Secret Silks & Schoolgirl Dreams

The humid air of a sweltering summer afternoon clung to the humidified air of the school bus, thick with the scent of adolescent sweat and nervous anticipation. I was ten, a scrawny kid with a mop of unruly brown hair and a secret obsession that simmered beneath my skin like a slow-burning ember. It wasn't baseball cards, video games, or even the latest Marvel movie that consumed my thoughts; it was the glimpses I caught of forbidden delights – lace, satin, and the sheer, captivating beauty of exposed feminine flesh.

The world before the late 60s, as I remembered it, was a world of long skirts and modest dresses. The school dress code, rigidly enforced by both public and private institutions, demanded that girls wear skirts or dresses, and as the decade progressed, hemlines plummeted, revealing glimpses of what lay beneath. Concealed beneath these garments were the treasures I craved: soft, shiny panties and delicate lace-trimmed slips. These were the objects of my burgeoning desire, a silent, thrilling secret that fueled my awkward adolescence.

My mother’s weekly gatherings with her “club” ladies were a constant source of unintentional education. During one such evening, I was playing with my toy trucks near the dining room table, lost in my own world while they engaged in lively conversation. The scent of perfume and expensive cigarettes mingled with the air, and the casual display of lace-trimmed slips, silky stocking tops peeking out, and occasionally, a flash of white pantyhose, was an experience both exciting and unsettling. I couldn't help but notice my own hard-on, a testament to my growing awareness of my own desires. My mother, seemingly oblivious to my fervent observations, simply remarked, "The girls are very pretty, aren't they?" The casualness of her comment did little to quell the storm raging within me.

As I grew older, my fascination with these hidden treasures intensified. Saturday afternoons were dedicated to watching “The Wide World of Sports,” always with a particular focus on figure skating. The graceful girls, clad in short, flimsy skirts, spun and twirled across the ice, their movements both captivating and suggestive. Back then, I didn't understand that they were simply wearing their skating costumes, but to me, they represented the epitome of feminine beauty and the tantalizing promise of what lay beneath. I remember the innocent thrill of seeing my own erection poking out, brushing my hand across my lap in a desperate attempt to maintain composure. My mother, noticing my attention, offered a knowing glance before simply stating, "They're very cute girls, aren’t they?"

Around the age of twelve, my college-age cousin visited my mother, eager to discuss her latest relationship woes. She wore a striking purple jumper dress with a wide-collared white silk blouse, hose, and white heels – a perfect showcase for the lace-trimmed slip and white satin panties peeking out from beneath her pantyhose. I was engrossed in my homework on the floor, finding the view both captivating and a little scandalous. My cousin’s casual disregard for modesty was both intriguing and unsettling. It was an experience that ignited a fire within me, a burning desire for something beyond the confines of my own adolescence.

As I shifted my position, seeking a better view, I realized my thoughts were centered on the drawer in my mother’s bedroom, and specifically, the contents within. I had previously glimpsed the treasures hidden inside – silky slips, stockings, and panties – and now, the opportunity to indulge my fantasies had presented itself. Closing the door, I carefully opened the drawer and retrieved the peach-colored silky Vanity Fair half-slip with white lace trim at the bottom and a four-inch slit up one side. It was the perfect object for my burgeoning desires. Slipping out of my pajamas, I climbed onto the bed and began rubbing my hard cock against the smooth satin, lost in the exquisite sensation. The silky material stretched and molded to my body, tantalizingly close to my skin. Before long, something began to build inside me, a powerful surge of pleasure unlike anything I had ever experienced. Then, ecstasy. Warm, sticky fluid erupted from my penis, splashing into the satin slip. It felt wonderful, but a sudden wave of panic washed over me. What had I done?

I quickly wiped the creamy substance from my body, folded the slip carefully, and hid it in a shopping bag I found in the closet. Waiting an hour before venturing back to the television, I retrieved the bag and slip and took them upstairs, concealing them in my closet. I felt a sense of relief at avoiding discovery, but also a strange sense of guilt. My mother probably knew her peach half-slip was missing and what it was for, but she never questioned me.

Over the next few years, as a teenager, my obsession with these hidden treasures continued to grow. The sight of girls in mini-skirts, slips, stockings, and silky panties in the halls of my high school became an almost daily occurrence. During class discussions, when desks were pulled into a circle, the view of panty flashes became a thrilling distraction. At night, I would release all that pent-up horniness on the peach half-slip, sliding it out of the way at the last moment and shooting cum on my belly so I didn’t completely ruin it. I meticulously wiped up the residue with tissues and washed and dried the slip whenever I was home alone, preserving its softness as best as possible. Sometimes, I indulged in other items from the drawer, slipping them into the dirty laundry after cumming on them. I never parted with the peach half-slip, clinging to it as a tangible representation of my secret desires.

As I entered adulthood, my fascination with lingerie continued to evolve. My wonderful wife and I shared in the joys of female anatomy, but I never lost my passion for the silky satin and lace packaging. It took me some time to overcome my insecurities and fear of rejection before sharing my fondness with her. Today, decades later, our sex life is more fulfilling than ever, often incorporating elements of satin lingerie play. You can read about some of these escapades here: https://marriageheat.com/author/satin-king/.

Looking back, sharing this story feels vulnerable, but I appreciate the MH community's approach to encouraging each other in married, sex-positive ways. Loving the look and feel of lingerie does not make a man gay, trans, a cross-dresser, or even effeminate. In fact, studies (yes, there are studies!) show that the vast majority of men who enjoy masturbating with panties or other lingerie are straight, typically holding culturally masculine jobs. And most men keep it a secret forever because they are afraid their spouse will think they are somehow less than a “real man.” It's, in fact, a function of being masculine that draws us to greatly desiring the feminine. It’s not for everyone, but maybe if this post made you hard or got you wet, it’s something you might enjoy trying, together or solo! So that’s my “thing” and my “origin story” of how it all began!

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