The Panties My Wife Made Me Wear to Work

That morning I found them folded on the sink, right where Marina knew I’d see them before my shower. A pair of pink lace panties, delicate, with a tiny bow at the waist. Next to them, a note in her quick handwriting: “Today you wear these. And you don’t touch yourself.” Nothing else was needed. We had been speaking that language without words for years.

I picked them up with two fingers and stood there for a moment, naked, in front of the mirror. This is ridiculous. I’m forty years old and I have a meeting at ten. But the thought was already accompanied by the other one, the heavier one: she wanted this, and I wanted to give it to her.

Before putting them on, I brought them up to my face. Marina had worn them for two whole days, she’d warned me. They smelled like her, like her skin, like the hours they’d spent pressed against her body. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly. I was already hard, and the day hadn’t even started.

I put them on carefully. The lace barely held anything in; I had to adjust myself three times and even then everything showed, the fabric pulled tight, the outline marked beneath the pink. I looked at myself again in the mirror, wearing only that, and felt the exact mix she was after: shame and arousal, equal parts, impossible to separate.

If anyone saw me now.

That was exactly the point. The terror of someone being able to see me and, underneath it, the desire to obey. I dressed over them in my gray suit, straightened my tie, and left the house with a secret stuck to my skin.

***

The morning at the office felt endless. Every time a coworker came up to my desk, I thought they would notice, that something in my face would give me away. I went to the bathroom three times just to pull down my pants, look, and make sure they were still there, that I hadn’t dreamed the whole thing up when I woke.

“Everything okay? You’re acting weird today,” Daniel from accounting said while we waited for the coffee machine.

“Bad night,” I lied, and held his gaze a second too long, as if daring him to figure it out.

I went back to my desk with the cup trembling a little in my hand. I had a hard-on longer than I was calm. Every brush of the fabric against my skin reminded me of the note, the order, the voice that had written it. And you don’t touch yourself. That was the hardest part. Spending eight hours on edge without being able to do anything to ease it.

There was a moment, midmorning, when I thought this wasn’t normal, that maybe I had a problem. But I already knew that noise and I knew how to shut it off. I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was a game between Marina and me, one we had built over years, talking a lot, setting limits, undoing them and setting them again. Since we started exploring submission and domination, we were better, more honest, more ourselves. What looked from the outside like a weirdness was, inside, the most honest thing we had.

I sent a message to her phone at two: “I’m still following orders.” Her reply came almost instantly: “I know. I’ll check this afternoon.” And then a period that left me breathless for the rest of the day.

***

I left work, picked up our son from school, and took him to some friends’ house, where he stayed until evening. I drove back with my hands gripping the wheel too tightly. We had almost three hours to ourselves, the ones Marina had calculated down to the minute when she called me the night before to ask me to arrange everything.

I got home before she did. I tidied the kitchen, opened a window, paced the living room not knowing what to do with my hands. When I heard the key in the lock, my heart gave a sharp удар. She came in still wearing her coat, put her bag down in the hall, and looked me up and down, slowly, like someone checking that an order had been carried out.

“Position,” she said. That was all.

I took off my suit right there, piece by piece, until I was left only with the pink panties, already marked by the whole day. I knelt in the middle of the living room, hands on my thighs, head slightly bowed. She came closer unhurriedly, smiling, enjoying the power of having me like that. She leaned down and kissed me on the lips, with a tenderness I hadn’t expected, soft, almost affectionate. That was her signature: the hardness of the command and the sweetness of the reward in the same person.

“You held out well,” she murmured against my mouth. “Get up. To bed.”

***

I lay on my back on the bedspread. The erection showed itself helplessly beneath the lace, which was barely holding anything at that point. Marina stood at the foot of the bed, watching me, and began to undress without taking her eyes off me. First the blouse, then the skirt, then everything else, with a deliberate calm that made every second longer.

“You know I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she said. “You have too, right?”

“Yes,” I answered, and my voice came out rough.

She climbed onto the bed and positioned herself over me, one knee on each side of my head. She didn’t need to explain anything. She knew the ritual, knew exactly what she expected from me. She sat down slowly, letting her weight settle, and I went to work with my tongue, tracing her, searching, trying to please her in the way I knew she liked.

She let me use my hands. I held her ass, opening her a little, while she started to move, rubbing herself against my face in a slow rhythm set by her, always by her. She tasted like the whole day, like work, like sweat, with an intimate, raw edge that told me she’d been as busy as I had, as keyed up about the afternoon as I had.

“Like that,” she said, barely audible. “Don’t stop.”

Every so often she lifted herself a few inches so I could breathe. I used those seconds to gulp air and then plunge back into her the moment she came down again. I felt the resistance of her body, the muscle tensing and yielding in turns, and I pressed with my tongue as if there were nothing else in the world to do.

She started touching herself while I kept going. At first slowly, a lazy caress, and then more and more deliberately. I heard her breathing harder above me, felt her tightening, her weight becoming firmer against my mouth. She was getting close and I didn’t let up, I couldn’t, I didn’t want to. Her hand moved quickly, her breathing breaking apart.

The moan came long and deep, filling the whole room. She came hard against me, her legs closing for a moment around my head, her whole body tense and then, all at once, soft. She stayed like that for a few seconds, catching her breath, while I kept moving my tongue slowly, gently, waiting for her permission to stop.

***

When her breathing returned to normal, she straightened a little and, for the first time all afternoon, looked down at my erection, straining to break free of the soaked lace.

“Well,” she said, amused. “Look at you.”

She squeezed me through the panties, with her whole palm, no fabric between to dull it. I felt the full pressure of her hand, the lace rubbing, irritating and at the same time multiplying every sensation. She knew it. She knew the fabric hurt me as much as it turned me on, and she loved that.

“Want it?” she asked, rubbing faster.

“Please,” I said, and I barely recognized my own voice.

I didn’t last long. I’d been on the edge all day, holding back hour after hour, and it only took a few seconds of her hand for everything to collapse. I came with a force that almost hurt, the stain spreading, obvious and dark, over the pink lace. Marina gathered some of what leaked through the fabric and, at last, moved away from my mouth. She brought her fingers to my lips and I cleaned them, slowly, just the way she wanted, holding her gaze the whole time.

“Good boy,” she said, and there was more reward in those two words than in anything else.

***

She got up and started gathering her clothes from the floor, calm, as if nothing that had happened before had mattered.

“You can go pick up the kid now, so we don’t run late,” she said, buttoning her blouse. “Tomorrow’s a school day.”

I sat up in bed, still dazed, and went to take off the panties.

“Oh, no.” She stopped me with a gesture. “Those you’re not taking off. They look amazing on you. You’re going to pick up the kid like that, and tonight you’re sleeping in them. And tomorrow, at work, the same.”

I looked at her, not sure whether she was serious. She was serious. She was always serious.

“By the way,” she added from the doorway, with that half-smile that undid me, “tomorrow my sister is picking up the kid, taking him to the pool. I get home at five-thirty. She’ll be here at seven. So you’ve got the afternoon free.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Get ready. Tomorrow I’ve come up with new things.”

She closed the bedroom door and I heard her humming in the hallway. I stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, with the wet panties stuck to my skin and my heart still racing, knowing the next day was going to be even longer. And that I wouldn’t want it any other way.