Fetish - lingerie, pantyhose, stockings

Hello. My name’s Amanda - Amanda Scott. It’s Mrs Scott, actually, but I’ve been divorced for a long time. Tony and I got married when we were very young, but luckily we both had the sense to realise it wasn’t working out after the first couple of years, and we arranged a fairly amicable separation. I’m still called Mrs Scott at work — which gives me a bit of extra authority at times - but most people just call me Amanda.

In a moment, I’m going to tell you about the time my nephew and his friend came to stay with me - about a year ago now — but I ought to tell you a little bit about myself first. This story is about masturbation - and I hope you’ll be masturbating too when you read it, because that’s what it’s for - so you’ll probably want to know what I look like and so on before we begin. I know I always like to know what the people in my fantasies look like when I’m masturbating over them.

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Well, I’m thirty-seven years old and five feet four inches tall, and most people say I’ve got a good figure. My hair’s curly and dark — dark brown, actually — and I keep it on the short side of medium length, so it’s fairly easy to look after. (I don’t like to spend a lot of time at the hairdresser’s.) I like my breasts — I’m a 34 C if you happen to like statistics — but the feature my intimate friends comment on most is my backside. Everyone says I’ve got a high, round, sexy bum — and I’m always pleased to accept the compliment.

OK, so that’s my physical description. I live in England, in quite a nice house on the outskirts of a smallish town on the south coast, and I work in a solicitor’s office in the town centre. The job isn’t too demanding — I’ve been doing it for years — so I have plenty of time for my other interests. I won’t bore you with all my hobbies, but since I’m a single woman I ought to mention what I do for sex. (I’m sure you’ve been wondering about that.)

After the divorce — which happened when I was twenty-one, by the way - I didn’t actually take much interest in sex for a few years. Then, when I reached my mid-twenties, I decided that I ought to start looking for another man, so I went through the usual dating ritual — having boyfriends and going out to dinner and all the usual stuff. It wasn’t actually a very happy period in my life. I enjoyed the sex, on the whole, but I didn’t really like the ‘relationship’ side of things — going out as a couple and having to see each other every weekend, and all that. As a result, I broke up with a whole string of boyfriends and, after a while, I found I was having more and more one-night stands. I was actually happier doing that than I had been with the long-term boyfriend arrangement, but I soon realised that a lot of the blokes I was sleeping with felt disappointed and angry when they found out I didn’t want to see them again. (People tend to think that it’s the men who prefer casual, no-strings sex, but, in my experience, at least, it’s often the man who’s really looking for a secure relationship while the woman just wants to have a nice time in bed once in a while.) Anyway, the upshot was that I gave up dating and started swinging instead.

I started swinging when I was thirty. My sex drive had been building up for a few years and by this time I was feeling so sexed up that I was like a bomb ready to go off most of the time. So I really needed sex, despite the fact that I now had strong reservations about going out with men to get it. So I screwed up my courage one day and bought a contact magazine off the top shelf in a local newsagent’s. (The girl who served me gave me a very quizzical look and I must have been blushing when I walked out of the shop, but I was in another town where nobody knew me, so I got over the embarrassment pretty quickly.) Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I actually wrote to a couple who lived in my area and everything worked out very well. Through them, I met two other couples and some single men and women, and after a couple of years we had our own little group going. Nowadays it’s very much a closed circle — six married people, two other single women plus me, and two single blokes. We tend to meet eight or nine times a year for sex parties, and now that we know each other so well we always have a good time. We don’t see each other socially outside — and that, of course, is exactly what I need. The parties give me all the sex contact I want with other people — and between parties I masturbate regularly, of course. (In fact, I masturbate a lot.)

So now you know enough about me, I think, and I can get on with my story.

It all happened around Easter time last year. My sister Janet, who’s a few years older than me, had asked if her son Josh could come down and stay with me for a few days during the holidays. Josh was nineteen at the time, and in his first year at university. I’ve always liked him, so I said yes. Then, a few days later, Janet rang again and said Josh wanted to bring a friend, another boy from college, and would that be alright? Since there’s plenty of room in the house — I’ve got two spare bedrooms — I said yes again. So it was agreed that they’d arrive on a Sunday evening and stay until the following Friday.

