Panties

I haven't talked about my job much. I work as a clothier, which means I technically work on women's undergarments. I should be repairing brassieres, panties and corsets. I should be mending tears, rebuilding underwires and resizing corsets as the client grows or shrinks.

The reality is far less interesting. Mr. Everett does all the actual repairs. He works in the back with his assistants while I sit out front behind the desk. Mr. Everett says that all of his new assistants do this but I am dubious. I'm not sure what manning the registrar and writing down order forms does for me as a clothier. I shouldn't complain too much I guess. It is a ridiculously high paying job where my only trouble is dealing with women who have damaged underwear.

The one good thing is that I get a tiny amount of work to do. Sometimes we don't have a client come in for hours, so Mr. Everett keeps me busy by giving me panties to mend. At first I used to find it a little boring but after getting yelled at by one client for the really crappy job I did, I take it a lot more seriously. It can be really interesting. You have to get the thread color just right. You have to simulate the stitch or else the fix can look worse than the tear. It's less about repairing panties and more about recreating them. Every pair of panties are different and you really don't appreciate that till you have to find the right shade of crimson lace to go along the edge of a waistband.

I wasn't going to mention my job. I mean, it's sexy and all but I thought I would keep a little but to myself. I'm telling you about how I like it when Ms. Nuit's fingernails grip around my balls so you can forgive me if I want to keep somethings to myself. I had worked out a fake job to tell you about and even researched it a little but now that seems so stupid.

Plus, I really want to tell you about Mrs. Avfyra and her panties.

Mrs. Avfyra is a large woman with golden red hair. There is something just big about her, from her smile, to her rosy cheeks, to her immense bust to her very wide hips. She's so loud and her hair always floats like a halo around her head. It's thick and heavy but there is just so much of it that it fills your vision. I like her a lot. She's always happy and her panties are like nothing else.

The first thing you notice is how sweet they smell. Her panties smell like applesauce. There's nothing else to describe it like. At first I thought it might be perfume, or some sort of detergent scent. If you put them beside other panties, they will start to smell too.


You know how a bad apple spoils the barrel? With Mrs. Avfrra's panties, it's like they are the apple that makes rotten apples edible again.


Mrs. Avfrya is a large woman like I have said, so her biggest problem is in the back where the material strains. They often need to be patched and I have to admit that this kind of repair is my least favorite kind of work to indulge in. With Mrs. Avfrya's panties, I never mind. With the smell of apples filling my senses, it's an honor to repair them. It's like fixing summer.

Yesterday she came by to pick up a pair she left with us. It was a bright green pair of panties with a blue flower pattern. I had to rebuild one flower petal by petal with my thread but I did it. I'm supposed to charge an hourly rate but for Mrs. Avfrya I always cut it by half. I do that because when I work on hers, I take my time soaking in her scent.

When I showed the fixed pair to her, her cheeks got so bright and happy. She leaned across the counter and hugged me so tight to her bountiful breasts. I happily allowed myself to be smothered as the scents of apples enclosed my face.

It took all I had not to open my mouth and lick that beautiful cleavage.

When she released me from her grip, my vision was swimming. Her hair seemed to light the air on fire. It might be November but I was sweating from the heat of essence. I wanted to dive back into her breasts and stay there.

"I have two more pairs for you," she said in that thick accent of hers. "Can they be done by Friday?"

I picked them up. One was pink like a sunset and the other was black lace. Both were torn across the back. The lace one was going to be trouble I could tell.

They both smelled of apples.

"Certainly," I told her. She didn't hug me, but her smile warmed me the rest of the day.