Perverts #5, Gussets
Barry was a panty thief. He felt he couldn’t help it. It was a compulsion not a hobby for him.
He could remember exactly when his fascination began. Mrs Duffey was his primary teacher in his third year at infants school and although she was Scottish she taught Barry at a school in Cambridge. Newlywed Mrs Duffey often talked about her husband. She confided in the class that her husband had bought her a present, from Aberdeen, in a tin and could the class guess what it was inside? Dozens of hands shot up and guesses like haggis and bagpipes were made, finally Mrs Duffey put the children out of their collective misery. It was a pair of knickers. Barry had seen that very pair of knickers and their owner wearing them a few weeks later when Mrs Duffey fell over onto her bottom during a game of rounders. It was a pair of tartan knickers.
That’s when Barry believed it had all started. That’s when the dreams of wearing women’s knickers began at the age of seven.
He could chart the development of his pre-pubescent fascination in stages. First Mrs Duffey, secondly girls doing handstands in the playground and thirdly the discovery of lingerie at the department store. He had blushed when holding hands with his mother and they strolled through it.
Later he came to venerate this place. A mystical portal into a secret world that was all around him but had never noticed before, not at least until his hormones started raging. In his early teens he had been privy to a pornographic magazine where the models had no knickers and displayed themselves in gynecological detail. The photographs repulsed him. He preferred knickers, well actually he preferred to use the word panties. The British pronunciation of and in itself, with a hard “T” sounded wonderful to him. He wasn’t so keen on the American pronunciation that seemed to lose the “T” altogether. To Barry, the American nasal “pannies” annoyed him. Then again most Americans did. In the cinema they were fine but in real life annoying. Not that he’d met with many of them.
Barry’s job gave him direct access to women’s panties. He was a plumber, he’d become a successful one at that and had regular clients for small fixes as well as major re-fits and installations. Often he was left alone upstairs at people’s houses fitting a shower of fixing a toilet. This gave him ample opportunity to steal and wear women’s knickers. He had once tried rummaging in a washing basket in a bathroom he was working on but what he found put him off that endeavour.
The plumbing job came about by chance not by design. When he finished school at sixteen he’d gone to the job centre and the careers advisor had suggested it. Barry became a plumbers mate and enjoyed the work. He went to college and did an apprenticeship with a big firm.
Mates down the pub would rib him about being a “plumber’s mate”, due to the sex comedy of the same name. The truth was different, of course, women in negligees weren’t throwing themselves at him and he wasn’t blessed with good looks or a cheeky chappy demeanour. Now he was in his early forties, balding and had a doughy body.
The truth was, when he could, he would wait until the house was empty, find the chest of drawers where the woman of the house kept her underwear, take his own trousers and pants off, put on the knickers and masturbate in a frenzy. On completion, he would put the knickers back in the drawer, get dressed and complete his tasks at hand.
His extracurricular panty thieving, or to be more accurate, his panty borrowing days were about to come to an abrupt end.
He had been doing a week-long installation of a bathroom in a flat for a Miss Stymes in the centre of Cambridge in a maisonette, a Victorian conversion that was frankly a bit tired and worn. He had to install a new shower and bathroom suite.
Miss Stymes was a successful local businesswoman who had got Barry’s number through word of mouth. There was no husband or boyfriend, no telltale framed photos anywhere and Barry had speculated she might be a lesbian. He had dispelled this thought when he discovered a selection of frilly black underwear, next to some latex outfits and some leather whips and other bondage gear. She could be a lesbian who is into this stuff. He wondered if he was being narrow-minded.
When he had heard the door of the flat close he went back for the third time to the knicker drawer. His modus operandi was to steal the knickers on the last day of the job and not brand new pairs, ones that perhaps, wouldn’t be missed. He held the gusset to his nose and breathed in deeply and rubbed the cloth across his cheek. He ripped off his trousers and “Y” fronts in the ensuite bathroom, returned to the bedroom and struggled into the tight black satin French knickers and started masturbating furiously. Then he heard a creak on the staircase.
Miss Stymes had noticed something amiss when she had put her knickers on that morning. There had been something sticky on the elasticated hem. It was grey and oily. She sniffed it. It smelt strangely metallic. The plumber had left his tools in the bathroom overnight and there was a pot of flux near the pipe bending equipment and blowtorch. This waxy stuff was used when the plumber was joining two pipes together. She decided she’d get to the bottom of this.
Barry’s panicked reaction was swift and severe. He attempted to rip off the knickers and turn back into the ensuite toilet where his clothes were. He hadn’t figured the rowing machine at the end of Miss Styme’s bed.
Phillipa Styme’s found Barry, out cold, with her knickers round his knees. He had tripped and cracked his head on the rowing machine.
When he came to, he was violently ill and threw up into toilet. He was naked from the waist down and unsure where he was, what he was doing and who this woman was standing over him swinging her panties from a well-manicured fingernail.
“Looking for these?” Phillipa asked.
Then it all came flooding back, like a toilet he’d seen backing up and overflowing like a slow volcano of effluent on a job when he first started out. The panic was overwhelming.
Phillipa wasn’t panicked, she knew exactly what was going to happen. Barry completed the job that he had quoted three and a half thousand pounds to Miss Stymes for the payment of a single pair of torn French knickers.