| From: | Sally |
| To: | All Operators |
| Subject: | Mailed-Out Panties |
Just to let you guys know, I mailed out a pair of panties about a month ago, and as usual, I didn’t use a return address. I just wrote “Sally” in the corner of the envelope like I always do.
Well, anyway, my poor guy finally got them, after waiting a very long time. It turns out that the post office decided it was a suspicious package and opened it! They sent him a big envelope, containing my original envelope placed in a plastic bag and my panties in a separate plastic bag, all repacked. How embarrassing.
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| From: | Sally |
| To: | All Operators |
| Subject: | Reminder |
Girls, if you sell things (toys, panties, bodily fluids) make sure you write a nice little note thanking the customer for their order. Also say that the item is for entertainment purposes only and not to be used orally.
•
One of the things that freaked me out the most when I started this phone sex stuff was a mention on the company website of panties. “Yes! We have panties!” and “Free panties for first time callers with a 20-minute call!”
I just don’t get that at all. I have never had the desire to own a guy’s used shorts. I just don’t understand why anyone would want my worn panties. I suppose there’s a fetish for everything, but is it a common enough interest to be “free for first time callers?” Apparently so. Lots of other websites say the same thing.
I was worried about it, but Donna assured me that she’s never had to do it. No one is interested, she promised. One guy asked once, but she never sent them, and he didn’t seem to care.
A college kid mentioned it to me online. Kristi isn’t wearing panties in many pictures and he wanted to see one of her wearing them. I obliged, and he was ecstatic. He wanted to call me and have me send him the panties I was wearing when we talked. Warily I agreed that I could do it, and prayed that he would never call. He didn’t.
Nonetheless, I was worried. Someone was interested in my panties. Let’s forget for a moment that I couldn’t get a leg into a pair of panties the size that Kristi would wear, I just thought it was gross. I don’t like the way my dirty laundry smells. Why would I want to send it to someone?
I was a bit panicky about it, and a friend suggested a solution. Go to Wal-Mart, she said, and buy a cheap pair in Kristi’s size. Then rub some musky perfume on them and leave it at that.
Good idea. I knew I couldn’t just send a clean pair, and I surely didn’t want to send a used pair. Musky perfume seemed like a good compromise. It would give the guy something sexy to smell that wasn’t me. Perfect.
I relaxed. Then the phone rang a week later.
“Hi Kristi, this is Charles.”
“Hi Charles!”
“Kristi, Trisha gave me your number. I talk to her often, but she’s gotten busy lately and she recommends you highly.”
“Oh, wow, that’s nice of her!” I was incredibly flattered, actually. The boss recommends me highly! I’m a good phone slut!
“I usually order panties from her. I love the way she smells. But she said she’s busy these days, so I thought I’d call you instead.”
Oh god, my worst nightmare. Someone calling specifically for panties. Worse yet, a self-proclaimed “panties connoisseur” who would definitely not be fooled by a little perfume.
I don’t remember much of the call. Lots of it was spent with me frantically trying to figure out how to not offend him and not offend Trisha and also not send him my panties. Er, Kristi’s panties.
It was a long call, and he was fairly chatty. I did tell him that I’d never done panties before, and he was delighted. He had specific instructions about them:
• The panties have to be cotton. Any color is fine, and some lace trim is fine, but no nylon and no silk.
• Wear the panties for as long as I can. Days. Ideally for three days.
• Sleep in them. Go to the gym in them. Sweat as much as I can.
• Try not to shower.
• Masturbate in them at least a couple of times.
• When they’re ready, and I look at them and feel that they’re too icky to send, don’t get scared. That’s just the way he likes them.
Once they’re sweaty and wet and ready:
• Wrap them tightly in plastic wrap (not in a plastic bag, then they’ll smell like the bag) and make sure all the air is out.
• Put them in the freezer for an hour or so. Yes, the freezer – it helps to preserve the aroma.
• Take them out of the freezer and put them – still wrapped in the plastic wrap – into a ziplock bag, and then into an envelope.
• Send them via overnight mail and bill him for it. If he’s lucky, when he gets them, they will still be damp.
