Miss Communicated

Was I ever going to get inside Ivy’s panties. Chance would be a fine thing.

What do you do when you’re bored? What do you do when you’re bored in someone else’s house? And you’re a teenager. And your girlfriend is out too. You’re alone in her parents’ house. And you wonder, you just wonder about some of the things you’ve seen her wear. And you’ve never got much past enthusiastic cuddling, a hand slipped beneath her blouse to stroke her breast – only once was a nipple available. And, of course, I’d stroked her leg and had my hand up to the edge of her panties – but no further. And I wanted to, I needed to. But there was one strange thing – the more I touched her bra and her panties (and her stockings) the more those things excited me too.

I’d been going out with Ivy for nearly two months now. We’d met in a coffee-bar with her being with her friends from her school and me similarly. And we’d got chatting, and it was nice. It felt like the first time I’d had the chance for a girl to talk with, who listened, who shared, who I felt worth listening to. So, we’d come together like two wandering sheep (choose you animal) and stayed together. And it was nice. It was enjoyable. I don’t think we’d yet got to talking big secrets or even little secrets – but we were getting to know each other.

And even if my father said, "Like it or not, and you won’t – it’s very unlikely that this first love of yours will be the final chosen one. You’re very young, both of you. You have a lot to learn but if you can learn from each other that’s good. And the truly important thing is ‘when it hiccups which it will, be forgiving, be flexible, be as kind to her as you would want from her.’ I remember little about my first love – but when it went wrong, and it did, it’s so long ago I’m sure we both made mistakes, she was kind and went away kindly. I remember the kindness more than anything about her. I can’t even remember what she looks like. I’ve completely forgotten her. But her name was Dorothea Angela Dawson, she was five foot three, with brown eyes, brown hair just to her neck, size 4 feet, a preference for pink and purple and she lived at 123 Chumley Road, Maida Vale, London W9 2RQ. Apart from that I’ve forgotten her completely."

My mum was giggling furiously. “Last time, she was five foot eight, a blonde called Louise Anderson – you silly boy. Haven’t I always said keep your story straight and consistent."

Dad laughed too. “I wonder what her name really was. I’ve told that story enough times I’ve actually forgotten.“

“Well, when I met her a year or so later, she was called Antonia Fellows and she was a skinny thing of about five foot six.”

“Really. I’ll try to remember.”

“Darling, there’d better not be a next time. Huff.”

So, there I was in the bathroom – and the laundry basket is there – and you can see a pair of her panties. Have you NEVER wondered what they might feel like, smell like. This was my first real (safe) opportunity. I caressed the panties from their dirty hiding-place. I stroked them towards me. I let them slither nearer and nearer. My fingers could feel them, my skin could feel them. Suddenly, my nose was quivering with the new strong smell of woman. Recently pungent, delicious, delightful, hot and hot-making. My penis jolted to attention – well, it became even harder than ten seconds before. How else would a teenager react?

What to do?

My hands brought the panties to my lips – I smelt them, kissed them. I tasted them. They were exotic, erotic. Only some teenagers would do this!

But something overrode that immediate need. I took a step forward and held the side of the basin while I dropped my pants and took the panties and slid them wonderfully up my legs. It was astonishing – so nice. So very nice. Not many teenagers would do this!!

I put my shorts and t-shirt on and set off downstairs. On her bed, was a pile of clean, folded clothes. I had no sisters, no usefully visiting cousins so absolutely minimal intimate interaction with girls. These clothes were just too interesting not to take a closer look. On the top of the pile were several panties and bras.

I stared at the pile of pretties. White, cream, pink, pastel yellow. So pretty. Curiosity, teenage devilment, ageless wonder forced me closer. I looked and very very gently touched them.

I couldn’t, didn’t want to pass up this opportunity. With trembling hands, I picked up the top pair of panties. And the next and the next. Three beautiful pairs of panties being held, touched, caressed, fondled, LOVED by me. I was amazed at how soft they wear, how sleek, how smooth, how light. I looked more closely at them - some with dainty little flowers or butterflies, ribbons and bows, lacework and pretty stitching. So nice.