They turned up at around five o’clock on the appointed Sunday. Josh is a big, confident, noisy, uncomplicated boy. He plays rugby — as his father says, he’s built like a warehouse, so he’s suited to it - and he’s studying to be some kind of engineer. When he arrived he shouted “Hello, Auntie Amanda” at about 3000 decibels, put his arms round me, and gave me a great big kiss on the cheek. Then he introduced me to his friend, Peter.

I have no idea what Josh and Peter have in common. While Josh is just about as extrovert as you can get, Peter is exactly the opposite. He blushed and mumbled when I said hello and didn’t stop blushing, as far as I could tell, for the rest of the evening. It took me a lot of coaxing to extract the information that, like Josh, he was in his first year at the university, that he was also nineteen years old, and that he was studying biochemistry. Physically, Peter is above average height — though he looked short next to Josh, who must be about six foot three — and he has floppy, fair hair, worn a little long. He’s a bit thin, though I wouldn’t class him as skinny. I wondered if he was gay as soon as I met him, of course, but that didn’t seem to fit somehow.

Despite Peter’s extreme shyness, the evening went off OK. I’d cooked a meal for them, so we ate almost as soon as they arrived, and then Josh and I exchanged family news while Peter watched television. Later on, they wanted to go to a pub, so they went out at about nine o’clock, and I was in bed before they got back. When they came in, around midnight, they sounded a bit drunk but they were reasonably quiet. (There was a certain amount of drunken “Shh, you’ll wake her up”, which was, of course, exactly what did wake me - but I let that pass.) I let them sleep in the next morning, so I had the house to myself before I went to work, and I didn’t see them again until supper time.

All in all, it was a pleasant visit and they were very little trouble to look after. In theory, Josh and Peter were supposed to be studying for their first year exams. In practice, of course, they were sleeping late every morning, loafing around the house in the afternoon, and then doing extended taste tests of the beers in the local pubs in the evenings. Which meant that I didn’t see much of them, except at dinner time, between about six and eight thirty. So we all got on fine. There was only one slight oddness about the entire six days.

After dinner on the evening they first arrived, the pair of them had offered, as well-brought-up boys do, to wash up for me, since I’d “put in so much hard work cooking dinner”. (In fact, I’d just given them spaghetti bolognaise followed by fruit yoghurts, which only took about half an hour to prepare, but they weren’t to know that.) Like a fool, I’d accepted their offer.

The result was chaos in my kitchen, of course — water slopped everywhere and everything put away in the wrong place. I smiled tolerantly when I saw the wreckage — and spent half an hour putting things right when they’d gone out — but I never accepted their offers to wash up again. So every evening after that, they’d ask me if I wanted them to wash up and I’d smile brightly and say “No, no. I’ll do it.” And Josh (who may well have planned for things to turn out that way) was up like a shot and into the living room to watch something on TV. Peter, however, in spite of still being extremely shy with me, always stayed at the table and sat there until I’d finished washing and drying.

The first time this happened, I thought he was desperately trying to get over being tongue-tied and wanted to have a conversation with me, so I tried to chat with him as I washed up. And, of course, I had no success at all. Then, on the Tuesday evening, I happened to turn round rather quickly and I noticed him looking down at the table with a very shifty look on his face. At which point I realised that he was sitting there just to watch me - and, more specifically, so he could stare at my bum! In fact, my terminally nervous, excessively polite young houseguest was sitting in my kitchen having dirty thoughts about my bottom while I washed his dirty dishes!

I suppose some people might have been irritated but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I’m a bit unconventional and I’m very broadminded about sex, so I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I got a sort of perverse pleasure from the situation and, from then on, I made sure I dressed the part for him for the washing up show — wearing tight jeans, or a clingy, sexy skirt, for example. I didn’t want to be too obvious — I didn’t want him to know I knew he was watching - but I made a point of bending over in his line of sight at least once in the evening - and of standing up just a little bit more slowly than I normally would so he could get a good view of my bum in action. I quite enjoyed showing off like this, of course, and I was sure he was enjoying himself too. It was our little secret, though he didn’t know I was in on it. I’m sure Josh had no idea at all about what was going on.

