The Panties My Wife Made Me Wear to Work

That morning I found them folded on the bathroom sink, exactly where Marina knew I would see them before my shower. A pair of delicate pink lace panties, with a tiny bow at the waist. Beside them was a note in her quick handwriting: “You’re wearing these today. And you’re not touching yourself.” Nothing else was needed. We had been speaking this wordless language for years.

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

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

I put them on carefully. The lace barely contained anything; I had to readjust myself three times, and even then everything showed, the fabric stretched tight, the outline visible beneath the pink. I looked at myself in the mirror again, wearing nothing but that, and felt the exact mixture she was after: shame and arousal, equal parts, impossible to separate.

If someone saw me now.

That was precisely the point. The terror that someone might see me and, underneath it, the desire to obey. I dressed over them in my gray suit, tightened my tie, and left the house with a secret pressed against my skin.

***

The morning at the office dragged on forever. Every time a colleague approached my desk, I thought he would notice, that something in my face would give me away. I went to the bathroom three times just to lower my trousers, look at myself, and make sure they were still there, that I hadn’t made the whole thing up when I woke.

“Is something wrong? You seem strange today,” Daniel from accounting said while we waited for the machine to pour our coffee.

“Bad night,” I lied, holding his gaze a second too long, as if daring him to guess.

I went back to my desk with my cup trembling slightly in my hand. I was hard for longer than I was at ease. Every brush of the fabric against my skin reminded me of the note, the command, the voice that had written it. And you’re not touching yourself. That was the hardest part. Spending eight hours on the edge without being able to do anything to relieve it.

At one point, midmorning, I thought this wasn’t normal, that maybe I had a problem. But I knew that noise by then and knew how to shut it down. I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was a game between Marina and me, one we had built over the years by talking a lot, setting limits, undoing them, and setting them again. Ever since we had begun exploring submission and domination, we had been better, more honest, more ourselves. What looked like a peculiarity from the outside was, between us, the most honest thing we had.

I texted her at two: “Still obeying.” The reply came almost immediately: “I know. I’ll check this afternoon.” And the period at the end 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 would stay until evening. I drove home with my hands gripping the steering 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 arrived before she did. I tidied the kitchen, opened a window, and paced around the living room without knowing what to do with my hands. When I heard the key in the lock, my heart gave a hard thump. She came in with her coat still on, left her bag in the hallway, 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, garment by garment, until I was wearing only the pink panties, already marked by the entire day. I knelt in the middle of the living room, my hands on my thighs, my head slightly bowed. She approached 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 severity 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 the bedroom.”

***

I lay on my back on the bedspread. My erection was impossible to hide beneath the lace, which barely contained anything by then. Marina stood at the foot of the bed, watching me, and began to undress without taking her eyes off me. First her blouse, then her 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, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied, my voice coming out hoarse.

She climbed onto the bed and positioned herself over me, one knee on either side of my head. She didn’t have to explain anything. I knew the ritual; I knew exactly what she expected of me. She sat down slowly, letting her weight sink, and I began with my tongue, moving over her, searching, trying to please her the way I knew she liked.

She let me use my hands. I held her buttocks, opening her a little, while she began to move, rubbing herself against my face with a slow rhythm she set, always she. She tasted of the entire day, of work, of sweat, an intimate, raw note that told me she had been as busy as I had, as focused on the afternoon as I had been.

“That’s it,” she said, almost voicelessly. “Don’t stop.”

Every so often she lifted herself a few inches to let me breathe. I used those seconds to draw air and plunged my tongue back into her as soon as she lowered herself again. I felt the resistance of her body, the muscle that tensed and surrendered by turns, and pushed with my tongue as if there were nothing else in the world to do.

She began touching herself while I continued. At first slowly, with a lazy caress, then with increasing purpose. I heard her breathing grow heavier above me, felt her tighten, her weight becoming firmer against my mouth. She was getting closer, 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 entire room. She came, pressing herself against me, her legs closing around my head for a moment, her whole body tense and then, suddenly, limp. She stayed like that for a few seconds, catching her breath, while I continued moving my tongue slowly, gently, waiting for her permission to stop.

***

When her breathing returned to normal, she sat up slightly and, for the first time all afternoon, looked down toward my erection, which was struggling to escape from the soaked lace.

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

She squeezed me over the panties with her whole palm, with no fabric between us to slow her down. I felt the full pressure of her hand, the lace rubbing, irritating me while multiplying every sensation. She knew it. She knew the fabric hurt me as much as it gave me pleasure, and she loved that.

“Do you want to?” she asked, rubbing faster.

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

I didn’t last long. I had spent the entire day on the edge, holding myself back hour after hour, and a few seconds of her hand were enough to make everything collapse. I came with a force that almost hurt, the stain spreading clearly and darkly across the pink lace. Marina gathered some of what spilled over the fabric and, at last, moved away from my mouth. She brought her fingers to my lips, and I cleaned them slowly, the way she wanted, holding her gaze the entire time.

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

***

She got up and began gathering her clothes from the floor, calm, as if none of what had just happened had taken place.

“You can go pick up the boy now; let’s not make it late,” she said, buttoning her blouse. “He has school tomorrow.”

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

“Oh, no.” She stopped me with a gesture. “You’re not taking those off. They look wonderful on you. You’re going to pick up the boy like that, and you’re sleeping in them tonight. And tomorrow, you’re wearing them to work again.”

I looked at her, unsure 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, “my sister is picking up the boy tomorrow and taking him to the pool. I’ll be home at five-thirty. She’ll come at seven. So you’ll have the afternoon free.” She paused deliberately. “Get ready. I’ve thought of some new things for tomorrow.”

She closed the bedroom door, and I heard her humming in the hallway. I remained sitting on the edge of the bed, the damp 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.