Who’s Been Wearing Aunt Clarissa’s Panties?
by Jeremy Edwards

If I recall correctly, it was raining on the day I helped Megan sort through all the junk in her attic. Of course, it may just be that since the atmosphere up there felt so warm and snug, my memory has embellished the cosy scene with a proverbial rainy-day backdrop. Whatever the weather, I remember feeling that we were sort of like kids, taking advantage of a day off from school to mess around gleefully indoors.

In reality, Megan and I were in our late twenties. At that point we’d been together for nearly a year, but I don’t think I’d ever been in her attic before. She had learned, however, that I had a talent for organising things – especially other people’s things. And when I’d volunteered to take part in the Great Attic Junk Sort of 1998, she had literally leapt at the offer, popping up from her snack at the kitchen counter and smothering me in peppermint-ice-cream kisses.

So there we were, vacuuming up vintage dust bunnies; dividing toys into the “sentimental value” pile, the “yard sale” pile, and the “broken” pile; and talking at length about the highlights of Megan’s childhood. What I had anticipated being a chore had actually proved to be one of the most enjoyable, comfortable times we’d ever shared, a taste of what it would be like to live together and last together.

I soon observed that Megan was particularly interested in a trunk of old clothing. As she explained, she fondly remembered playing dress-up with her sister Katie, out of this very trunk, in this very attic. You see, when her parents moved down to Florida, Megan had returned from the big city to purchase the house she grew up in. This was both strange and wonderful to me. Personally, I couldn’t imagine wanting to live out my adult life in my childhood home – pleasant though my family house, and my experiences in it, had always been. Yet Megan felt she belonged in her parents’ former house. And knowing this made me recognize the chummy old three-story as a sacred, privileged place in which to spend time with her, grow with her, and deepen in my love for her. In a way I couldn’t quite pinpoint, Megan seemed to really come to life here. This was where her personality seemed to reach its fullest expression, her joys attain their richest development, her wisdom and emotions gain their greatest depth. I could swear that she even had better orgasms here than over at my place.

She was about a third of the way through sorting and folding the hodgepodge of clothes in the trunk. Suddenly she spoke with an intriguing catch in her voice, a noticeably different tone from that of the casual chitchat we’d been engaged in. “Now these I need,” was what she said.

I looked up. In her hands was a pair of retro panties, by far the most beautiful thing I’d seen today in Megan’s attic – apart from Megan herself.

Based on what I’d absorbed from old Playboys (many of which were in my parents’ attic), they looked like they must have been from the 1950s or 1960s. They were full-cut, black nylon panties – those high-waisted, generous undies from before bikini cuts took over. They had straight hems at the leg openings, where they would modestly clasp a lady’s upper thighs. And what made this pair special was that almost every inch was covered in lace ruffles, like you might find on the front of a tacky tuxedo shirt from the 1980s. But this was a lot better than a tuxedo shirt, I assure you.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “What are those?”

“Aunt Clarissa’s panties,” Megan answered thoughtfully. She clutched the garment to her chest.

“Ah,” I replied. I waited the obligatory three seconds that we natural comedians instinctively feel. Then I said, “Who is Aunt Clarissa?”

She placed the panties back in the trunk – tenderly, I noticed. “Clarissa is my mom’s younger sister. When we were little, she lived in New York, and so we got to see her pretty frequently. Katie and I thought she was so neat! She’s always been a real free spirit – an independent woman. I mostly remember her from the late 70s, when she would show up and take us waterskiing, or teach us disco steps. And when Clarrie was younger, according to Mom, she was quite the bohemian. She lived in London for a while, hung out with artists, wrote film reviews, partied a lot, and did her own thing. That would have been back in the 60s, before I was born. I’ve seen pictures of her at that age, and she was pretty hot. There’s even a family rumour that Aunt Clarissa did some nude modelling for a high-class photographer. Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to track down any of those pictures – and don’t think I haven’t tried!”

We laughed at the image of Megan assiduously attempting to dig up nude pictures of her beloved aunt.

“Mom loved her life here – Dad, the family, the house, yours truly and kid sister Katie – but I think she admired Aunt Clarissa for going out into the world in the way she did. One thing’s for sure: Katie and I idolized her. Sadly for us, Aunt Clarrie eventually moved out to the West Coast, and since then I’ve hardly ever seen her. I adore her letters, though.”

“She sounds really cool,” I said, fatuously but sincerely. “And any hero of yours is a hero of mine. Now – uh – about the panties …”

Megan smiled, enjoying as she always did the erotic tilt to my train of thought. “Yes, the panties.” She came and sat on the floor with me.

“A few months ago, I was rummaging through the clothes in this trunk. At that stage, I wasn’t serious about organising things. To tell you the truth, I was probably procrastinating, when I had some type of deadline looming. Anyway, I came across these vintage panties – or ‘fancy pants,’ as they’re called.”