Having had a through look at those wonderful panties, I picked up one of her bras. It was absolutely thrilling, enthralling. The first thing I did was wonder at the complexity of it, and the lightness, the pretty embroidery. Then one cup was in my hand, the padding felt differently soft. The straps seemed somehow scratchy in comparison. How did all that elastic do its job? How did a girl just flip her fingers and those tiny hooks and clasps stuck together? I knew nothing – but I wanted to. My twoozled, boy-baffled brain wondered how does it feel to have one of these wrapped around? Then … what must it feel like to have breasts?

Hurriedly, I put the bras down in case they made more weird thought engulf me.

And these, surely, were just her ordinary day-to-day undies. What were her fancy clothes going to be like.

Did I dare?

Was I going to?

I put down my treasure. Her treasure. I folded them as neatly as I could. Then I closed my eyes to the beauties lying on the duvet and left. I went downstairs for a cold drink. Then I sat in the big comfy sofa and suddenly wondered at what I had done. What sort of perv was I – fondling my girlfriend’s undies. Even, putting on a pair. Yukky. I knew what I had done was wrong. At the very least incredibly rude, impolite, intrusive and, well, wrong. But it had also been wonderful. What would a typical teenager have done? I wondered for a moment how typical was I?

I sat and read the paper for a while – pretending to be grown up. Then a magazine caught my eye. Why? Why? Why?

I started reading and to my horror, it fell open at the letters page. It was a teenage girl magazine, in case you hadn’t guessed. It was, after all, a girl’s only house if I hadn’t said that before. The second letter said, “I’m a 15 year old girl and I found my boyfriend in my bedroom holding a pair of my pants. Is he a poof or something?" Anon.

Reply from ‘Aunt Opal’ – ‘Don’t be worried. Don’t even get your knickers in a twist (to use some old slang). He’s a teenage boy. He’s ignorant about girls – doesn’t know a thing. It is extremely unlikely that he is anything other than interested in your panties. He’s a boy. If he was a little more advanced, a bit more mature, he’d be wanting to get into your panties while you were wearing them, of course. The chance that he wants to get into your panties in any other way is about 2%. That’s the percentage of boys who are on the LGB spectrum; and there’s many of your age who are unsure, uncertain and experimenting about the whole relationships thing. Let alone the general teenage ignorance about actual friendship becoming more intimate.. So, don’t be worried. Be kind. Ask him if he liked holding your panties but do say, I’d rather you didn’t unless I invite you. That is your choice as to what message to give him.”

I do not like coincidences.

----------------------------------------------------

As things turned out, I didn’t have the luck to be completely alone in the house for several months. From that, you can guess our relationship was going nicely. We had successfully moved on to advanced kissing, intermediate snuggling and cuddling and preliminary fondling. Wreathing, Writhing and Rhythmic were still too advanced for us. And I never had another opportunity to get near her panties, dirty or clean.

This time, we were in her bedroom – it was allowed as the door was open. Her parents were out for an hour or so. Ivy mumbled something about ‘My Mum’s going to have kittens if I don’t tidy up before she’s back.’

I am not a tidy boy but I said ‘If we both tidy up it’ll be done in a few minutes and we can have another lie-down.’.

Ivy wasn’t too eager. “Really. You’d help? You can see what a mess everything is!”

“Why not. Unless there’s anything you’ve got that would shock me, eh?”

“Huh. I don’t think so. I’m a good girl I am..”

And we both chorused ‘..I washed my face and ‘ands before I came I did.” (Thanks Miss Dolittle)

We started. The first job was to pull the duvet straight so the bed could become a sorting-desk. My job was initially to crawl around the floor and trawl whatever I could find and put it on the bed.

