2 comments/ 118399 views/ 12 favorites The Pantry By: RealJ76 It had been a year since the incident with my mother in the hot tub, and we'd managed never to mention it since. While there had been a few awkward glances from time to time, we'd kept our silence. Not that I didn't remember it clearly enough. It figured rather prominently in my masturbatory fantasies. I'd even asked Kelly, my wife, to grow back her pubic hair for a bit in order to indulge a little recreation of the scene in our own hot tub. I frequently replayed the scene when Angela removed her towel, showing me her patch of brown curls before climbing into the water. Kelly never asked why I'd wanted her to grow hair again, and I wasn't about to share the reason. But that didn't last long. Kelly liked her bits trimmed neatly, if not shaved bare. But we had a few intense sessions in our tub. I also introduced some nipple pinching into our lovemaking. "That's great," she said, after she'd come. "I love it when you pinch them hard. What made you want to do that? You're not usually the pinching sort." "I don't know," I said. "It just seemed like something to try." I felt guilty as hell. The few times I was alone with Angela, it was as if nothing had happened. That was good. I loved my wife, and while the sex with Angela was intense and pleasurable, I didn't have any real desire to go there again. Angela seemed to share my attitude, at least as far as I could tell. Christmas was coming, and Angela was doing her annual marathon of Christmas cookie baking. Kelly had volunteered us to help her out. We arrived, and Angela and Kelly began the mixing of ingredients, and I was tasked with fetching items from the pantry when necessary. The pantry itself was of the large, walk-in variety. Angela cooked constantly, and her pantry was stocked with a wide variety of just about anything you can think of. It was about six feet square, with shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling. There were boxes along the floor, which often had to be moved in order to access some items. By noon I was becoming pretty familiar with the contents. "Kelly, dear," Angela said. "I believe we're getting low on flour." "Can you go check?" Kelly asked me, and I went dutifully to the pantry. But there was no flour left to be found there. "Sorry," I said, on returning. "Looks like you're out." "Don't worry, mom," Kelly said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'll run down to the store and get some more." "There must me more in that pantry," Angela said. "Maybe you just can't find it?" "Well, why not go look," Kelly said. "I'll run out and get some more, just in case. It will only take a few minutes." Kelly removed her apron and grabbed her coat and keys. "I'll be back in twenty minutes." Angela headed for the pantry, and I followed. I watched her closely from behind. Angela was wearing tight jeans, powdered with flour and spotted with water, and a black sweatshirt. It looked as though she had recently had her hair colored, as its usual streaks of gray were now brown with pale red highlights, tied back in a ponytail. "I think there might be some on the left shelf," Angela said, opening the door to the pantry. I glanced up, but couldn't see. Closing the door behind me, I began moving some of the boxes out of the way, which meant putting them in front of the door. Angela turned on another light. "I don't see any," I said. I heard a rustling noise, and turned around. Angela had shimmied herself onto the freezer, her legs spread. Her jeans were in a pile on the floor. Her bush was on display again, this time trimmed neatly so that her plump lips were visible. My cock was instantly hard in my pants. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were greedily taking in the lump in my pants. She spread her legs wider, and her hand dropped to her pussy. She slid a finger in easily, then removed it. She was obviously pretty wet. "Angela," I said, shaking my head. "I don't think this is a good idea." But she didn't say anything. She slid herself off the freezer and turned around, giving me a great view of her ass. She leaned over the freezer. I was only a foot or so away from her. I desperately wanted to slide myself into her right now. Kelly was gone. We had time. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. "I want you to do it in my bottom," she said. And she reached back and spread her cheeks with her hand, and I could see her puckered hole. She rubbed it with a finger, and I could see it tightening and releasing. I gave up. With a quick movement, I unbuckled my pants, dropping them to my ankles. My cock sprang out, hard and ready. I approached her, and my cock aligned naturally with her ass. She pressed against me, but there was the uncomfortable moment of rubbing skin without lubrication. "I need it in your pussy first," I whispered "Or, I can lick it if you want me to." I'd never done that before, even to Kelly. To myself, I sounded like an inexperienced kid. "It's dry." But Angela was already moving. She reached up and grabbed a small bottle of vegetable oil. She popped the