She texted him that morning. Her ex, that is. She needed to come over to his apartment and collect some of her things. She asked if he could leave the keys with his doorman.
She also asked him if he would be out during the hours of 10 AM to 2 PM. He said yes to both, and added that he would be gone all day, gone to work. In some small way, she hoped she would see him. Perhaps, he would walk in on her as she was collecting her things? Or, maybe, she thought for a moment, she would show up early and catch him while he was still there? No. She was moving on. And, so was he.
Nonetheless, she missed him. His presence. His strong presence. She still loved him and wondered if he still loved her. He did. She knew he did. But, years had slowly worn them down. Their dynamic of avoidance and anxious attachment ebbed and flowed daily, predictably, like the tides. Or, so, her therapist would tell her. Either way, she missed him. In every sense. The presence of his strength and weakness. His rough and gentle touch. His surprising ways. His body. The smells; fragrant and pungent. His sexuality. His sensuality. Hi solid, uncut cock. The way it all came together. The way it all smelled. The way he looked naked in socks. Or, in a an old t-shirt. In jeans or, in a blazer adorned with his ostentatious pocket squares and pins.
As the day burnt through the morning, he ebbed and flowed into her thoughts. She would forgot and then remember, anxiously, avoidantly, about having to go to his flat to get her things. In some part, she liked the idea of her things there. Perhaps even perpetually. A connection to him, to them, a way of extending past into a future nearing disconnection.
Her work and errands were wrapping up as noon approached. She was in sweat pants and a bra, and a little sweaty from the warm, humid morning. She took a quick, cool shower. It felt good. She wondered if he would stay home waiting for her. Pretending he had forgotten she was coming to fetch her things. Wondered for a moment if she might come upon him. Perhaps, naked in socks or, in an old t-shirt. He seemed to always be naked in socks, or in an old t-shirt with his cock, just dangling, small and flaccid.
It made her laugh. It turned her on a little to think of him like that, again. Sometimes she would walk over to him and start suckling his little flaccid cock, nibbling and tugging on his foreskin with her lips and teeth while he was cleaning, or cooking, or on a call, and feel it grow in her mouth as he wriggled with pleasure and discomfort all at once.
The warm, humid morning had turned into a hot, sweltering afternoon. That made her think about what she might wear if he actually were to run into him. Something cute? Something slutty? No, he won’t be there. He wouldn’t be home. He would be at work. Just as he said he would be. And, in any case, she was moving on. And, so was he.
She put on a light cotton leotard over soft cotton panties and her comfortable jeans and sandals. The sandals he had purchased for her during their summer apart. There had been a lot of time apart. Many pauses over the last four years. Many break ups. The most painful one during the pandemic itself when others were in quarantine together, they were staying apart.
She arrived at the building just after 1PM. It felt like home. The doormen knew her. Her name was still in the system. Her emotions stirred. They stirred when she greeted the doorman with a hug. They stirred when she placed the key in the door and turned the handle. They stirred when she entered the flat. She could smell the latent scent of his breakfast. She knew exactly what he had made: egg-white scramble, butter and garlic mushrooms on the cast iron skillet, maybe also some left-over roast in the microwave, potatoes or root vegetables. His cologne, the one she had started wearing, hung in the air by the bathroom, by the entry door. She was stirring. Her body was stirring. What if he was there? What if she turns the corner, and happens on him, naked in his socks, or an old t-shirt? Flush and anxious, excited and stirred, her body warm and her heart beating a tad faster, she rounded the corner to find his home, their home, much as she had left it. He wasn’t there. He must be at work.
On the kitchen counter, at the far end she saw her things charmingly arranged. His gentle touch. His care with them. His care with her. She saw a note. A little note on green note paper nestled amongst her things. Her pulse rose briefly. Only briefly. She grabbed the note. Both little green note papers. She read the first, the one about letting her know that she was welcome to leave what she needed in the storage unit and pick it up later at any point. The second read as an PS.
“PS: I have a request. If you are wearing panties, please take them off and leave on the kitchen counter for me. Thank you.”
She read it twice. Trying to make sense of it. Unexpectedly, she was giddy. Flattered and aroused. Affirmed by his thoughts of her. By his arranging of her things and by his desirous, intimate request. She knew him. She knew he loved to smell her. To make her do things. She knew he loved to see her in her little panties. Her little g-strings. She felt remembered, unforgotten, and wanted all at once. Her pussy pulsed and dribbled a little. That tension between them, active once again. Pulling her to him, to them, as predictable as the tides. That ebb and flow of lust, and love. Mediated by distance and desire. And, by surprise. His request aroused her; the ad-hoc perversion, the clear instructions. So, did her instinctual sense of compliance. Her subjugation to his need; to her need; to their need.
For a moment she had forgotten what she was there for. She had forgotten what she was wearing. Was she wearing something cute? Something slutty? Were here panties clean? Where they dirty? Did they smell? Which panties was she even wearing? He liked the little pink, or red, or blue ones. He loved the way she smelled, when she was sweaty and unwashed.
She didn’t hesitate. She felt flushed and warm. She felt her pussy pulse and dribble a little more. She unzipped her jeans and flicked her leotard button off. She was wearing maroon cotton panties under her leotard, her basic every day reserve thongs. Nothing special. She slipped them of, inspected them, and smelled them. They were still clean but held a faint scent of her from the light, morning-use. Enough for him. She knew it would be.
Her pussy now slushing wet she slid her middle finger just past her slit to confirm how moist she had become. She smelled her finger and licked off the remnant juice. She smelled faint, lightly, morning-used.
She had to get going and still needed to go downstairs to the storage. She placed her panties o the kitchen counter, where he had arranged her things. She put her jeans back on. Thought about him discovering the small scented maroon gift after a full day in suspense. Her heart raced a bit faster and she took a deep breath.
Next to where she had placed her panties, she left for him a note on a new, yellow note paper. She knew where he kept them, his small colorful note papers. The note said:
“Thank you for organizing my stuff and for the storage keys. PS: Sorry, laundry day…so I left you my reserve pair that is just lightly, morning-used :)”