There was quite a lot. The only thing that made Ivy frown was when I found a bra in a deep corner under the bed. “Oh, that’s good. I’ve been missing that for weeks.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Been missing, eh? I didn’t even know you had pretties as pretty as that. What a shame I didn’t feel such a pretty bra while it was holding on to its job.”

“Are you calling my breasts ‘ a job’. Eeuchh. You’d better not say THAT again.”

“Don’t be silly, honey. I think I meant I was a bit jealous of such a pretty bra getting closer to you than I do. Or perhaps that I never knew you had such a bra snuggled up to those lovely breasts just a few millimeters from my fingers – and I couldn’t tell.”

“There will, may come a time when you see my underwear without all the upperwear preventing improved access. But it ain’t happening yet. And that’s the best view you’ll get of any of my underwear until I decide otherwise. Don’t look so sad, grumpy.” [Doc, Bashful, Grumpy, Sneezy, Dopey, Happy, Sleepy)

After a minute or so, while she put things away as she asked for them one by one, she said “Why don’t you find a couple of flat boxes and empty my makeup desk and even all the drawers – then we can do that area even better. I’ve been meaning to get to it for some weeks. It’s a mess. But if you sweep it all off, then I’ll have no choice and I’ll have to tidy up. I’ll grumble – but I’ll eventually say thanks.”

“Huh, well, that I can do – then I won’t have to keep looking or rather avoiding looking while I’m passing your all these things.” And I picked up the last bra on the duvet and passed it over. I used the very tips of my fingers to make it clear how pretend-affronted I was by the task.

“Don’t treat my best bras like that. Or you’ll never get any nearer to them. You DO want to have that opportunity, don’t you.”

“On the basis that such a question demands the answer ‘yes’, I’ll say ‘yes’.”

“Good boy. Now – boxes. With your help I’m doing a full Carlsberg here – getting to the places that previous tidy-ups haven’t reached.”

“Have you found anything unexpected,” I asked.

“No – but there’s things I no longer want. That’s a help. It means I’ve got a worthwhile excuse to go shopping. And for being such a brave boy about my undies, you can come along. Perhaps I’ll listen to your advice. While you linger with me in the lingery departments.”

“Humph, punny girl.”

A while later, her desk was clear. And she’d made me wipe it and dust it too. The drawers were empty – they’d been dusted and wiped too. I’d even been sent to fetch the vacuum. She came over and sat on the stool while I was allowed to sit back in the comfy chair.

“There’s a lot of stuff there. How do you learn to use it all; what goes with what; how to match everything? It must take ages.”

“Dumbo, I’m a girl. I’ve been learning all about being a girl for 15 and a bit years now. That’s about 5,500 days and while some of that’s been at school, more has been at home. Unless all five of your braincells are dead, it is possible to learn during that time. I have. Other girls have. Even you have.”

“But, do you NEED all these potions, lotions, salves, balms, ointments and sundry concoctions from expensively perfumed manufactories?”

“Excuse me! Did you eat a dictionary? Did you practice and rehearse that until it came out smooth and slick? Everything on that tabletop has been considered, assessed and bought for a particular purpose or event. Some I don’t need any longer. If you’re going to make silly comments, then go away.”

Ivy’s voice was displaying the first hints of her temper. I guessed that ‘having to tidy up’ had been a bit stressful, me being involved had made it both better and worse; and now she was getting tired and she had a fairly large job to do in sorting it all out. I wasn’t surprised she was getting a bit tetchy.

I sat and watched her re-arrange all the pots and bottles. Then she started on the drawers. There was nothing to entertain me about her putting away all these things so I stood up and started to wander to and fro. One wardrobe door was open, so I walked over and found the sleeve of a purple satin blouse had got caught in the hinge.

As I opened the door to sort this out, Ivy saw what I was doing. She wasn’t pleased and said, quite sharply, “Olly, what are you doing. Haven’t you had enough with helping me sort my undies. What are you doing with that blouse. It wouldn’t suit you, y’know.”