fliptop open, reached back and drizzled a little on her hole. "Are you sure that's going to work?" I said, disbelievingly. She nodded. "I've used it before on my bottom," she said, matter-of-factly. Cock in hand, I rubbed it against her hole, spreading the lube around generously, enjoying the feel of her against the tip of my cock. She moaned, and pressed against me. My cock slid in an inch, and she breathed in sharply. "Are you ok?" I asked. She nodded. She lifted her shirt up above her breasts, and I could see that she was pinching her left nipple. I leaned forward, reaching for the other, and my cock slid into her ass further. Kelly and I had experimented with anal sex a few times, mostly with success. But somehow it had never felt quite like this. "It feels so good in my bottom," she said. Every time she said "bottom" I felt my cock throb harder. I pinched, and she wiggled against me. I could feel the wetness of her pussy against my balls. I withdrew slightly from her and then slid in again, slowly. She was tight. I wondered what she'd been putting in her ass with the oil. I imagined her in her bed, naked, with a bottle of oil and a cucumber. "You're so tight," I told her, as I slowly fucked her ass. She started to move in rhythm with me, as there wasn't much space to move around in the cramped quarters. She whimpered a little when I pushed the full length of my cock into her, but she kept fucking back. "I want you to do it in my bottom," she said, quietly but with a note of desperation. "I want you to come in my bottom." Her legs were trembling slightly. I pinched harder and she cried out. For a moment I wondered how long we'd been in the pantry, and when Kelly would be back. I fucked her harder. "Pinch my nipples hard," she said. I did. Every time I did she quickened the pace, pushing back against me as I slid the entire length of my cock into her. I was getting close to coming. My balls were slapping into her wet pussy with each thrust. Angela's hand slid from her nipple down to her pussy, where she was rubbing almost frantically at her clit. I heard a rattling noise, which I immediately recognized as the garage door, and knew that Kelly must be back. How the hell did twenty minutes go by so fast? Angela was fucking me hard, but not hard enough. I grabbed her hips and fucked her as hard and as fast as I could. She was moaning loudly, now, and I could tell she was close. "Come in my bottom." she moaned. That was enough for me. I felt my muscles contract as I shot my load into her ass. "That's it," she said. "Come in my bottom!" And she was coming too, I could tell, as her ass contracted around my cock, milking the come out of me. And it was done. I lay there half on top of her, pressed up against the freezer for a few moments until I realized that we had better get cleaned up. I slid myself out of Angela's ass, which elicited a groan from the woman, and then searched for my pants. Angela stood up, reached for some paper towels on the shelf and handed me a few. I wiped myself up as quickly and thoroughly as I could, and Angela was doing the same. In moments we had our clothes back on, and I was moving the boxes back out of the way. I looked out into the kitchen but didn't see Kelly anywhere. I entered the kitchen, with Angela following close behind. We both looked rumpled and tired. Glancing into a small mirror on the wall, I straightened my hair out, or at least tried to. Angela walked to the front door and peeked out through one of the sidelights. "She's not back yet," Angela said. "I thought I heard the garage door," I said. Angela scampered down the hallway to the door leading to the garage and opened it. "It's empty," she said. "Sometimes the heater sounds a lot like the garage door." Just then, I heard an approaching rumble and the grinding of wheels against the gravel of the driveway. "There she is," Angela said, a note of relief in her voice. She turned back to me, and looked like she was about to say something, but instead she simply flashed a half-embarrassed smile at me. I understood. Again, she wanted to keep things quiet. I could understand her situation. She was retired, her husband had died a few years earlier. She was young, at forty-eight, to be on her own and without companionship. She didn't meet many men, and few of those were worth wasting time on. And there was me, married to her daughter of course, but safe in every other way. When the frustration got to be too much, she found a few moments of release with me, knowing that she could trust me not to say anything. The door opened and Kelly entered. "I was right," I said. "No flour in the pantry. Thanks for going out." "It was no problem," Kelly said. "The store was a little busy—you know, all that last-minute shopping." She leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the lips. I felt guilty yet again, as I very well should. I could never tell her what Angela and I had done, now done twice. And again I was stabbed by the reality that I wasn't really attracted to Angela in the same way I was to Kelly. Kelly would have no reason to be jealous. I'd have