Apart from that, as I said, the visit was pretty uneventful. Thursday finally came round — they were due to leave the next morning - and then, just as we were sitting down to dinner, the phone rang. It was Janet again, with awkward news. She was sorry, but Peter’s mother had just called her. They were in Switzerland and Peter’s father had broken his leg skiing. It wasn’t too bad, but they wouldn’t be home for a few days. Could I look after Peter until his mum got back to London?

My sister was very apologetic. Before I could say it myself, she said she had no idea why a boy of nineteen couldn’t be expected to look after himself at home, without his mother being there. She said she’d take him in herself, only she and Josh and her husband were all due to go off on their own skiing holiday on Saturday. So, she knew it was an imposition, but did I think I could possibly …?

It really was an imposition, of course, and if I’d had anything planned for the next couple of weeks, I’d certainly have said no. As it was, I had nothing special coming up, and Peter intrigued me, even if I couldn’t say we were actually friends - so I said yes, of course he could stay for a while, it was no trouble at all, etc. Then I put Peter on so that Janet could explain the situation and reassure him that his father’s accident wasn’t too bad. She told him his mother would phone him soon — which she did, later that evening.

So that was that.

The next morning, Friday, I ran them both to the railway station and Peter and I saw Josh off. I left Peter in town — he said he wanted to have a look round and then maybe see a film in the afternoon — and I went home. I’d actually taken a few days’ holiday from work before I knew that Peter would be staying, and this was the first day. I planned to catch up with the housework in the morning, and then read a book or watch a video in the afternoon, so I was quite pleased that Peter would be out until dinner time.

When I got home, I started on Josh’s room. I’d given them duvets, so I hadn’t been wasting time making their beds, but now, of course, I needed to strip Josh’s bed and wash the bedding. When I’d finished in Josh’s room, I thought I might as well give Peter a clean bottom sheet and some fresh pillowslips as well, so I went into his room and pulled the duvet off the bed. As I did so, I noticed a small, black, crumpled object right at the foot of the bed. I picked it up and couldn’t work out what it was for a moment. Then the penny dropped! It was a pair of my black bikini briefs — but all scrunched up into a ball and stiff with dried up semen! They actually crackled as I pulled the folds apart. Peter — shy, diffident Peter - must have been masturbating into my panties all the time he’d been under my roof — and several times a night, by the look of it!

For a moment I just stood there, holding the horrible, sperm encrusted panties between finger and thumb. I didn’t know how I felt at first. Then, gradually, an evil little plan formed itself in my mind. So I finished changing the sheet and the pillow slips, and laid the duvet back on the bed neatly. Then I took my desecrated panties to my own room, to be filed for future reference, and I hunted out a similar pair of clean black briefs from my underwear drawer. I took these back to Peter’s bedroom and laid them out carefully on his pillow, where he couldn’t possibly miss them. And then I went downstairs and got on with the rest of the housework.

I was, of course, looking forward to Peter coming home, and I spent a large part of the afternoon trying to imagine the look on his face when he found my clean panties waiting for him on his pillow. So I was rather disappointed when he arrived home just in time for dinner and didn’t go upstairs at all. After dinner, he sat and watched me wash up, as usual, and then we watched TV in the living room until bedtime. I spent the entire evening trying to think of a way of making him go up to his room, but I couldn’t think of anything. So it wasn’t until eleven o’clock or so that he said “Goodnight, Mrs Scott” and toddled off to bed. I stood at the foot of the stairs for a while, hoping to hear some kind of reaction, and then, a bit later, I paused outside his door to try to hear something, but there was no sound at all. So I went to bed myself and masturbated furiously for about an hour until I fell asleep.

The next morning, I was up bright and early, chock-full of anticipation. I put on a little white thong, a skimpy grey wool top with no bra underneath, and a pair of extra tight blue jeans. I paused and listened at Peter’s bedroom door on the way downstairs, and then I knocked. “Wake up, Peter” I called cheerfully. “Breakfast’s in twenty minutes.” This time there was a reaction. I heard a strangled sort of cry from inside the room, which could have been interpreted as the sound of somebody just waking up, but which could also have been the sound a man or a boy makes when his masturbation session is interrupted at a critical moment. “Twenty minutes, no more!” I called again, even more cheerfully. Then I went downstairs and waited in the kitchen.