I burst out laughing. “Fancy pants?”

She chuckled with me. “Hey, that’s what they’re called. I looked it up.”

“But that’s the title of a Bob Hope movie.”

Megan shrugged. “They’re also known as ‘sissy pants’, or ‘rhumba panties’, if you prefer.”

“Can’t I just call them ‘Aunt Clarissa’s panties’?”

“Works for me.”

“Okay. But then … how do we know they’re Clarissa’s?”

“Mom told me. She was here for a visit shortly after I’d discovered them, and I innocently asked her if they were hers. It was hilarious, Arthur! Mom raised an eyebrow, in that way she does, and said ‘Those were Clarissa’s.’ So I asked if we should send them to Aunt Clarrie in California, but Mom kind of cleared her throat and hinted that they might not quite fit anymore. I was going to donate them, and then …”

Here was where I became even more interested. “And then … what?”

“And then … I realized I liked them. I realized I liked them a lot. They were practically good as new, and it was as if they were just waiting for somebody to wear them again. After Mom went home, I came up here and held the panties in my hands. I thought about Aunt Clarissa wearing them, and how sexy she must have looked. And felt.”

I was starting to feel a pleasant tension in my groin. “I bet you were tempted to try them on.”

Megan’s eyes flickered mischievously. “More than tempted.” Her face lit up even further as she reminisced. “Arthur, they felt so – well, I guess ‘erotic’ is the word. They hugged all my – you know – womanly parts very sensuously. I stood looking at myself in the mirror, in a way I never had before. Looking and … touching myself.” She licked her lips.

I was mesmerized, and my own erotic parts were buzzing with excitement as I visualized what she had described.

Megan proceeded with her explanation. “When I was around Clarrie in my childhood, I was too young to understand sexuality. I just thought she was cool, and smart, and funny. She used to tell us riddles and listen to rock radio in the car with us. But looking back now, I have a strong sense of how sexual she was – still is, I’m sure, because that never goes away, even if you can’t fit into your sissy pants any more.”

At that moment, I could look into our future and see Megan as a sixty-year-old, sexy as ever. And I welcomed the thought of waking up naked in bed with her at that – or any – age.

Twenty-nine-year-old Megan was still speaking. “I think when I became a grown woman, my memories of Clarrie shaped themselves into a kind of unconscious sexual role model – my ideal of an attractive, self-actualized, sexually-alive female.”

“Well, if that’s what you were going for, you’ve certainly lived up to your ideals!” I proclaimed. Megan was certainly my ideal of womanhood.

She smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, sweetheart. So the panties … the panties, I suppose, really made me connect with what I thought was sexy about someone like Aunt Clarissa, and with my own sexuality, too.”

This was fascinating. And it made me think about how much I wanted to connect, at that instant, with Megan’s sexuality – in the most literal, physical manner.

“I was tremendously impressed by how special these panties made me feel,” she continued. “I’ve probably worn them half a dozen times since then.”

“All by yourself?” I rasped.

“Yes,” she replied. She paused a second, then spoke again. “Until now, that is.” And she stood, picked up Aunt Clarissa’s panties, and began to walk down the stairs. Right before she descended out of sight, she turned and blew me a kiss.

Since I perceived an intermission in the developing drama, I took the opportunity to wash up. When I came out of the second-floor bathroom, I saw a light through the open door of the master bedroom. I walked in.

“I’ll be out in a second!” Megan called from the walk-in closet, after she’d evidently heard me clomping around her room. I stripped down to my briefs – it seemed the thing to do – and then I sat on the bed to wait for her. I stroked the quilted texture of the comforter as I imagined what Megan would look like in Aunt Clarissa’s panties.

I did not have to imagine for long.

She was wearing the panties, and only the panties. Looking her over, I saw soft brown hair, luscious eyes with long, lazy lashes, milky shoulders, quiet, bare little breasts, and a dream of a petite, convex tummy. And I saw Aunt Clarissa’s panties – now so effectively occupied.

Thank goodness these panties had not gone legging off to California. Though Megan always looked lovely, she looked lovely at this moment in a new, special way. The fancy pants covered her very tidily. Not a hint of bareness could be seen on her ass, her hips, or of course her more intimate areas. She was totally contained – but oh, how vividly. Her feminine shape and her female sensuality were emphasized rather than obscured by these snug-fitting, ruffle-embellished underpants. There was the subtle roundness of her bottom – tightly clothed. There was the place where her thighs ended, in a geography that could only be a woman’s – a geography covered enticingly in nylon vegetation. With giddy ruffles decorating her topography, she looked like a carnival, like a feast. I relished the prospect of fondling every bit of lace, of letting her feel my fingers through the soft interface of the alluring garment.

She paraded in front of the bed, sweetly and shyly, with only a hint of exhibitionistic flair. She spun and shimmied, letting me enjoy the aerodynamic sizzle of the fluttering ruffles, which reminded me of the thin metal jingles on a tambourine. How I wanted to play Megan’s percussion!

