alex_bridges
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Don't Wanna Be (Prologue)
🕑 Added 2021-05-08 17:00:05 +0000 UTCAll characters are 18+
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He was just looking. He didn’t mean to do anything naughty, though he knew it was taboo. It wasn’t the first time he got caught at it, and those memories were still very fresh.
That’s why he jumped when she asked, “What are you doing?” He wasn’t expecting her home and had been so engrossed he hadn’t heard the garage door or her coming in or walking up the stairs.
He dropped them and spun around. “Um, nothing,” he said in the way that makes it obvious it was something.
“What do you have there?” She strode across her bedroom and saw her drawer open. “Are you looking at my panties?”
“Um, I was just putting the laundry away,” he lied.
She crossed her arms. “Where’s the laundry basket?” He didn’t respond, casting his eyes down and seeming to shrink in front of her as his ears turned crimson. “What were you doing with them,” she asked. He didn’t respond. “We’re you fondling them? Sniffing them? Maybe thinking of what I look like in them?”
“N-no,” he said.
She realized it wasn’t a game. He wasn’t being cute. He was terrified. “Hey,” she cooed and she leaned down to hug her husband, “it’s okay. It’s okay to admire your wife’s panties.” He was shaking in her arms. “Come sit down.” She guided him to the bed. He had his hang ups. In a way, she liked that he did. She liked taking care of him and the way he seemed smol and younger than his thirty years. But this was new.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. She wrapped her arm tightly around her shoulder. “I’m not mad. It’s okay to like your wife’s panties.” She had a way of disarming him that made him tell her things he wouldn’t tell others, but this was different. “Is that what you were doing?”
He shook his head. “Can we just forget about it? I’m sorry and I won’t do it again.”
“You have nothing to feel sorry for. I just wanna know what’s wrong so I can make it better.”
“I was just looking.”
“And touching, and it’s okay to touch.” She reached a hand furtively to the hem of her skirt. “Do you want to touch the ones I’m wearing?”
“Um, no. I mean yes, but ...” He lapsed into silence. It has been a slow process of getting him comfortable with physical intimacy. He’d been more eager to snuggle with her than to bed her, and he at last admitted he was a virgin at twenty-eight and was scared. She’s been so gentle and patient, using her body to teach him where everything was and how to make it feel good, and teaching him how she could make him feel good as well. Yet she was the one to always initiate sex. He enjoyed it very much, but she was the dominant one in the gentle, assured way she had about her. His shyness was endearing, and she enjoyed coaxing out of him his feelings and thoughts, of which he had many he was slow to share.
“You don’t? But why not,” she said playfully. “Aren’t I pretty?”
God yes, he thought. He adored her and worshipped her. She was the best thing that ever happened to him.
“I was,” his mouth was dry, and he swallowed effortfully. “I was looking and thinking...” This was very hard. Her hand on his shoulder, and the other rubbing his knee, the soft and reassuring touch, gave him the feeling he could tell her. Only her, and no one else. “I was looking because, um, you’re so beautiful, and I thought, maybe, if I, um wore them, then, uh, maybe I could be beautiful too.”
He’d said it. He looked up at her hopefully. She smiled that soft smile of hers, a smile of pity but with no condescension. A smile that said she loved him, wanted to help him, was sorry he had feelings that were so difficult for him, but that she would try to make them all better.
She took his hand and led him back to the dresser. “Which ones are your favorite,” she asked softly. She always spoke softly when he was unsure or shy so she could make him feel safe. He retreated at the sound of a harsh voice, not that she ever used one with him, but he came out of himself at her soft tones
“I can’t,” he said even more quietly. “I’m not supposed to. It’s wrong. I’m wrong.”
She quickly put her hand on his chin and turned his face to look her in the eye. “You are not wrong. You are never wrong. You have a feeling, and your feelings are not wrong,” she said sternly. Sternly, but in a calm way. “Do you believe me?”
His lip trembled and his eyes got misty. She took his other hand in hers and held them both. “Did someone tell you this was wrong once? Did someone else find you looking at panties?” He nodded. “Did someone else find you wearing them?”
He looked up at her again, his lip trembled faster until his composure collapsed and so did he against her body, wracking sobs spilling out at the triggered memory.
“Shh,” she cooed and patted his back. “You’re okay. Your feelings are not wrong. You are not wrong.”
“Please don’t stop loving me,” he cried.
“Never. Never ever.” She knew what had happened. His reaction made it obvious. It was them, his parents. They’d caught him, and they’d no doubt belittled him, and belittled him some more. That’s what they did because he was different. Belittled him until he’d internalized so many of the wrongheaded things they believed about him.
He clung to her, and she gripped him harder, holding him tight to herself. She’d met him as this shy, cute man, and after the first dates, when the small talk ended, he had a difficult time talking about anything of substance. Intimacy especially. She’s been so patient, so careful, asking questions and making sure each step of the way he felt ready.
Not the first time but the second time they’d been down to their underclothes, sitting on her bed, he was nervous to the point of being afraid to touch her. But she knew he was worth the time and effort. “Well,” she asked, “do you ever touch yourself?”
She didn’t panic when he burst into tears. She almost did. Instead, she’d put her hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t pull away. Then she put her arm across his shoulder. Then she hugged him, at each step of the way reading his signals telling her it was okay for her to do it. Then she held him until he stopped crying. He’d apologized again and again, said he’d go, but she held him since he made no move to get up.