to find some way of making this right. Until then, I had a few new things to try out with Kelly in the bedroom when we got home. The Panty Burglar Davide (pronounced Da-VEED) was a burglar par excellence. A former Cirque du Soleil acrobat, Davide had been forced to "retire" at the tender age of 25 following a scandal with a Chinese contortionist. Nevertheless, this being Canada, and more importantly the province of Quebec, Davide received a generous termination settlement. Bored to tears and despondent over this sudden new unchallenging "phase two" of his life, Davide briefly considered suicide—until discovering the magical powers of a certain American brand of antidepressant he "lifted" from a friend of a friend's house during a party one weekend. That and a face-powder tin full of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine. The breakthrough, the epiphany if you will, in Davide's new life came one day while feeding his sister Sophie's cat, also named Sophie. Sophie—the sister—was as beautiful as her brother was handsome. Like Davide she had a trim, lithe body and like Davide Sophie was a performer. Having worked sporadically for several years in both Montreal and New York as a stage actor and dancer, Sophie now had a permanent gig at a dance club exotique in Longueuil. Her apartment was conveniently located nearby. It was here, at the club, that Sophie met one of Quebec's richest men, an Egyptian financier. And it was this gentleman Sophie was now on a private yacht with, somewhere in the Caribbean's blue waters. While she was gone Davide had agreed to feed Sophie the cat. It wasn't like he had anything else to do. It was after filling Sophie's bowl and refreshing her water that Davide began nosing around Sophie's—the sister—personal effects. Finding nothing of interest in her medicine cabinet—she'd packed up all the good stuff for the trip—Davide moved on to her bureau. Because of its mahogany height, and just for kicks, Davide, while Sophie the cat looked on with interest, had climbed atop the bureau and was hanging upsidedown by his toes. It was in the third drawer down—well, up—that Davide hit the motherlode. He flipped to the floor in excitement. For to a man with a panty fetish, such as Davide, discovering a beautiful woman's underwear drawer is the equivalent of a pirate opening a treasure chest brimming with gold doubloons. Davide ran his hands through the silky, sisterly treasure. He brought pair after pair to his face. He caressed them, he breathed in their perfume. He— Having chosen a particularly silky, lacy, racy, lavender pair, Davide dashed to the mirror with them. He barely managed to get his trousers undone and his throbbing hard-on out. And barely managed to get the luxurious seat of the panty wrapped his cock, and more importantly its head—Davide was Jewish, well, half—when the involuntary explosion occurred. Davide let out a shriek and watched in horrified amazement as lavender turned a spreading grey while thick clots of white leaked out a leghole. Davide looked at the parquet floor, newly decorated. Another shriek. A curious Sophie was slinking toward it. "Beat it!" he cried, in English. (Sophie was a rescue cat Sophie had picked up in New York, and she only understood l'anglais.) Followed, in French, by: "Sophie's gonna kill me!" After rinsing the poor panty out in the bathroom sink and leaving it to soak in detergent, and after mopping up his floorboard mess, Davide instead offered Sophie a saucer of soy milk and then collapsed on his sister's ratty couch with a Molson. It was at this precise moment—well, a beer or two later—that the epiphany occurred. There are thousands of beautiful women in Montreal, he reasoned. No, hundreds of thousands. And they all have Facebook pages and Instagram. Their location is easily enough found out. I, by day, Davide said to himself, could begin breaking into their apartments while they're at work and, after obtaining my "release," as I have just done now (Merci, Sophie mon cher!), steal the silky source of my comfort. And start a varied collection. A trophy room if you will. Like the cups and medals and ribbons and awards an Olympic gymnast might keep, behind glass. Only mine (trophy room, that is) will be a bedside drawer. For, you know, convenience's sake. Now. I will need (Davide went on, pacing in front of Sophie the sister's window, while Sophie the cat observed), since it will be daylight, a white costume. No, black. Skin-tight, but with a big pocket in front. Maybe Aunt Genet could sew me up something custom. Gloves, which I already have. Check. A compact jimmying tool. (Note to self: Look up options on the internet.) Nylon rope. Check. What else? A pistol? NON! Ziplock plastic bags. The freezer kind. Large. Easily obtained at the neighborhood grocery store. (Another note: Remember to buy them one box at a time. So as not to arouse suspicion.) Davide clapped his hands, to Sophie's ears-back surprise. The deed, while not done, aside from today, was nevertheless fully realized. The die was cast. "I shall become," Davide declared aloud, "a cat burglar!" "Meow?" Sophie