A few days after Helen's death, Charles's relations wanted to help dispose of the items in her closets and drawers, but he old the women it was too soon, and for sentimental reasons he wanted to keep his wife's clothing for a while. He was quite sure (or at least he hoped) they never realized that he wanted to feel her silky underwear against his own well shaved skin, to feel her lacy slips flitting about his stockinged legs, to pull the delicious pairs of pink silk panties over his nylons and feel them snugly holding his cock down (or up as the case often was). He missed Helen terribly; it would be a cruel twist if they took away her clothing too.

His wife was the only one who had known he was a crossdresser, so not only did he keep all her clothing, wearing her slips and panties under his trousers daily, but he continually added to the secret hoard. Best of all, the clothes fit him very well, or well enough for the man looking back at him in the mirror. He never left the closet and reveled in looking up his own skirt, placing a large mirror between his feet and looking up past his stocking tops and garterbelt to the sensuous folds in the pink silk panties, the forbidden panel of silk between his legs. The peeking always gave him a deep sense of taboo-violating eroticism, and the forbidden peek often produced a tentpole in his silk panties. He learned early that wearing a slip under a skirt intensified the peek-a-boo thrill.

Nightly he changed from his office clothes to stockings and a comfortable dress and silky underthings. And when he went to bed he removed his garterbelt and stockings, donned a fresh pair of silk panties, and slipped a slinky silk nightie over his head, patting and caressing his body all over to feel the silk on every square inch of his skin.

Often in the morning he awoke with a huge arousal and snuggled into the silkiness of the clothing for a half hour of delightful romping before showering and pulling on his trousers over still another fresh pair of pink silk panties, the panties he loved to wear at the office. Often if he felt especially frisky he wore stockings, a garterbelt, and a slip too. Helen knew he wore feminine underclothes to the office, but she never said, "No," and he never pressed the issue. Now that he was more or less free to do what he wanted, he found that more and more he was wearing the full outfit underneath. What a charge to stand next to a beautiful woman and wonder if your own panties and slips were prettier than hers.

He missed Helen in all the ways a human can miss a mate, and even though she only tolerated his crossdressing and was frightened to discover it, it was a thrill to wear a nightie to bed with her and simply to know that she was aware that he was wearing pink silk panties all the time, fresh ones each morning and night.

To stimulate his passion for panties, a passion that was a lifelong industrial-sized fetish, he wrote some sizzling short stories for himself, featuring the fetish itself, but the one about Julie was so intense his tentpole rose to the occasion every time he read the fantasy about an imaginary mistress, a beautiful commanding woman. He tried to freshen his fetish interest by reading it again, wearing one of Helen's panty girdles so his arousal would not spring out of control and force him to masturbate before he finished.

With one hand on the outside of the girdle holding his cock down he read "Julie and the Art Museum." It was about an imaginary mistress dressed in the most fetching feminine outfit featuring silk panties, hose, garterbelt, and half slip, who commanded him on her weekly visit to wear feminine clothing under his trousers and take her on this occasion to the art gallery. There she unzipped him and pulled out the lace on his full-length slip, leaving it out for anyone to see, and even though there were not many people around that day, the danger of being seen intensified the eroticism. Julie caressed his hardening cock under the lace and when a guard spotted them, she squatted down with her knees apart so he would look up her skirt and not see the lace oozing out of his fly. On the way home Julie was so turned on she masturbated with her heels on the edge of the front seat, saying it was nothing personal but she would rather m than f-k. When they got home he would have to m too, using several pairs of silk panties under her strict supervision while he watched her stand spread-legged over him and m some more, he looking up to a private heaven.

After the millionth reading, even Julie the Infallible began to pale and in his loneliness and erotic need, he began to carry out a plan still hazily formulated. Removing Helen's girdle, he pulled on a very loose pair of pink silk bloomers (a Woolworth's purchase alas no longer available), so that his cock instantly arose from the tight girdle confines and buried itself in the sensuous silky folds. But he tortured himself a little further by refusing to m until he had begun his new plan, promising himself a full erotic treat if it looked like the plan might fall through. His cock was throbbing in his bloomers, demanding a release of pent-up semen that might have penetrated a newspaper ten feet away. Well, maybe six feet.

His hand actually trembled on the phone as he asked his old buddy and professional colleague, Tom, to join him for the evening. He had to hope that Tom would understand the evolution of Charles into Candy. If not, it wouldn't be the end of the world. If he did, it might be the beginning of a new life, well worth risking.

COPYRIGHT © 1997 Whitie - All Rights Reserved - No Reproduction

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