As if she had read my mind, Megan began to dance gracefully toward the bed in double-time, her hands on her knees and her sassy rear pointed my way. I gave her the gentle slap she was inviting – right on the ruffles – and she rewarded me with a sensuous “Ooh!” Then she turned around and sat in my lap.

The feeling of her lace and nylon on my upper thighs was ticklishly delicious, and I felt every one of my leg hairs tingling. Meanwhile, the pressure of Megan’s firm ass cheeks against the bulge in my briefs was pushing me into high gear. With a compulsive enthusiasm, I began to caress her all over her sissy pants, stroking and petting and teasing her from hips to bottom to mound, passionately stimulating her panty-clad flesh.

As she gave in to sensation, Megan quivered, melted, and leaned into me. At this angle, her delicate breasts pressed against my bare chest, and I knew it was time to honour them. I shaped and fondled them with reverence, pinching the nipples lightly in passing.

By now, I was too big for my breeches, and Megan slid my briefs down and away. Below the waist, I saw that she was gyrating.

“So,” I said between kisses to her neck. “What’s going on in Aunt Clarissa’s panties these days?”

“Mmm … something nice,” Megan replied.

I reached a hand between her thighs, to stroke the nylon right where it most counted. I felt her softness, her delicacy. The contact made me sigh. “You always feel so very female when I touch you there,” I commented.

“What can I say,” she answered breathlessly. “It’s a girl thing.”

Her wit sent my arousal soaring even further. Delirious, I stroked her again, and this time she moaned and clutched my shoulders.

“Wow, I’m wet,” she whispered a moment later. “I’m sliding all over these now.”

She stood up and hooked her fingers into the waist of Aunt Clarissa’s panties. Artistically she removed them, by means of a series of sinuous wiggles. Then she turned to me, nude and poised, the glint of her eyes matching the glistening of her pussy. “I think we both agree that those are very special panties,” she said dramatically. “But the time for panties has passed, my friend.”

As I fell backwards onto the mattress and grabbed Megan’s cheerful, bare bottom, I wondered what else Aunt Clarrie might have had in her collection. And as Megan descended onto my precious arousal with the cavity of her moist luxury – and as she began to hump me toward her first frantic climax – my mind reeled with visions of soft black lace on quivering womanly flesh. And as I released into her and her feminine muscles spasmed with joy, I thought I heard the jingling of a hundred pretty tambourines echoing through the house.

It was one of life’s marvellous little coincidences that Clarissa’s letter arrived the very next day:

Dearest Megan,

Well, it’s been another week of gorgeous California weather. I hope you’re keeping warm where you are!

There’s a little thing I keep meaning to mention, but I always seem to run out of time (or stationery!) before I get to it. So on this occasion, I vowed that I would begin with it…

Now that your mother’s house is all yours, you might keep your eyes open for something that once belonged to me. An article of underwear, if you can believe it! Specifically, my dear niece, I refer to a pair of black rhumba panties. I’m sure you have no idea what those are, and even if you did you would probably just laugh at them. But I hope you’ll at least accept the fact that they are NOT a figment of your aunt’s imagination. In fact, though I shudder to think that the undies that I wore (it seems) just yesterday are now classified as “vintage,” I understand that this style has become quite “collectible”, as they say.

If you happen to come across them, you should know that I left them there – accidentally at first, but then intentionally – many years ago. I’m not sure I should really be telling you this whole story … but you’re my favourite person to tell stories to, and it wouldn’t seem fair to hold out on you, darling. You see, these panties went missing when I was a young woman, around the time I paid a visit to your parents – who were then newlyweds. I soon forgot all about my rhumba panties … until another visit some ten years later, during which your mother confessed over afternoon coffee that she’d found them within a week of my losing them, but that she’d been so fascinated by them she had found herself unable to send them on to me! Don’t you dare tell her I told you this, but she even admitted that she had tried them on. I was surprised but rather delighted (this was a side of Suburban Big Sister I’d never seen before), and I told her she could keep them, with my blessing.

I have acquired many articles of sexy underwear in my time (most recently last weekend, when my beau Gary and I went shopping together!), and the rhumba panties are not regretted. For all I know, your mother eventually discarded them. In any event, I doubt she made a point of hauling them off to Florida with her, because at this point they (ahem) probably wouldn’t fit her so well. But in case they ever turn up in your house, I just wanted you to know that you can get some nice cash for them from a vintage-clothing dealer – consider it extra birthday money from me! Actually, it would please me very much if you liked the panties enough to keep them – YOU they would fit, my dear – but this is merely the wishful thinking of an ageing auntie. All I can say is, I personally had some very good times in those panties. (So don’t knock ’em if you haven’t tried ’em, kiddo.)

Gary and I are going up to Vancouver next week …