Laundry Day [Stepdaughter] [Panty Fetish] [Comission]

If my wife had just let me fuck her, none of this would have happened.

I woke up before my alarm with morning wood. Liz was asleep beside me. It was still two hours before she had to leave to go into work—the restaurant didn’t open until lunch on weekdays. I rolled onto my side and pressed myself against her, pulling her toward me and kissing her neck. She groaned.

“What are you doing?”

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Bill, I’m tired.”

“That’s fine, my love,” I whispered as I caressed her left breast. “I’ll do all the work.” She shoved her shoulder against me.

“I’m serious. Knock it off. I’m not in the mood.”’

I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling.
Not in the mood, I thought to myself. What a shock.

I scolded myself for being bitter. Liz was a good woman. She was a hard worker, and a good mother to her daughter. But after her daughter, Katie, had started college, Liz had opened her restaurant like she always dreamt, and although she loved it, it exhausted her. I could count on one hand the times we had had sex in the two years since then.

I got up, made myself a cup of coffee, and booted up my laptop to start my workday. Liz came and found me before she left for work.

“Do you mind doing a load or two of laundry for me?” she asked.

“No problem, babe.”

“Thanks a million. Oh, and there’s one load of Katie’s clothes that she forgot when she was visiting over winter break—don’t forget to wash those, she said she’d probably come home for the long weekend.”

“I told you two hours away wouldn’t be too bad,” I told her. “Have a great day, sweetheart.”

I waited for the door to close, and then made my way to the basement to start on laundry.

In the time since Liz’s restaurant opened, I had found myself progressively shouldering more and more household tasks, especially since I worked from home. I had resented it at first, admittedly, but laundry had quickly become the chore to make it all worth it.

I had a routine of it. I poured the detergent into the washer, took a deep breath of lavender Tide. Then I threw in my clothes, letting them settle on the bottom, heavy jeans and worn-out t-shirts. Next came Liz’s clothes, comfortable pants and colorful blouses. Then came her panties.

Those I took my time with. I handled them one at a time. The first pair today was silky and blue. It was smooth and soft against my fingers. I caressed the outside, and then began to circle the inside of it with my thumb. This pair had a hardened bit but still had a damp spot at the center. I closed my eyes, taking in the texture, and then brought it up toward my face and inhaled. As I breathed in Liz’s scent, my cock began to stir in my jeans. I stood there, inhaling, and then tossed that pair of panties in the washer. I picked up the next one, a red lacy number, and did the same.

I had been doing this for at least a year now. At first I had tried not to—I had felt ashamed. I’d always enjoyed my wife’s scent, but until I had started doing the laundry more often, I guess I hadn’t fully appreciated every aspect of it—the way it still lingered, after days. I felt like some sort of pervert, at first, but hey—this isn’t just some woman, it was my wife, my wife’s clothes. And, yeah, sure, these days, this was usually the closest I got to her pussy.

So that was part of it. The intimacy. Maybe I just missed my wife, you know? Missed being close to her in all the ways a man can be. And maybe the secrecy was part of it—Liz and I had been together for six years now, and I had never cheated on her, hell, never lusted after any of her friends. I wasn’t a guy with a ton of secrets. So maybe it turned me on a little to have just one.

But, honestly, neither part of those came close to describing the full experience of it. Because that’s what it was, an experience. It was sensory. Each pair of panties had a different texture to it—silky or course or soft, against my fingers, my hand, my cheek… They each held in her scent differently, an intoxicating mixture of sweat and secretions. My beautiful, hard-working wife—these panties got to stay with her through each of her days. I liked to believe that she got aroused in them, too—they caught her juices in those rare moments where a certain actor caught her attention, or when I caught her smirking and knew she was thinking of a moment long ago.

So, I liked to think that it was sweet, really, not perverted, just a man appreciating his wife in ways he didn’t always get to. Nothing wrong with that.

And I was washing them, after all. So there was nothing wrong with the fact that, with her second pair of panties in my right hand, my left hand made its way to unbutton my jeans and pull down my zipper. As I breathed in another whiff of my wife’s scent, I freed my cock from my boxers, a great tension lifting from my body, from my soul. My dick rose as I inhaled.

I opened my eyes, tossed the red panties into the wash, and grabbed two cotton pairs from the laundry basket. Honestly, the cotton were my favorite. They weren’t as “sexy” as her lacy black and red pairs, as her silky ones. But there was something so soft and comforting about the texture, and something about them held in her scent and her juices better than any other kind of underwear. They weren’t showy, or flashy, they were honest, pungent and bold. I held one at my nose and held one in my other hand. I brushed it softly against my cock. Then, more firmly, I ran it along my shaft. Fuck, I was hard. I had woken up horny and it had just continued to build, and already I felt ready to burst. As I inhaled, my hand went downward on my cock, then when I exhaled, I brought it toward me. It was fucking meditative, this tradition of mine. It made me a better, calmer worker, a more attentive husband. Hell, it got me to do the laundry regularly.