He didn’t arrive for about half an hour, and when he did come into the kitchen he didn’t know where to look. His embarrassment was exquisite!

I’d decided to act as if nothing had happened, so when he came in I just said:

“Oh, there you are! What would you like for breakfast?”

At first, he looked completely nonplussed. Then he stammered:

“Oh, er, s — s - scrambled eggs?”

“Scrambled eggs it is”, I said brightly, and turned round to get the eggs out of the fridge — giving him a nice view of my bottom as I bent down to open the fridge door.

As I did it, I looked back over my shoulder and said, casually:

“While I’m doing this, would you be a luv, Peter, and go and get those panties I left for you yesterday? We’ll pop them in the washing machine after breakfast.”

His face was instantly crimson. He couldn’t speak.

I stood up and turned round, concerned.

“Peter?” I said. “You did find the panties on your pillow last night, didn’t you?”

There was a long silence. Then:

“Yes,” he croaked.

“Good,” I said. “And you did masturbate into them didn’t you? That’s what I left them for.”

There was an even longer silence, with Peter staring at the floor. Then, finally:

“Yes,” he croaked again.

“So,” I said, brightly and very reasonably, “Would you just run upstairs and get them so I can wash them? After all,” I added, “we don’t want them to get like these, do we?”

And I took the crumpled, semen-crusted pair that I’d found yesterday out of my jeans pocket and placed them carefully in the middle of the kitchen table.

He looked, nodded, looked again, and then turned and stumbled out of the kitchen.

I had to call him three more times, and the scrambled eggs were already on the table, before he finally came down again — and when he did, at last, come back into the kitchen, I knew exactly what the expression ‘hang dog’ meant. The little black panties were dangling limply from the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and he looked as if he was expecting instant and terrible punishment. So I said:

“Thanks, Peter. Just put them there on the table, next to the other ones, and sit down and eat your breakfast. It’s getting cold.”

He did as I told him, placing last night’s panties next to the other pair in the middle of the table. As soon as he’d sat down, he picked up his knife and fork and ducked his head to his breakfast, avoiding all eye contact with me. Neither of us spoke until he’d finished eating.

I let the silence hang for quite a long time, then I reached across the table and picked up the pair of briefs he’d just brought down. They were very damp, of course, and when I raised them to my nose I caught a distinct whiff of semen. I held the panties out towards him and asked:

“How many times did you masturbate into these last night, Peter?”

He was looking at me now.

“I dunno,” he said.

There was a pause. I waited. Then, finally:

“Three or four. Maybe five,” he admitted.

“And …” I said, letting the suspense build a little. “Did you use them again this morning? They feel as if someone has come in them quite recently.”

He blushed and nodded.

“Yes”, he said.

“So how many times this morning?”

“Twice, I think.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the panties, dangling from my fingers, just above the table.

“OK, Peter,” I said. “We need to talk about this.”

He nodded glumly. I suppose he thought I was going to tell his mother.

“First”, I said, “I don’t disapprove of you masturbating. And second, I know a lot of boys and men like to masturbate into women’s panties. I don’t have a problem with that either.”

“Third,” I went on, “These panties were a present from me to you. A gift. I left them there on purpose for you to use. So there’s no problem there.”

His face was beginning to brighten a little. There was just a glimmer of hope.

“But,” I said, emphatically, “We do have a problem with the other pair.”

I dropped last night’s panties in a sexy little heap on the table and picked up the scrunched up pair I’d found yesterday.

“You didn’t have permission to use these, did you?”

“No,” he croaked.

“So you were a dirty little beast to take them and masturbate into them, weren’t you?”

Silence.

“Weren’t you?”

He blushed an even deeper shade of red than he had before and looked down at the table.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he mumbled.

“Where did you find them?” I asked. “Did you go into my bedroom?”

He looked shocked. Almost insulted.