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When I was 20 I stole a pair of my roommate’s panties.
We were both attending a non-residential college. She was a country girl, away from home for the first time, I was a naive kid from the suburbs trying to survive on a modest scholarship and make a break from my mother’s firm hand. We met through an ad on a bulletin board: “Girls wanted to share house”. We both arrived at the run down cottage at the same time and found ourselves ogled and interrogated by one of the grubbiest, hairiest, most revolting guys either of us had ever laid eyes on. So we said No Thanks, went off and found a two bedroom flat together.
Joanne was tall and pretty (in a natural, unaffected way) with a lovely white smile. She also had a superb, full-breasted figure. Looking back I guess she was wholesome and healthy, the way country girls are supposed to be. At the beginning we got on very well. I cooked, she cleaned, we laughed a lot, even went out together on occasions. I liked her. I could tell she liked me.
Then she acquired a boyfriend called Steve and forgot I existed. He just ignored me, giving me the faintest of smiles whenever we happened to bump into each other in the hallway or kitchen. For my part I tried to ignore both of them. But it wasn’t easy. Their relationship quickly developed into a hot, passionate affair which meant they stayed in a lot instead of going to lectures and made love behind their closed door. I could always hear the sounds of it, but I tried hard to pretend it wasn’t happening. Once I bumped into Steve coming out of the bathroom naked, his penis still semi-erect. Another time I saw him in the bath.
One night I ran into Joanne – literally – in the hall, en route from bedroom to bathroom. She wore nothing but pale blue briefs. I knew she was well built but until that moment I had never seen the full glory of her breasts. She grabbed me to stop me cannoning into her and for a moment I was pressed against those glorious orbs. I could smell sex on her warm, smooth skin.
From that night on I found myself stealing glances at her breasts and cleavage whenever I thought she wasn’t looking. I began noticing other things about her – the graceful curve of her neck, the way her dark hair fell when was reading, her darker eyebrows, her long athlete’s legs, the perfect shape of her bottom when she wore jeans … even the swell of her pubic mound when she put on a swimsuit.
One summer’s afternoon I came home from college and didn’t realise they were home; I walked through their partially open door looking for something – and froze. They were asleep, naked, Joanne’s perfect back to me. I can still conjure up the picture all these years later … the smooth contours of her spine, the tan lines on her buttocks.
Later that afternoon, when I was shut in my room trying to read, they went out somewhere. For reasons I can’t explain, when I was sure they’d gone I went back into their room and looked closely at the mattress where they’d been lying. I remember I thought it might be warm but it wasn’t. However I discovered a lingering smell … body odour, semen, Joanne’s girl smell? It wrinkled my nose but at the same time excited me.
I was sexually inexperienced back then. My encounters with boys hadn’t exactly been the stuff of novels. Nevertheless I began imagining my roommate and her boyfriend making love. I’d switch off my poker oyna light, lie in the darkness and try to picture them doing it. But gradually I realised he wasn’t figuring very strongly in my imaginings while I could readily conjure up vivid images of Joanne, naked, breathless and beautiful.
That’s when I started masturbating seriously. I’d massage myself until I was sweaty and too sore to continue then lie awake, frustrated, aching for release, and wondering what was wrong with me. The following morning I would always swear to myself never to do it again. But a day or two later my libido would rear up and once more I’d be lying there in the dark working my fingers inside myself, visualising Joanne, legs spread, exposed to me.
Then came the weekend they went away. I had the flat to myself for 48 hours, which meant I could spend the day in my dressing gown and do whatever I wanted. I knew it was a wicked thing to do but I took the chance to snoop in their room at my leisure. I tried on some of Joanne’s clothes. I looked in her bedside drawer and touched her private things. It felt deliciously naughty to do it. Lastly I looked at the contents of the dirty washing basket. I’m not sure if I knew what I wanted to find, but when I came across a pair of pale lime panties I remember my heart thumping painfully.
The gusset was discoloured with a dusting of talcum powder and some kind of discharge. I fancy it was slightly moist to the touch. I don’t know why but I sniffed them. That was the first time I ever inhaled the scent of another girl’s pussy. It aroused me instantly, so I lay on their bed, drew up my knees, slid my hand inside my pyjamas and felt myself. I was slick and warm and my fingers made a nice slurping noise. I pressed the panties to my face and masturbated, swimming in the perfume of Joanne’s pussy. It was like my own smell but somehow different. How I wanted to smell the real thing! The illicit excitement of it all gave me the boost I needed and I had my first ever orgasm.
Later, feeling ashamed, I put her panties back in the dirty clothes where I’d found them. But the following day I had a change of heart and stole them back. I kept them for months, hidden away in my room, taking them out occasionally when I was particularly aroused and sniffing them deeply while I worked a candle (my only sex toy) in and out of myself, fantasising about my “girl lover”. Strangely the perfume of Joanne’s pussy never really faded from the fabric; and it never failed to make me wet. I don’t think she ever guessed what had happened to her lime briefs.
Stupidly, when we moved out of the flat I had an attack of conscience and disposed of them.
All this time later I can still recall that scent. I like my own smell and often sniff my fingers after masturbating and my own panties when I take them off, warm and moist. But my memory tells me Joanne’s pussy smell was intoxicating, arousing, just perfect. I haven’t seen her since, sadly.
I didn’t turn out to be gay of course. I put it down as a harmless crush; a phase. In time I stopped thinking of Joanne altogether, married, had children, eventually divorced, just like a normal woman.
