Col Wilma Deering
Fans of the 80s Buck Rogers TV programme will remember Wilma Deering. She was blonde of hair, long of leg, and wore skintight green satin catsuits. I was so obsessed over her - my first crush - that I wrote to Jim'll Fix It so I could meet her, or watch her on the toilet, or anything just to be in the same room as her. I even made friends with a smelly retard at school (who was later transferred to a mental institution) because he had her sticker in the Buck Rogers sticker annual.

So imagine my ecstasy when a cousin in Pasadena, California, whose dad owned a laundrette that Wilma used to frequent said he could nick a pair of her panties and send them to me. He said they were very flimsy and silky. Just the thought of them gave me a boner for two weeks.

I virtually waited by the door until they arrived. And when they did, I rushed upstairs to open the package with the reverence I might have used to handle the True Cross with Jesus still on it (if I had been a Believer). They were - aptly enough - a silky green material and so soft that the mere touch of them in my hairy palms set off a rumbling in my nads.

They were clean, of course. Being an American, Corey (my cousin) would have had a schizophrenic epidsode if he'd had to handle dirty underwear. All the same - these were the very undergarments worn about the loins of Col Wilma Deering, whose arse had replaced any images I might have had of a Christian heaven. Just the sight of her moderately-sized breasts in that catsuit had already caused me to wank myself almost lame. And these were her PANTS!

Well, I must have spent the first three hours abusing myself with those delicate smalls draped across my face. Then I wrapped my throbbing tool in their coolness for one more eruption before I blacked out with effort. It was the beginning of a pattern that would see me almost hospitalised with onanistic activity over the coming weeks.

Then one day I came home from school to hear my mother telling me that she'd thrown away that 'green hanky' I'd left under my bed.

I howled a bestial cry of anguish and fell to the ground. I rolled and gnashed my teeth. I cried and blubbered like a litle girl with a bunch of nettles thrust up her arse crack. I was inconsolable.

"It was only a hanky," said my mother.

"No. NO! It was Wilma Deering's panties!" I yelled. "It was a godess' gusset! I have porked those crackers a hundred times and more! I have thrust my ardent young cock into their verdant folds and imagined her willowy hair about my balls on innumerable occasions! I have myself worn them to know my depleted testes in her pants!"

I didn't say those things. I said it had been my favourite 'hanky'. And by that time, Corey had been institutionalised for raping a pony and I had lost my supply line.
(frankspencer, Sun 17 Aug 2008, 17:04, 4 replies)

Oh, you young 'buck'!
See what I did there?

And such a lovely (self)-touching story for a Sunday evening.

Have a great week, Monsieur Spencer.
( Ghoti Fingers, Sun 17 Aug 2008, 23:12, closed)

You know,
I really want to believe this.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Mon 18 Aug 2008, 3:00, closed)

Although I have seen you around for quite awhile
I still find it hard to believe your tall tales.

sorry :p
(Poppet some assembly required., Mon 18 Aug 2008, 11:27, closed)

^^Arf! at above reply^^...

The people who don't understand you don't deserve you Frank...

I clicked until my finger dislocated.

For those concerned...I can categorically confirm that every word of Frank's post is true...

Well...he thinks it is anyway.

What he doesn't know is that I am Corey, the pony raping cousin from Pasadena, and those panties I sent him weren't from the lovely Wilma, but from some old boiler with a face like a bag of smashed crabs.

Still, it's good to know he got some milage out of the old dunghampers.

*winks*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 18 Aug 2008, 12:30, closed)