inquired. "What?" Davide asked in English, before heading to the bathroom sink muttering French. Davide's various roles in the circus had prepared him brilliantly for his new avocation (since he was not stealing money it could hardly be termed a vocation). In the bright glare of broad daylight he could scale a four-story fire escape, jimmy a window and slip through it in the time it would take a normal person, even a halfway athletic one, to mount the first flight of metal steps. And since he was an exceedingly quick cummer the time he dwelled in this or that woman's, or couple's, apartment was brief indeed. His panty collection grew and grew. As did his once seemingly irreparable self-esteem. When not breaking into people's homes he walked down the street with his chest out and a broad smile on his face. I am King! he liked declaring. A Prince, anyway. The Prince of Panties! he would laugh outloud, invariably drawing the attention of others in the hair salon he frequented. ("What's with that asshole?" was often heard. Davide, however, on top of the world by now, could not have cared less.) True, there were occasional blunders. Miscalculations. A new roommate still in the apartment after his beautiful panty-target had long left for work. A sleep-over boyfriend he hadn't counted on. That kind of thing. But these were minor obstacles, mere bumps in the road. For the ever-resourceful Davide could back out of a window as quickly as he could enter one. And by the time the police arrived, if they did arrive, a bounding Davide would be three blocks away, enjoying a craft beer in one of Montreal's drab neighborhood bars. Huh! he thought. You might as well try to catch a chimpanzee on the loose. Or orangutan. Good luck! Davide's long-running success as Montreal's panty burglar stemmed from the care he took with his victimless victim's cum-filled undergarment. After "doing the deed," and having learned from his spillful first-time experience with Sophie the sister's lavender-and-lace string bikini, Davide took great care in his choosing and subsequent handling of the freshly soiled and sopping wet "trophy." By sticking with larger styles (French-cut was fine, although he drew the line at anything skimpier than a hipster, or a size 6) and, once masturbated in, carefully removing and then folding over that day's chosen panty, and inserting it with additional sticky care into the ziplock freezer bag, Davide avoided the possibility of detection. Just as his gloves (which he removed, one of them, in order to jerk off) obviated fingerprints, so his ziplock Glad bags denied his pursuers DNA evidence. Couple that with his gymnastic prowess, and Davide, over and over again during an eight-month period, was repeatably able to commit...the perfect crime. He became known, when known at all, as the ever-elusive "Panty Burglar of Montreal." The beginning of Davide's downfall came innocently enough on a Tuesday, late morning. It could not have been more routine. It was snowing and Davide had switched to the white costume Aunt Genet had customized for him. A male and female couple occupied (though not at the moment) this particular abode and Davide, after choosing a panty from the drawer, quickly jacking off into it and "zipping" it, had his eye caught by something on a second perpendicular dresser he presumed to be the husband's. At any rate it had bottles of men's cologne on its lace doily. In addition there was, on the far left, a squat jar with a yellow label. Davide took a moment to walk over to it. On label's left side was the black image of a medieval knight holding a jousting lance. To the right of this, black on yellow, was the product's bold name: CUM-A-LOT Davide picked the jar up, read the back of the label: "Directions: For first-time user man, apply liberally over both testicals [sic] twice daily. After two weeks reduce supplication [sic] to once daily. Results can best be prophesized [sic] after 3 weeklongs [sic]. Stop usage eminently [sic] should swelling to access [sic] or burning fire result. Not for oral consumption. Increase [sic] sperm count or potency of man not included. Guarantee or You're [sic] Money Back. Product of China." Hm, Davide thought, pocketing the jar along with his wet panty trophy. Later that day he looked up Cum-A-Lot on the internet. The website was in English. That is to say, intelligible English. Davide read: Cum-A-Lot is an amazing breakthrough in increased semen volume production. Scientifically tested, Cum-A-Lot has been shown to increase semen volume by as much as 100% or more after regular application. Applied directly to the testicles by a male or his partner (pregnant women should avoid contact with the product, or wear hazmat-grade gloves) Cum-A-Lot is unconditionally guaranteed to increase semen volume beginning in as little as three weeks, when properly applied. (Results will vary.) If you're not completely satisfied with the Cum-A-Lot cream you may return it for a full refund on your credit card. Simply pay for return shipping to China. For more information about the kind of results you may experience