We talked for almost an hour, and I felt more and more trapped. The longer we talked, the more I felt like I couldn’t turn him down. He asked me lots of personal questions, particularly about pubic hair (did you know that pubic hair holds the sweat better?) and he kept asking me to describe my pussy in more detail.
I find this to be a difficult question in general. Lots of guys ask it, and I never really know what to say. How many different attributes does a pussy have? I can talk about the color of the hair, I can talk about its state of wetness, and then I’m pretty much stumped. Once a guy asked me how deep my pussy is. I wondered if there was an official unit of measurement for this. (When I asked one of my friends, she suggested using a carrot.)
I always suppress the urge to put on my best Valley Girl voice and say, “Well, it was born in West Virginia, it’s a Gemini, and it likes long walks on the beach…”
We did get more sexual near the end of the call, and I did enjoy him. He turned out to be a macho type – Harley, leather jacket, lots of guns. I don’t know what I expected from a guy who wanted my panties, but that wasn’t it.
Anyhow, I wrote to Trisha afterwards, thanked her for the referral, and asked if she really did all that stuff about the freezer, hoping against hope that she’d say no.
She wrote me back and confirmed that I should do exactly what he said. (Shit!) She also mentioned that he’s a very regular customer. He’ll call back and check on the panties a few times, she said, and I should charge him for those calls too, just as regular calls. He’s a pain in the butt sometimes, she said, but a good caller.
Shit. A real dilemma. I can’t begin to explain how much I did not want to do this. I hated the idea with a passionate intensity. First there was the problem of sending a package from my local post office. I had figured to forward panties through Trisha, but if he wanted overnight delivery I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t a huge problem, really. I’d use the company’s return address, and the only really trouble might be the postmark. But he wouldn’t be able to find me from a postmark.
The real problem was that I was just repelled by the idea. I don’t consider myself a prude by any means, and I suppose if I analyze my absolute mental rejection of the concept, it was the fear that he wouldn’t like the way I smell. I mean, I didn’t like the idea of sending a piece of myself and my DNA to a stranger halfway across the country, but the real reason is that I was terrified he’d call back and say, “I love the way most women smell but you’re the exception.” Or something.
I sought advice from my oh-so-helpful friends.
“Don’t think of them as used underwear,” suggested one. “Think of them as frozen pantysicles.”
Another’s advice: “Buy a three-pack and wear them all at once. Then you can just freeze all three pairs and defrost the other two when you need them.”
Charles called the next night to “check on his panties” for another hour, and by that time I knew I was committed. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but even more, I didn’t want to let Trisha down. I wanted her to continue to recommend me to people.
I found myself promising him that I’d buy a new pair the next day, Memorial Day, at one of the sales. I pushed the distaste away, and concentrated on trying to eroticize the idea with him. It worked for a little while, until he mentioned putting them in his mouth.
Oh. My. God.
I freaked out at dinner with Rachel and Donna. I do not want to send my panties to this guy. We half-hysterically tried to think of some concoction in which to soak the fabric. Pickle juice? Perfume and cantaloupe? Donna was sure we could find something, but I knew we couldn’t. In a semi-irrational moment, I actually considered trying to hire someone to wear the panties. Rachel suggested that I fold them up and just wear them inside my own panties, and as horrified by the idea as I was, I knew that’s what I was going to have to do.
I made Rachel go panty shopping with me. There was a wide selection of lingerie, and I picked out a pair of cute black undies – cotton, with two little elastic straps at each hip. Conservative, yet sexy. In…what size? I had absolutely no clue. I was never Kristi’s size. But hell, I made up a height, age, and measurements for her, why not a panty size? I bought a size five, having no idea if I was even close.
Surprisingly, he didn’t call that night, but I was glad. I wasn’t ready to start dealing with the reality yet. I dropped the panties on my desk next to my computer and tried to ignore them.
Tuesday morning they were still looming at me. I picked them up and sniffed them. Plain new cotton smell. I put them down and went to work.
Tuesday night I was determined to make progress. It was a hundred degrees out and I came home from the office sweating. I picked up the panties and wiped my forehead with them. Enough progress for one day.
I saw Trisha online and asked her if she really wore the panties for three days. My eyes swam with relief when she said she didn’t actually wear them at all. Hallelujah! Saved! I looked anxiously at the screen to find out her secret.
