that I was ashamed about my body or that I have issues with hygiene, or my own personal ‘aroma’, or what he might have thought about it. It’s not like it would be the first time a man had lifted my underwear to his nose and breathed in my scent. In the past I have found it both captivating and arousing when I’ve watched a man inhale my desire and then his cock stiffened in response; knowing it had turned him on was a huge turn-on for me. But when a man I barely knew had smelt my underwear without my being there to witness it, it felt wrong somehow. I might have been fine with him having his tongue between my legs just hours before, but I felt more exposed, vulnerable and naked now than during the cunnilingus; I almost felt violated.
“It’s not because I’m weird or anything,” he volunteered apologetically, reading my mind. “I don’t go around secretly smelling women’s knickers – honest! I just wanted to smell you.” He reached over and removed the pillow which was still clamped down on my face. “Come on, stop hiding!”
I lay there, now pillow-less, trying to compose myself, and put my hands over my face to cover my continued blushing.
“Anyway,” he continued, “after you told me in the pub last night that you were so wet you had to blot your pants with toilet toll, I just had to smell that for myself.” He chuckled.
I smiled inwardly, remembering how highly aroused I had been. How my attraction to him had taken me by surprise; I hadn’t expected to fuck him and I certainly hadn’t expected to want to fuck him so very much. But his description of all the things he was going to do to me, directed into my ear via a soft whisper, combined with a firm hand on my thigh, had made me yearn for him to be inside me. Somehow, after hours of non-sexual conversation, the dynamic had radically changed. Before I could analyse how, or why it had, his lips were on mine; my hands were traversing the brief expanse of naked skin between his shirt and his jeans; and his fingertips were drawing small circles along the back of my neck. We both sat there, wanting, and it was no longer a question of if we would get naked, but when. I wondered if all this was imprinted into my underwear like some kind of invisible scent marker: my transparent excitement; my undeniable desire; each moment of the arousal he induced in me; all captured into the lacy material of my thong.
I waited till I returned home to discover the evidence of this for myself; immediately pulling my knickers out of my handbag and inhaling them deeply. The musky aroma of my arousal from the previous night was faintly perceptible; I was almost disappointed by how slight the smell seemed, given how turned on I had been.
As I filled the sink with water, ready to hand-wash my underwear, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I should have offered him the delicate g-string to keep. He might have appreciated the gesture, I suppose; perhaps he would have enjoyed the olfactory memento of our time together. But because they were some of my favourite pants, there’s no way I would permanently hand them over to a man I was certain I wasn’t going to see again; no matter how much of a knicker-sniffer he was, and even if I did have a lot of orgasms with him.
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