Fiction: Wherein Nothing Happens

[transcribed from a notebook]

Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she had any idea what the result would be.

She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always wore revealing clothes, but always managed to look very classy nonetheless. There was nothing sleazy about her at all. But she was extremely femininie. She is one of those women who are so beautiful that you have to keep reminding yourself that she is human.

Even her underwear was gorgeous. It pains me now to think of her. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid talking about how wonderful the sex was. Just imagine: getting hot and sweaty with the very epitome of womanhood. She could have just lain there motionless and I would have had an awesome time.

One time after a particularly intimate lovemaking session, she proposed a brief closet swap. I don't know if she had any idea what it would do to me. I held im my hand her gorgeous silk panties. I could only picture how astonishinly sexy she looked in them. It was like holding the very essence of her femininine sexuality in my hand. I was afraid of them. I oculdn't imagine applying that femininity to myself. She giggled at my hesitation. It was a big deal for me.

I could only imagine the consequences of wearing her panties, even for a moment. What if I liked it? Would it compromise my manhood? I contemplated it for days. Logically, it's ludicrous. Nothing can change the physical fact of my masculinity, but there's so much more to it than that. I could imagine it on me now, and it aroused me to no end. Already I knew I was in trouble.