USED PANTIES by Anthony Neil Smith

Punk Noir Magazine



Posted on E***.**m, May 18th, 2021, by MistressDoneWithYou.


This is a high-quality pair of women’s silk underwear from a high-end shop (you know the one. Shh!) I am selling to one lucky buyer out there. Not only will I wear this for you all day at my job as a Liberal Arts Dean at a very selective private Christian university, during which I will sit through a dizzying number of meetings with other administrators spouting jargon (“synergy,” “goals-based equity realignment,” and “F2F qualitative assessment”), meaning we should have another meeting later to talk about the same thing but never actually move past reports saying there’s a need for more study.

Those meetings can be awfully steamy as I rub my thighs together under my dress from 7:45 to 4:45, with a break for lunch, some personal meetings with department chairs, aggrieved faculty members, and occasionally students with complaints that usually turn out to be their own damned faults.

Once the working day is through, I will continue to wear these panties as I head home, kick off my shoes, relax, then later murder my boyfriend for leaving me to go back to his wife. 

It’s complicated. I’m married, too, but we had hit the wall. Our sons are both in college, and we hardly see them. It’s just me and my unemployed husband, who daydreams about starting get-rich-quick businesses instead of looking for a job in his field – insurance. Once I became a dean, I started making more money than him anyway, so I can laugh at the pre-nup I signed when I was young, in love, and stringing together adjunct classes to teach. He didn’t expect that, nope. He’s been out of work for two years now. One of his “business” ideas inolved, you guessed it, selling my used panties online. 

Why would I do that, though? Why would I wear these silky, dainty panties all day, sweating and fantasizing, only to hand them over to him for half the profit?

As you can see from the photo, they are lacy, skimpy, and violet, stretched across my thick hips. I am no stick-thin model, not at my age, but curves are sexy. You know that already, don’t you, gentlemen? That’s why you’re here reading this.

My marriage was falling apart, my body was desperate for passion, when in walked Giancarlo. Five foot ten, all thatmuscle in a tight frame, with midnight dark hair and olive skin – third generation Italian-American. Born and raised in New Jersey, joined the Army at eighteen, two tours in Afghanistan, and now looking to make a new life for himself outside of the military. 

He had moved to Iowa for a girl, a pen pal from the war, and now they had a baby together. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. He was kind, polite, and it stung when he called me, “ma’am” because I was fourteen years older than him. He was blue collar – jeans and a trucker hat, work boots. Didn’t shave often. He awakened something in me. If only I had sold that pair of panties – I couldn’t stop thinking about him after we discussed his financial needs to pursue a degree in missions ministry. 

Now, while I may be a Dean at a Christian University, it’snot because I’m a good Christian. My husband is agnostic at best, and I exaggerated my Methodist upbringing to secure the job. I just wanted to be an administrator, but couldn’t get a job with secular schools. So while Giancarlo talked about his callingto one day go to India or China as a missionary, I was flirting my ass off. It took effort. My blonde hair was going gray, and I knew my skin and tits and ass had been stretched by gravity – not that any of that matters when there’s plenty of gas left in the tank. Trust me, I knew how to light it up. I smiled. I kept eye contact. I nibbled my bottom lip when I told a joke. I laughed at his. I found excuses to move my chair closer – so he could read along on the paperwork, say. I kept touching him, accidentally, and apologizing. 

Somewhere in my bumbling seduction, he reached out to me. His arm around my back so he could point to a clause and ask a pretty simple question about it. 

Made me squirm. You can only imagine what that smelled like, dear fans.

It wasn’t an immediate thing. Giancarlo was loyal. He liked being a family man. He loved his baby daughter. He felt his wife was his best friend, even if her libido had slowed to a crawl. 

We had that in common. I had lost count of the weeks and months since my husband and I had enjoyed a little too much wine with some friends at an Italian place, both of us tingly, both of us “backed up,” so the blowjob I gave him in the car didn’t last as long as I thought it would, and that was that. I had to take care of myself later, after he’d passed out. 

Thank God for a thick dildo – or as I called it that night, Giancarlo.

Our first time, after a week of my “stalking” him, I’m not proud to say – bumping into him unexpectedly in the hallways, the library, at the supermarket, a few blocks from his apartment building – was in my office. 

Another occasion when selling my panties would’ve been a financial windfall. 