after using our product, click on the Testimonials button below. Millions of happy Cum-A-Lot users around the globe have entrusted their faith in our product in order to increase semen volume and the consequent enhancement of their partner's pleasure. Be Amazed! Try Cum-A-Lot! Hm, Davide again thought. The jar he'd stolen had been nearly empty. And the best deal seemed to be the "Triple Play:" three jars for $185. Time to dip into his termination settlement again! Davide clicked buy. He couldn't wait. Thank god it wasn't the Chinese New Year... Eschewing saving three-day loads for his panty runs, Davide, product now in hand, decided to do a little experiment. Having purchased a box of non-lubricated, receptacle-end Trojans at the corner store, Davide, properly sheathed and after just one day's rubbing of the cream onto his shaved balls, masturbated. He then weighed the outcome on a little scale he had. A miniature, plastic "scales of justice" given to him by his parents one Christmas prior to their acrimonious divorce. Since he had no weights, per se, he used Molson beer bottle caps. Three, four...six. Six in all. He made a note. Three weeks later, after assiduously using the product and ignoring the warning about cutting back to once daily application after two weeks, Davide conducted another condom experiment. Holy shit! He didn't have to weigh the three-day load to see the difference. He weighed it anyway. And ran out of beer caps at the count of 13. Holy fuck! This stuff is great! It was right after this, at his next burglary, that Davide sealed his own acrobatic fate. The panty was pink. Silky microfiber. With lace. It really felt good. (Don't they all?) But his cum went everywhere. Squirted out each leghole. Out the lace waist perforations. Even through the seat's fabric. Davide had never seen so much semen! And once he and three other male performers had gotten drunk and had a circle jerk. It got all over his hand. Some dripped on the dresser. More, much more dripped to the floor. Which is to say the bedroom's thick, knotty carpet. (Unfortunately for Davide it was not a Stainmaster.) Davide cleaned it up the best he could. But it was hopeless. The fucking rug! He heard footsteps and had to exit. He'd left the panty drawer open. Mon dieu! Detectives from the municipal police department showed up at his door three days later, just as he was about to perform another experiment. They had a warrant. He was charged with one count each of breaking and entering and burglary. "But," as the lead detective went on to say, "if you're who we think you are there's lots more to follow." There was. 48 counts in all. 48 times two. When, the night of his arrest, he asked the police how they'd been able to nail him the lead detective, a paunchy guy named Simenon, replied: DNA evidence. "Yeah but how can you prove it's mine?" Davide asked hopefully. "It was a match. A perfect match with the sample you were required to give when that Chinese contortionist brought workplace harassment charges against you a year ago." "Oh." "And believe me, the lady in the apartment you robbed wasn't too happy about having to replace her wall-to-wall carpet either. So you can expect a lawsuit from her too." Great, a handcuffed Davide thought. Just great. He pled guilty, what the hell. The court's sentence was harsh. Seven years in prison—but with the possibility of parole after 13 months. Harsh by Canadian standards, in other words. Davide's second life was over, however. Ruined. Caput. He was an object of ridicule around the world. The Panty Burglar, the Canadians dubbed him, his picture plastered all over the newspapers and online. In nearby towns like New York and Philadelphia the tabloids called him The Montreal Panty Burglar, while in other more distant, geography-challenged places, such America's deep south, he was merely referred to as the Canadian Panty Burglar. Whatever, his infamy was universal. He had one visitor the whole while. Sophie drove to the prison outside Quebec City on weekends about once a month. She looked haggard. The thing with the Egyptian banker hadn't worked out. "When he's not banging me," she lamented, "he's trying to make me wear a burka. Fuck that." "Oh," a dejected Davide would reply, absent-mindedly. One thing she said did brighten his day, however. Sophie offered him a temporary place to stay after he got out of prison: her apartment's second "bedroom." "Keep in mind I sometimes bring guys home," she advised. "From the club. So you'll have to keep to your closet. Your room, I mean." "Oh, right. Sure." "And help me take care of Sophie while I'm at work," Sophie added. "I keep her litter box in that room." "I'll scoop it. No problem." Davide sat there trying to disguise his emotion. His bubbling joy. It was about to spill out of him like a load of Cum-A-Lot-enhanced semen. For the first time in months he had something to be happy about. As he lay in his cell night after night it was all he could think about. Well, that and...He couldn't wait! At last he had something to look forward to: Carte blanche access to his sister's panty drawer!