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Pantie Control

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

Commissioned by anonymous

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I quivered in place, safe and secure on my bed at home with my fingers digging into the sheets, knuckles white. Just what was I doing? My time at that school was over, I didn't have to worry about things like that anymore, the humiliation, the pain of those final years... Horrendous. Once my 'time' had come, it had been nothing more than open season on both me and, well, what they deemed to be my sexuality too, the simple bullies taking advantage of me in every which way that they could think of.

The panties in the locker. I closed my eyes, breathing shallowly, something in my gut tightening. Oh... No. No, not that. Being forced to stand up before the school and admit to the false confession, teased relentlessly for being a slut when I, really, was nothing more than a virgin, nothing more than that at all. Susan knew just how to get to me and what to do to me, everything to bend me to her will and the queen bees had been vicious, so very vicious... Just what was I supposed to do to stand up against them? They told me to do something and they said they'd do worse to me still if I did not 'claim' I stole all those panties, just a dirty lesbian slut. But I wasn't a slut and I wasn't even sure what I was otherwise, because they'd never given me a chance to find out.

The problem was that a part of me had liked it too. But I wouldn't think about that. No. I definitely wouldn't think about that.

And yet the flashbacks still came.

“Take these home with you," Susan spat, wedging the balled-up pair of panties into my hand. “Just to remember me... For the rest of your pathetic life!"

It was sharp and it was cruel. It was everything that my twisted, fucked up brain needed and more. She told me that I, Charlotte, had to wear them, making overuse of my name as her pretty face twisted into a sneer. I remembered that sneer well: too well, in fact. She said she'd know if I didn't wear them every single week, her scent lingering even after washes. She'd toyed even with the notion of making me not wash them too but I knew she had more than enough on me – dirt, that was – to make that true too and I couldn't imagine growing into old age with a stinking pair of underwear on... So, I kept my mouth shut and the punishment was less than it could have been.

The first week. Oh... No. I should have tried not to do it but I followed Susan's orders like the obedient little slut she'd turned me into, slipping on the cotton underwear, trimmed with lace. It was the sort of thing that was just risky enough to raise an eyebrow but not so bad that anyone in the locker rooms would have batted an eye at it. They said I was looking though, the lesbian slut. They were black with little blue roses on them and could have been innocent – except for the fact that they were not. They very much were not and they never again would be.

They eased on too simply, up my thighs. And I swore I could feel her wetness against me, the lingering sensation of her pussy, her sex, the humiliation from those days of abuse. Was I conditioned? I suppose I was and that was just why, even when I thought I was well and truly out of her control, that I put on the panties anyway just to complete her sick little ritual.

Good girl...

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The thought came unbidden and I gulped and reeled, actually looking over my shoulder for Susan as if I thought she'd be standing in my doorway, checking her nails for cracks or splits with that smirk on her face. But she wasn't there, she couldn't be there, but did she know? Did she know that I'd done as she told me too, a good slut, and put them on for her? I felt her there, the sensation of her hovering as I choked down the revulsion that threatened to heave up from my gut, churning and sickening and clawing at my insides.

She was there. She was always there.

I had to do it, I couldn't stop myself. Susan lingered, flicking and dancing in the image of her, craving more from me even as she did not even once cross my path again. Some part of me needed to lift her panties to my nose from time to time, even between my weekly sessions of 'having' to wear them, taking in the mere scent of her essence over and over again in short, sharp little fluttering breaths. Oh, how I needed it, as crude and obscene as it was, the wetness of them. How they could be wet after so much time between my sessions, I did not know. Every week, they had six full days to dry out and they still reeked of her, the supple stink of Susan filtering into my nostrils again and again.

Abused. Humiliated. A part of me looked forward to the pantie-wearing times. A bigger part screamed and shied away and did everything it possibly could to pretend that it wasn't happening, that it wasn't real. It was just something that I had to go through as her imaginary lips brushed my ear, rubbing at the lobe and whispering what a slut I was, just a needy slut who needed her gross, old panties to get off. But they weren't disgusting, just hers, something of hers that would forever hold her scent and essence as I even arched my hips up from the bed, groaning and actively using them to masturbate before teasing them up my legs for the main event.

