On Display

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2010

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In
jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United
States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to
Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are
explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission
note must remain attached.

Abstract: Wearing lingerie in public isn't supposed to be dangerous

Tim's wife was out of town for the week, and he shivered a little in delight
while pulling out the control top pantyhose.

He didn't have a large collection of lingerie - half a dozen panties of various
styles, one garter belt, and some packages of Hanes and L'eggs. There was an
art gallery opening this evening, and the control tops would be just daring
enough for him to actually wear in public. Definitely not the panties, there
was too much possibility of an errant line showing under his dress slacks.

Having showered and shaved with special attention to his groin, Tim worked the
pantyhose up his legs with some difficulty. The things were very snug clinging
as a sheath around his legs, and the tops of the thighs stopped just a bit
short of where his own legs ended. He bent and smoothed the nylon upward but
couldn't get it any higher. Oh well, the control top had plenty of space above
that point.

Tim walked from side to side in front of the mirror, admiring the smooth lines.
His cock was thickened but not really hard as he sat on the edge of the bed and
drew his slacks up. The feeling was ... unusual. He slid his wallet into the
back pocket, buttoned up his shirt and tucked the tails in between the control
top and the inside of the slacks. Shoes and socks for appearance sake, cell
phone and keys, and a jacket tossed over his shoulder made him ready to go
mingle amongst the unsuspecting crowd.

The only really strange part about walking and driving in the pantyhose was the
sensation in back where his cheeks rubbed together. He had never noticed it
when wearing cotton briefs - perhaps the briefs held his backside in place. The
parking lot for the gallery was full by the time he arrived, and he had to park
in the overflow lot a half block away. There was a sensual feel from the nylon
around his feet that worked its way up the insides of his legs. By the time he
arrived at the entrance to the gallery, the smile on his face had nothing to do
with the art being shown inside.

About twenty minutes into the event, circulating with a glass of champagne, Tim
realized that something wasn't right.

The sensations were difficult to decipher, but he realized that the top of the
control top wasn't holding. Very slowly, it was slipping down his stomach and
back. Well, that was unexpected but not unmanageable. The men's room was only a
few paintings further down the wall.

Unfortunately, only one stall with a door was working in the men's room, and
there was a line for that. For pete's sake, what did women do in such a
situation? Oh yes - they had more private stalls. Well, he'd just have to deal
with a bit of discomfort, and headed back into the gallery to circulate.

It was more than a bit of discomfort. The control top rapidly tugged down to
the tops of the thighs, leaving his cock brushing against his shirttails and
his bottom bare against the back of his slacks. Worse, the bit of material
between the two legs was very short and made it difficult for him to walk. His
thighs felt sweaty where they rubbed together. There was nothing he could do,
he'd just have to say a few good-byes and head to the car.

When he turned that direction, he saw Sharon, his first wife, right between Tim
and the door.

Sharon, bless her heart, had been totally civil about their breakup. She wanted
society and bright lights, where Tim was content with a quiet back-office job
that only got them into middle income. They had agreed on everything, even to
the point of using the same lawyer, then hugged and parted ways. He hadn't seen
her for - it must have been four years. Sharon, waving her drink for emphasis,
was intent on catching up over every day since then.

If she'd only stayed put, Tim could have dealt with it, but Sharon led Tim
through the whole gallery, never letting the conversation flag and making his
legs ache with the effort of walking normally. The good news was that the top
couldn't sag down any farther, the bad news that the material seemed to be
getting tighter around and between his chafing thighs. And Sharon, who must
have been on her third or fourth drink, kept him moving.

Finally she seemed to be running down, and not a moment too soon for Tim. They
agreed that they shouldn't stay out of touch so long, and Tim wished Sharon
luck in her new charity work. Success, he thought. Escape, he thought.

And that's when Sharon decided to give Tim a fond hug just like old times,
grinding her crotch against his and rubbing her hand over his ass. Even through
the fog of alcohol, Sharon's eyes opened wide recognizing something out of the
ordinary.

Tim managed to politely break the hug without returning the grope, and chewed
the inside of his cheek forcing his stride to look normal as he made it out of
the gallery doors and into the concealing night, his gait awkward but
increasing as he got farther from other people.

He set a record that night for speed removing pantyhose, and crumpled the
offending garment tossing it emphatically into the trash. He was home, and he
was safe.

Except for the flashing light on the answering machine with the caller ID
indicating it was from Sharon.

/END/

Endnote: Written for a FetLife contest to use the theme of "Trapped".