Member-only story
I Have An Underwear Fetish
The riper the better.
I have an underwear fetish.
Not mine though. Heavens no. I don’t wear them. Too restrictive. I need my freedom. No, I mean the underwear of others. The look, the feel, the scent. It all tells a story. The wearer’s story and I find it intoxicating.
Now, I’ve never cared much for the physical appearance of the underwear. Truth be told I don’t see colors all that well. For me, it’s all about the fabric. The way it feels as it brushes across my face as I’m inhaling deeply. Will the elastic scratch my nose as I breathe in aromatic details of the wearer’s day? Or will it tickle, caress even, as I let their unique perfume fill my nostrils, the soft touch and comforting aroma sending a tingle down my spine as I kick a shiver out my leg?
Underwear is no good to me unless it’s fresh off the body or out of the dirty clothes hamper. Clean underwear does nothing for me. It doesn’t have a story. It doesn’t tell me of the day they had. It’s food without seasoning, and I need that salt and pepper.
With my best friend, when his back is turned, I love nothing better than to slip my nose into his discarded clothing and find those ripe boxer briefs. I can’t always be with him during the day, and he doesn’t always disclose what he went through, so I let the incense of his spent…