Could I stop? What would happen if I stopped? I will never know if I didn't stop because I thought that she could genuinely blackmail me or... No, the alternative didn't bear thinking about. Once a week, yes: once a week I could handle. I didn't have to worry about how she had hurt me, how she had broken me down and down into nothing at all. I was just for her, only her, and the scars, oh... I would be nothing without them.

You could say that Susan made me who I am today. And, for that, I would throw myself down on the floor at her feet and beg for her panties all over again.

Had I done that? Even the memories are warped, twisted in the path of lies as the charade continued, one week after another. It should have become a non-event in the end but I could not help but quake in anticipation of having the panties on again, the fabric as pristine as ever except for where her essence had sunk into them. I didn't want Susan but my attachment to the panties, needing them above all else... Well, anyone would have said that was unhealthy.

But I did not care. I could not stop, would not stop. Definitely would not stop. They were mine – all mine! I needed them, needed them to show Susan I was still good, screaming as I climaxed into them, candlelight flickering on the walls of the living room as if I had set myself up for a romantic date and dinner with just the pleasure of her panties to await me at the climax and sweetness of the evening itself.

Claws slinking into the back of my mind in the flash of painted nails, a wickedly curved smile shimmering with cheerleader pink gloss, she had me. She'd always had me. And I lied to myself, telling myself that it would all go wrong if I stopped doing what she told me to, forcing myself to continue with the lie hanging over my head for week after week and month after month.

The years passed. Things should have changed. I got a boyfriend and married him, we had a family together. It should have been perfect, lovely. Everything was fine on the outside and everything should have been happy and beautiful and sweet.

Things didn't change.

He never knew. I made sure no one ever knew about the panties that I snuck off on my own whether we were at home or on vacation to wear, taking them with me everywhere out of fear that Susan would be there, looming over my shoulder and saying that she knew all along that a stupid lesbian whore couldn't do it, waiting to reveal all of my secrets to those that I loved.

I masturbated into the panties on our marriage bed, my husband at a poker game and my children with family, just me on my own. Tears squeezed from the corners of my eyes as orgasm hit me, soaking the panties in a gush of pussy juice that seemed too much, considering just what I was doing and who I was thinking about. It should not have been so erotic to know that what I was doing was cruel and illicit, taboo even, but I moaned and brought them to my face with a trembling hand afterwards anyways, inhaling the scent of them as, once again, the cream on them melted away as if it had never been.

Maybe that was why she had such a hold on me, her ever-presence. There was something more going on there but I was far, far too tired with the ritual of my life to dig into it. It was just something I had to do as the evidence of my orgasm was swiftly replaced with the ripeness of her, the hint of pussy mingled with musk and sweat, an intoxicating combination that made some decrepit part of me want to suck the panties into my mouth and keep them there, savouring it.

And, so, it continued. I wanted them there and I could not fail to notice and to know just how they felt against my skin. I even wore them out with my husband on a date, one of few when we had a family together, life too busy for that kind of fun most usually. I let the sodden panties that no longer felt to merely contain my juice and essence slip and slide grotesquely against my pussy, lips desperately flushed and hot, imagining her sweetness pressed up against them. He'd never know but he'd never, not ever once, need to know about my dirty little secrets, the panties that he would never lay eyes on. He'd never know of the humiliation that I went through on a weekly basis, the seediness creeping in, more and more, to my daily life.

She'd always had me. I'd always been hers. Tainted and marked with the howl of orgasm, twisting and writhing in that semblance of solo carnal bliss that could only be had when I was wearing her panties.

They never frayed. They never wore. Maybe because they were hers.

And, even as the years went on and I fell out of sex with my husband, as was wont to happen in long-term relationships and the busy scope of lives that one had to live, they became the only part of my sex life, Susan's nails hooking more and more deeply into me, the control lingering, her giggle and her voice bouncing around and around my skull as I masturbated and sank my teeth into the pillow just so no one else would hear my cries of pleasure. Dirty, abject, sordid pleasure.

She was all I had, her voice murmuring in my ear over and over again just what a slut I was, how far I had fallen, how she'd known she was right about me all along. And, as I closed my eyes on a night, I knew that things would still come to light if I dared speak out, if I dared stop playing her little twisted game as far as I had already. Things would be bad if I didn't do what she asked. So, best to be an obedient little whore, just like she always said I was right back at the beginning of this all.

Susan would forever control me, her obedient little slut.

Her obedient lesbian slut.