“I never wear them. I just stick them up inside myself when I go to sleep one night.”
So much for salvation. I picked up the panties and sniffed them delicately. A barely perceptible, very faint sweat smell. I probably imagined it, but it was encouraging nonetheless. I wiped my forehead once again and headed for bed, leaving the panties in their regular spot on the desk.
Wednesday. The panties mocked me from their resting-place. “You don’t have the guts to take me with you,” they whispered. They were right.
I determinedly ignored them.
He was going to call that night. I just knew it. And he’d want to hear about the panties. I couldn’t tell him that they were still sitting on the desk. And once I was supposedly wearing them, the clock was ticking towards three days and overnight mail.
I burst into my apartment after work, ripped the panties from their spot on the desk, and boldly blotted my entire body with them. I discarded my work clothes, put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and defiantly stuffed Kristi’s panties down inside my own before I could change my mind. I was on the job.
I wouldn’t actually have to wear them outside, I decided. I could just wear them around the house, maybe for a few calls, and that would have to do. Yes, perfect, that would work.
The phone proceeded not to ring for the next five hours.
At one point I popped online hoping to drum up some business, but all I found was Donna with her latest “kootchy formula” suggestion of olives and tuna fish.
Finally at 11 p.m., the phone rang. Charles. Of course.
“Charles, I’m wearing your panties!” I exclaimed triumphantly.
I thought he was going to have an orgasm right then. “Tell me about them,” he said excitedly.
I described the fabric, the design features, and my experience picking them out with Rachel. He listened politely and then said, “No, tell me about them. Pull them down and tell me what they look like.”
Bleh.
I’d been shy and reserved through all our calls, and I think he found my embarrassment to be charming. I managed to stumble my way through a description of what I thought they’d look like if I’d really been wearing them all day, and then the conversation turned to sex.
He talked about how eager he was to get the panties, how he was looking forward to touching them, holding them, and smelling them. None of this appealed to me. But then he mentioned how aroused he was talking to me while I was wearing them, how he wanted to hear me touch myself while I was wearing them, and then call me once he got them. Something clicked just a little bit for me – not about the panties themselves, but about the idea of talking to someone who was holding a piece of me at that moment.
I started to find the idea just a tiny, tiny bit sexy. He must have sensed the change, because he shifted into high gear. He was really getting off on the idea of my touching myself through the panties I was about to send to him, and I suggested that he might touch himself with the panties when he got them. Maybe he could call me, I suggested, and talk to me while he touched himself with my panties.
This apparently never occurred to him before, and he loved the idea. I kind of liked it too. For some reason it didn’t give me the same sense of distaste that the idea of him smelling or licking them did. We had a nice, sexy time talking about him masturbating with the panties while on the phone with me, and I was relieved to finally find a way into this kink.
For about five minutes. Until he mentioned sending me back the results of his, ah, labors. And then we were back to repelled.
He left me that night with endearments, and directions to wear the panties to the gym the next day and get them really sweaty. He gave me “Overnight Saturday” shipping instructions and a promise that he wouldn’t call me if he didn’t like the final product. (Okay, so I’m paranoid, but I just did not want to hear about it if he hated them.)
Thursday. I absolutely could not bring myself to wear them during the day. They really were starting to smell distinctive, and surprisingly, it was not an unpleasant aroma. But I felt like if I took one step out of the house with them on, every person for miles around would know what I was doing. I could picture it. Kids pointing. Dogs barking and jumping on me. No thanks. I left them home.
Thursday night. Crunch time. They had to go in the mail Friday morning. I took a few calls, some of them even quite erotic, but I unaccountably developed shy glands. I’ve heard that some men can’t urinate in public restrooms; perhaps this was a similar phenomenon. In desperation, I took Trisha’s advice and, not quite believing I was doing it, pushed them inside me before I went to bed.
I tossed and turned and restlessly didn’t sleep. At 3 a.m., I’d had it. I yanked them out and tossed them across the room. I needed my rest. And I had to get up early to go to the post office.
Friday morning. Time for the freezer. I was worried that they were just not sweaty or wet enough – since the middle of the night they seemed to have lost the little wetness they possessed, though they still retained my, ah, aroma.