“I don’t want you to leave unless you want to. Do you want to leave,” she asked. He silently shook his head no, his face buried in the crook of her arm. “Then,” she said, “why don’t we get dressed, and I’ll make you a glass of water and a snack, and we can talk. You’ll feel better with a little protein inside you.”
And they did talk. It wasn’t one conversation but many, and she’d done her research and spoke with a therapist, and when all her other friends told her he wasn’t worth it, to find someone who wasn’t broken, she’d gotten angry and defended him. He wasn’t broken, she’d said. He was just different and needed help, and she wanted to help him. He was sweet, and he was worth it. He was shy when he met her friends, and it took him a long time to like them and them a long time to understand why she was with him, but when they got to know him, they understood, and they liked him, too, and so did their boyfriends and husbands. They understood he was different. It wasn’t always easy to see how, and often he seemed like any other guy, but with her close friends, he let his guard down, and in subtle ways, he just wasn’t like the other men. Alone with her, she knew the real him, at least the layers she had peeled back so far. Sometimes, when he’d fall asleep with his head in her lap, she’d stroke his hair and whisper, “How much hurt is in you.” She was determined to get it all out, every last drop.
She reached for a tissue on the dresser. “You’re okay. Are you listening to me? You’re okay, we’re okay, and I love you very much.” He nodded and took a half step back from her. He sniffled and wiped his nose with his hand. She brushed his hand away and dabbed at his eyes, wiped the tears from his cheeks, and handed him another tissue to blow his nose. She held her hand out and took it, throwing both of them away in the wastebasket.
“I need you to talk to me right now. You okay?” He nodded. “Do you need to cry some more?” She always asked him that. She didn’t mind his tears. She knew they helped the bad feelings go away, and he had a lot of them when it came to intimacy.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Do you want to try some on,” she asked. “You can take them right off again if you don’t like them.”
“Yes … please,” he managed to say. He was shaking again.
“Which ones do you like most?” Her drawer was open.
“These,” he said and pointed to them. He didn’t want to touch them, not with her there. Bad memories.
“Can I ask why,” she asked as she picked them up. They were one of her least favorite pair. She didn’t remember why she’d even gotten them. They were much more girly than she preferred. She liked silk and satin in red or black; they made her feel sexy and dominant. The pastel lavender with the purple bow he’d pointed out were ones she didn’t think she’d ever worn.
He couldn’t answer, and she took the hint not to press him on it. “Well, let’s try them on. Do you want me to turn around?”
“Uh …” He swallowed again, tried to clear his throat, and couldn’t say anything. He felt frozen.
“Or,” she said, “I could help you. Can I help you?” He nodded, more of a jerk of his head, and swallowed again. She talked him through it. “Okay. I’m going to unbuckle your belt …” She moved slowly. “And unbutton your pants. And take down the zipper.” She paused and looked at him. He had a thousand-yard stair, looking through her. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. “And I’m going to take down your pants …” and she did, crouching as she did so. “Can you step out for me?”
She took his ankle and helped him lift his foot, guiding the pants over it and then doing the same again, leaving him in his socks and white jockeys below the waist. She folded his jeans and set them aside, then looked up. “Hey,” she said quietly again to get his attention, “Can I take your underpants off?” His head jerked in a nod again, and she reached again for the waistband of his underwear and slowly took them down, once more guiding them off his feet.
She took a quick glance at his body. He wasn’t hard. “Are you ready?” He didn’t respond. He clenched and unclenched his fists and seemed to jitter, his body almost vibrating with nervous tension. “Can you lift your foot for me,” she asked. He didn’t, so she lifted it for him, then the other one, and letting her fingers glide up his legs as she did, she slid the panties past his thighs and seated them over him.
As she did, he stopped shaking. He seemed to relax, and she appraised him again. He still wasn’t hard. He made a barely noticeable bulge in her panties, which were almost too big for his small frame.
“Are you okay,” she asked as she stood back up. His eyes glanced right and left, taking in the room again as though afraid someone would come in. “Honey, you okay,” she asked again.
“Y-yeah.”
“You wanna see,” she asked. He nodded, and she took his hand again and led him to the full-length mirror. “What do you think,” she asked.
He looked, and trying to hide it because he just thought that’s what he was supposed to do and did without even meaning to, he smiled. Just a little. He lifted his shirt to see them all at once. He turned left. He turned right. He twisted around to see the back.
“I …” He bit down on his lip and furrowed his brow. She could see he was struggling to say it, that he knew what he wanted to say and was struggling to do it. “I … like them.”
She smiled back, her told-you-it-would-be-okay smile. From behind him, she wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. “You know what I think,” she asked, “I think you look beautiful.” He blushed. “I think you look beautiful just like you hoped you would.”
He turned, still with her arms around her, and hugged her tight, resting his cheek on her breast. “Can I keep wearing them,” he asked.
“Of course, sweetheart. They’re yours now.” He squeezed her tighter. “Do you wanna talk about it some more?”
“Mmm-mmm. Not tonight.”
“Will you come help me make dinner?”
“Of course,” he said, feeling more himself, the fear of rejection gone. He wasn’t a frightened boy. He was her husband and a lot of other things, someone who worked and split the mortgage and the chores and was as much her support as she was his. He let her go and reached for his pants.
“You can leave them off, if you want.”
He smiled and let out a little chuckle, happy to leave them off. “I love you, Lucy. Thank you.”
“I love you, Michael. Any way you wanna be.”