“I was just …”

“Just what … looking for another opportunity to investigate my wardrobe more thoroughly. Just because I’m not wearing something doesn’t give you leave to do that. And, as you know, there’s still big limits on what you can do with my clothes when I AM wearing them.”

If I wasn’t blushing before, then I was now.

Ivy didn’t let up. Her habit was to keep pushing as soon as she thought she had found a weakness. She did it worse and more meanly when she was angry, tired or hungry. (I prophesied a snack in the very near future). “Are you looking at my things because YOU want to wear them, is that it?”

I blushed – knowing that if I did blush she would say she was right, and if I managed to conceal any blush, that she would argue the same. It’s what they call a lose-lose situation for me.

The screw turned a notch. “So, which of my things are you most wanting to wear?”

Like ‘does my bum look big in that’ – there is no possible answer that would suffice. ‘None’ would get a scream of ‘you don’t like any of my clothes’ while ‘that one’ would get me put into it. I was dazzled and confused. I didn’t know what to say.

“Well, let’s start with something easy. Which are my prettiest panties? You said you liked those ones in pink satin with the red ribbons, yes? So, go and pick them out and we’ll see if they fit you too.”

“Squeeeeeaakk” inside my head. I decided to stand up for myself. Sometimes you have to.

“Why are you doing this. I’m not a cross-dresser or anything like that. I’m not going to be putting on your clothes. I am not a pretend-woman, or a toy-woman. I’m a fairly ordinary bloke, who has the good fortune to be in his girlfriend’s room with the chance to admire the range of things she has to wear. I have no problem in saying which of your panties are prettiest – because some are and some are day-to-day. The pretty ones entice me and attract me – not because of what they are but because they are wrapped around something which is of far more real importance to me – that is, you. I like you. I’m nearing the age and adultness to get close to saying, with meaning, I love you. I’m not old enough or grown-up enough to do other than be very unclear to myself and to you about something that important. Don’t try to wheedle or manipulate me – I’m not that sort of person. What’s your dad’s quote ‘If you can’t say anything nice, keep your mouth shut.’ You’re getting tired and I’m going to get me and you a snack of some sort.”

“I still think you’re wanting to get too close to my clothes. Are you sure you don’t want to wear those panties.”

“Yes, thanks, Quite sure.” And I was very sure what I had wanted to do with those delicious magnificently feminine panties.
And the chance was gone.

----------------------

And that’s pretty much how it finished.

Despite my dad’s warning, we did stay together and stick together. We had three children, two girls and a boy. Ivy worked part-time while I brought in the bulk of the money. Looking back, it is certain that the household and the family tasks were divided unequally; but I’m pretty sure that I did my share. As regards our social life, that was quite vanilla too. If you’re wondering did Ivy ever open up with the idea of me wearing panties again – it never happened.

Shortly after the kids all set off to college, Ivy needed major surgery. She didn’t take it well and only lived a few more years, dying just a few weeks short of 50. So, despite having been at least a good enough parent that the kids kept in touch and visited quite often – I was pretty much on my own. One day, I was tidying up Ivy’s things to give away, throw away or whatever. I found a little bag with a note inside and some old clothes.

It was that set of panties, bra, slip and even the petticoat in the pink with the red ribbon. The note said ‘I nearly got Olly to wear the panties. I was looking forward to what would or might happen. And I’ll never know.”

I looked at the little memento sadly, so sadly. Then I stood up and went to look at my own pair of matching panties. I’d bought them a week or so later. Pure fluke, I’d been looking for something else and someone had spilled something and the main access had been re-directed through the lovely, lingery department. I saw, I bought, maybe I came.

I never knew that Ivy had thought like that. Had remembered it all, and wanted to take it further. Worse, we never knew about each other’s thoughts. My old college tutor used to talk how very few things went wrong because of deliberate intent but almost every mistake he knew about was because people Mis-understood after they Mis-Communicated.

How many years had Ivy and I wasted?