Whatever. They’d have to do. I went into the kitchen to discover… no Saran Wrap! Yes, I swear. Could this happen to anyone but me?
I considered. There was no time to go out and get some, come back, and put them into the freezer. Could I stop at the store on the way to work and then put them into the freezer no one uses in the office? God no.
I looked frantically around the kitchen. Something must be wrapped in plastic wrap! It was totally ridiculous. I found a packet of Friskies dry cat food – a bunch of little boxes wrapped up in plastic. I sniffed the plastic. It didn’t smell like cat food. It wasn’t exactly Saran Wrap, but I couldn’t be choosy. I turned it inside out, chucked the panties into it, and threw the whole thing into the freezer.
I showered, got dressed, and gathered my supplies. I still had to stop at the store to buy Saran Wrap – I couldn’t send them in cat food plastic – but I put together the addresses, a ziplock bag, an envelope, and my “nice little note” reminding my customer that the panties were for entertainment purposes only.
I pulled the packet out of the freezer and sniffed cautiously. I was surprised – the freezer actually did do something. The smell was the same but somehow more intense. I’ll be damned.
I was only worried because they really didn’t smell sweaty. I mean, this guy thinks I went to the gym in them. Why was I obsessing this way? I had no idea.
It had been a hundred degrees all week. I tried not to think about what I was doing as I stuffed the panties inside my bra underneath one breast. Sweat, here we come. But of course, for the first time in a month, the temperature was a brisk 60 degrees.
I walked into the supermarket, certain that everyone there was staring at me, knowing that I had panties in my bra. Used frozen panties. I grabbed the Saran Wrap and realized that no one buys just Saran Wrap at eight o’clock in the morning. It makes no sense. But I couldn’t think of anything else that I needed.
I walked back to the car in the lovely, cool breeze. Fuck it all. I whipped the panties out of my bra, not caring who was watching me through the window, Saran Wrapped ’em, ziplock bagged ’em, enveloped ’em, and set off for the post office.
I carefully perused the choices and settled on the Express Mail envelope, squishing my little package inside. I screwed up two labels by writing part of my real return address on them, and then messed up a third by signing my real name on the “leave without signature” line.
But I did it. I sent them.
Saturday. Charles said he wouldn’t be home until about 5 p.m. I paced anxiously all day long, waiting for the review. By midnight he still hadn’t called. I was starting to get worried.
Sunday. No call. I rationalized. Did I really want him to like my panties and continue ordering them from me every month? No, of course not. It’s better this way. Why do I care what some stranger-pervert thinks of my panties? Good riddance.
Oh god, he hates my panties.
Monday. Still no call. My worst nightmare. I am the least sexy person in the entire universe. My panties are disgusting. How could I have sent them to him? I bet he’s calling Trisha right now, warning her not to let me send my toxic underwear to any other unsuspecting customers. I ate chocolate.
He finally called on Tuesday, apologizing profusely for the delay, and telling me how much he loved my panties. They smelled wonderful. He was very happy. He was calling from his office, but he couldn’t wait to get home and call me while holding the panties in his hand.
I was relieved and embarrassed and annoyed all at the same time. He teased me about being the only person in the entire world whom I’ve never met who knows my scent. That was half-sexy again. We talked about what we’d do when he got home later. He mused about the idea of ordering panties from me and from Rachel at the same time, and seeing if he could tell them apart just from the smell. (Oh great, I thought. She’ll love me for that.) He hung up promising to call as soon as he got home.
Oddly enough, I haven’t heard from him since.
Though his name and number did pop up on my caller ID a few days later.
“Hello.”
“Rachel?”
“No, this is Kristi.”
“Oh.” (Silent thought: Charles, I know this is you. I have caller ID.)
“This isn’t Rachel’s number?”
“No, this is Kristi.” (You remember, the person whose panties you have…)
“Oh.”
“Would you like Rachel’s number?” (You bastard who can’t even admit that you made a mistake and say hello like a civilized person?)
“Sure, thanks.”
I gave it to him, and he hung up. I didn’t embarrass him by letting him know that I knew it was him. He’s a customer, after all. And besides, now that I knew that my panties were acceptable, all I really wanted was for him to go away. And now he’s going to be Rachel’s problem. Oh darn.