These days I can afford to pamper myself with sexy, expensive lingerie. I have a boyfriend. I also have proper, battery-powered toys to use when he’s absent and my fingers aren’t enough. canlı poker oyna Yet sometimes I think back on those innocent college days and allow myself to daydream about the voluptuous Joanne and her fragrant panties. And when I do I become terribly aroused. And in that heightened mood I sometimes prefer the feel of a plain old candle inside me to a fancy battery toy. I look at myself in my hand mirror and see the way the candle pokes obscenely between my lips. I guess it reminds me of when I was young and all things were possible.
On occasions I even leave my little candle inside my pussy all night because I love to wake up every hour or two, feel it there and move it in and out for a while before falling asleep again. When I’m in a particularly aroused mood I might lay a pair of my worn panties on the pillow beside me so that I can smell that scent and further arouse myself. On such nights my fantasies are exclusively about females. I imagine using my tongue on a beautiful, anonymous, dark-haired woman’s open, swollen, yearning cunt. I’ve never tasted another woman but sometimes my need is so great I smear my own juices on my face and pretend I have. Poor me.
One night, not so long ago, I was in just such a mood. I’d seen a young woman at the supermarket who appealed to me. Momentarily we made eye contact before I looked away, afraid she’d realise what I was thinking. By the time I got home I was well and truly aroused. So after dinner I looked at a video of teenage girls masturbating; I scouted for photos of dark-haired girls in lingerie on the internet (and downloaded a few); I re-read a favourite chapter of an erotic novel. When I finally switched out my light I was absolutely ready for my candle. But during the night something dreadful happened; it broke in half inside me and left the stump behind! I probed inside with the fingers of my right hand and then my left and I was able to touch the nub of the thing but there was no way I could get a grip on it. It kept sliding out of reach. I panicked. I knew that if it stayed in there I’d probably develop some terrible infection. I tried using a spoon to dig it out – bad idea. I tried to douche myself – no good. I even tried to pray. At last I fell asleep, vowing to make another, more level-headed, attempt in the morning. But even after an early morning bath I couldn’t retrieve the troublesome hunk of wax. I knew I’d have to seek medical help.
My regular doctor is a man and I wasn’t about to have him delving around inside me. How could I explain losing a candle in there? I decided I had to see the only woman doctor at the medical centre. This I achieved by confidentially telling the receptionist I had “female problems”.
I had seen Rani around the medical centre but had never had anything to do with her. I’d certainly never given her any thought. She’s Indian born, probably 30, I think unmarried and would be very attractive if she smiled more often. Naturally I was tense and very nervous when I was shown into her room, but I’d made up my mind to be honest with her. So I took a deep breath … “Doctor, I was masturbating with a candle and it broke in half. I can’t reach it to get it out.” She blinked but that was the only indication of her thoughts.” “Well I suppose we’d better take a look.”
I was so glad she hadn’t gasped Oh My God. I was also glad she hadn’t pretended internet casino it was a No Big Deal, everyday event. She directed me to remove my underwear and climb on the examination bench. I was wearing a long skirt buttoned at the side so I was able to sit on the bench with my legs extended but covered. She pulled on surgical gloves, picked up an instrument that enabled her to examine me internally and joined me. “Can you lift your knees and open them, please.” This was no ordinary gynaecological examination and I felt nervous complying. Anyway I’d never had a female gynaecologist, I realised. Not counting when I was in hospital in labour, this was probably the first time another woman had seen my genitals.
I made myself as comfortable as I could, pulled up my skirt, bent and opened my knees and let her look. Rani leant forward between my legs – close enough to kiss me if she wanted. Thank God I’d showered carefully and powdered before I came. She gently inserted her instrument in me. The metal was cold to the touch but it didn’t feel too unpleasant. “Uhuh,” she murmured,
“there’s the little devil. Shouldn’t be too hard to remove …” I looked at her properly for the first time. The way her black hair fell forward reminded me of someone …. Joanne? But Rani’s complexion was much darker and her eyes were a beautiful liquid black/brown. I liked the way her black eyebrows were shaped. For years I admit I have unconsciously, automatically, looked at women’s eyebrows because to me they indicate what her pubic hair must be like. Now I found myself imagining Rani’s generous bush of black curls. Would she trim it? I imagined how glistening pink her pussy would be.
Meanwhile she slid two fingers into me. Gentle but firm. I squirmed slightly. I couldn’t see her hand but I imagined how it looked. Does she like fingering me, I wondered? Or is it just another unpleasant job in the life of a general practitioner?
“Yep. Got him.” Slowly she eased the small lump of wax out of me, held securely between her two fingers. My relief was so great I nearly laughed.
“You don’t want it as a souvenir?” I didn’t. As I got dressed again Rani talked about a course of antibiotics in case I’d picked up an infection.
And then for some reason I felt obliged to acknowledge how silly I’d been, even though she hadn’t said one critical word. “I feel so stupid. I guess there’s only one thing nature intended to go in there, huh?” She smiled for the first time, and it lit up her face which suddenly looked lovely to me.
“Yes. Trouble is, a lot of other things seem to fit perfectly, don’t they.” She walked me to the door, then whispered confidentially: “And some of them feel pretty damn good.”
She shook my hand, firm but gentle, and for a second looked me in the eye. Was she telling me that she too liked to masturbate with unusual objects?
Driving home my imagination was crowded with a jumble of images of Rani lying naked in her bed, pumping hairbrush handles, carrots and bottle necks among other things in and out of her wet pink pussy. If she was sending me a message, why? To make me feel less foolish? Or was she making a pass? Pulled up at traffic lights I opened my legs, ran my hand beneath my skirt and massaged myself through my panties. The crotch was wet. I slid two fingers under the elastic and into my cunt, just like she had done. It felt as though it was filled with hot liquid. I sat there fingering myself, daydreaming about Rani’s beautiful, brown-skinned, dark-nippled body. Perhaps after all this time I had found my girl lover.
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