It was becoming harder to form coherent thoughts. I took a shuddering breath and drew my hand away from myself. I emptied the remainder of clothes in the laundry basket into the washer, except for one pair of panties, my favorite. They were one of my wife’s oldest and had started to develop little holes. The inner crotch of them was stained, that beautiful orange-pink color that signifies that specific bleaching from the wetness of a woman’s pussy. I started the load, and the washer whirred to life, my wife’s panties dancing and tumbling in the soapy water. I leaned against the wall opposite the washer, and again took the panties with my right hand and wrapped them around my cock. Up and down the panties slid against my shaft, my precum making them smooth against my skin. I moved my hand to the rhythm of the washer, a steady tumbling. My heart quickened within my chest. My breaths began to shake. Every so often, I took the panties up toward my face and took a deep breath in. Each time I did so, it felt more sensitive when my hand returned. My cock touched every each of those panties, of the areas stained by my wife’s pussy. Those panties had cupped her ass firmly while she worked, while she sang to herself as she washed dishes, while she spoke with her daughter on the phone and told her that she loved her and missed her. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

I erupted suddenly, spurts of thick white cum erupting into Liz’s panties. I crumpled against the wall and breathed deeply, and used her panties to wipe off every last drop of semen from my cock. Finally, I discarded the panties in the empty laundry basket—I’d wash them with the next load—and made my way upstairs to get back to my job (not that the bastards couldn’t survive a few minutes without me. They never seemed to notice my absence.)

A short while later, the washer let out its cheerful tune letting me know the load was finished. I made my way downstairs and moved the clothes into the dryer. The fun part was done, and normally I was fully satisfied at this point, but today, there was still something stirring deep within me. Maybe it had been too long since the last time I’d gotten off and I just needed something more. Maybe I’d been too distracted today. Either way, I felt like I’d just eaten a really good meal that was way too small. I tried to push this feeling away. I still had the bulk of a workday to complete, and other chores to do.

After starting the dryer, I turned to a small white laundry basket to start another load of laundry. As I did so, I noticed some small white drops against the gray concrete floor—apparently, I hadn’t caught all of my cum earlier. I absentmindedly grabbed a piece of clothing from the laundry basket and scrubbed the cum off of the floor. It was only when I saw the gooey white against the backdrop of some unfamiliar, pink-laced black panties that my heart sank with the realization that I had just used my stepdaughter’s underwear to clean my semen off of the basement floor.

I hurried to the washer and threw that pair of panties in the washer and tried to ignore the bulge in my jeans. I could feel the redness on my cheeks. I began to load the washer with other clothes from the basket of Katie’s apparel. Low-cut sweaters and high-waisted jeans fell into the washer. But before I knew it, I found myself holding another one of her panties. I brought it to my face, very slowly, as if I were afraid of the motion being detected by some cosmic entity—but really, who would know? No one would ever know.

I brought the leopard-print panties to my face and tentatively took a whiff. I was nearly knocked off my feet.

I had always thought my wife’s scent was indescribable, but her daughter’s blew it out of the water.

Katie’s panties contained a scent that was stronger, more acrid. It made my wife’s scent seem tame in comparison. The fact that her clothes had been sitting in the hamper for the last few weeks only amplified these effects. I held her panties an entire arm’s length away from my face to admire them, and still I could smell them. Again I brought them to my face and inhaled.

Intoxicating.

The pressure from my erection rubbing against my jeans became too much to bear, and I pulled down the zipper from my jeans. I felt dizzy. My loins were on fire.

I finished throwing most o Katie’s laundry in the washer and hit “start”, but doing this simple task felt like a Herculean feat. I tried to concentrate on work, tried to go upstairs, but it was like a magnetic force was keeping me down here.

No one would ever know, I reminded myself.

I began to touch myself with an animalistic frenzy. Once this barrier was broken, it was like all the others fell alongside it. I pictured Katie in the morning, these panties visible beneath her oversize sleeping shirt as she stood on her tiptoes to grab a bowl from the cabinet. Her ass was incredible, I admitted it now, pale and firm and round. Her calves were toned, her thighs strong. By her scent, I could imagine what her young pussy looked like, not yet ravaged by the trials of age or motherhood. Hell, I could almost taste it. I lost myself in these visions. I lost myself completely to the material world, let myself sink into a swirl of imagined sensations. How would it feel to slide my tongue across her clit, to lick up her wetness as it slid down her thighs. God, I would kill to plunge my fingers into her pussy, to listen to her moan. She had probably fingered herself in this very house, lying in bed just down the hallway from me. Maybe the two of us had come in the same night, maybe at the same time. Sure, she hadn’t been an adult when her mother and I first started dating, but we hadn’t spent much time together then, and now, well now she was an adult, not even a “teen” after her name. She was a grown woman. There was nothing wrong with acknowledging her perky tits, her plump ass, and her smell, god her smell, I swam in it now, I wanted to drown in it. I could feel an orgasm building.

“Oh my god,” I moaned.

“Oh my god!” I heard.

My eyes shot open, and my heart sunk in horror. At the top of the stairs stood Katie herself, in the flesh and not just a figment of my imagination. She wore black yoga pants and a white hoodie and held a canvas bag full of clothes in her left hand. I had known she was coming home, but it was too early, she wasn’t supposed to be here yet.

I knew I should stop, but it was too late, now. I came. In full view of my stepdaughter, her dirty panties in my hand, my cock shot out three thick pumps of cum, which landed on the floor at the foot of the staircase below her.

Katie dropped her bag of laundry, turned around, and ran out of the basement, slamming the door behind her.

My mind blank, my body gripped by a mix of boiling shame and post-orgasm bliss, I stood without moving. The only sound was that of the washer and dryer behind me. I breathed slowly. Perhaps, if I did not move, time would not move forward, and I would not have to deal with the fallout of what had just occurred.

My arms fell to my side and my palms opened. Katie’s panties fell to the ground beside me, where they crumpled delicately against the concrete floor.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/sf6tcm/laundry_day_stepdaughter_panty_fetish_comission