It was fast and hard. One of those fumbling times where we kissed and held each other and fought with our clothes, expecting to be caught at any moment. I was wet the moment he stepped into the room, thanking me for something, something, honestly, just an excuse. I sat wide on the edge of my conference table, he slid his jeans down just past his ass, and he pushed my panties aside, fucked me quick, but it wasn’t like with my husband. Giancarlo was as thick as his plastic namesake. Powerful. For the four minutes it took for him to come, I squeezed my thighs around him and dug in my heels, unwilling to let go until he’d emptied every drop into me. 

I could tell Giancarlo immediately felt guilty. How could a man who wanted to preach the word succumb to my Delilah-like temptation? 

Remembering Samson, I might have told him, Prettyfucking easily, but it might have scared him away. 

Instead, I consoled him, apologized, and told him how much it meant to me. Told him how I was falling for him, that he deserved better than a selfish young woman trapping him in a loveless marriage. 

Me, a homewrecker? 

I felt so dirty. So delicious. 

Luckily, it must’ve been great for him, too, because after that, we fucked all over town, and even out of it once. Our cars, our homes, my office, an empty study booth in the school library, in the men’s room, a fancy hotel when we were both out of town for “business” but that business was him fucking the living fuck out of me. A cheap, sleazy motel where we told each other the sick things we wanted but our partners wouldn’t do,and we did them all.

I felt like a teenager again, with one of my first loves – after the first awkward attempts, how I found someone who knew what he was doing. I felt drunk, giggling all the time thinking about him, daydreaming of my husband dying and Giancarlo’s wife leaving him so we could be together. I loved fucking him on campus and feeling him all inside of me the rest of the day, through the meetings and other meetings and lunch meetings and executive meetings and committee meetings, everyone else talking about budgets, FYE, equity, revenue, microaggressions, athletics, new lab equipment and course evaluations, while I drew Giancarlo’s cock on my legal pad in various states of rigidity.

I started buying nicer underwear, a lot like the pair here I’m going to sell to a lucky winner out there, my admirers. I bought black stockings with a seam up the back. Sometimes, as I passed Giancarlo in the hall, I would hand him a pair of panties that smelled very much like me in every way. For free.

It couldn’t last.

Giancarlo began to make excuses for why he couldn’t meet me. He was mopey and sad more often, the guilt weighing his down. I had to push harder, employ emotional manipulation to make him yield to me. I had to threaten taking my own life(which I would never do). The more guilty and upset he got, the harder he fucked, and the more I wanted to keep him for myself. 

That was a mistake. 

He began to hate me. 

While it made for fantastic sex, I had lost him emotionally. 

Until the night I was sucking his cock the sloppiest, most filthy way I could, telling him in-between how, “We…could be…together…and feel…like this forever…if you’d only…kill your wife.”

Giancarlo shoved me away. “How could you even think a thing like…?”

He tucked himself into his underwear, zipped up, and said, “Never again!”

Left me naked on the floor of my office, after midnight, no one else around except the maintenance crew, who had probably been listening through the walls for weeks.

Giancarlo meant it that time. He avoided me. He knew I was shadowing him, and learned how to lose me. He would not answer his phone, or my texts, or my emails, or my Facebook messenger, or the notes I left tucked under his wiper blades…blocked, blocked, blocked, blocked, blocked. 

I stopped attending meetings. Told my colleagues I was sick. Something chronic. I fell far behind on my paperwork. When I was in the office at all, I was snooping electronically. I found the wife’s socials. I made up profiles to follow her, befriend her, see what was going on. I finally saw Giancarlo’s daughter – an ugly child like her mother, a pasty dull brunettewith a puffy face, still in her mid-twenties. Barely an adult.

Giancarlo must’ve have confessed something to her. She stopped posting photos on Insta for a week before coming back with a picture of the both of them, Ginacarlo embracing his smiling, gap-toothed wife from behind: Love hurts, but God heals. As Jesus forgives us, we must forgive each other. 

I felt feverish. 

I threw up on my secretary’s desk. 

I went home. That was yesterday afternoon

Today, I have a plan. 

First, I specifically chose this pair of panties, violet and silky and lacy, because they are close to the ones from the first time Giancarlo fucked me. 

Then, I will return to work and tell my colleagues it was a twenty-four hour stomach bug, and thank them for their concern. 

I will fake my way through all those meetings, thighs tight, getting wet at the thought of seeing Giancarlo again. All for you, dear fans. All for you.

After work, I will return home and prepare dinner for my husband, the bastard. His favorite – spaghetti and meatballs. I’venever seen my husband stop at one plate of this. He is a glutton for it, eats until he is poping the button on his khakis. I will add extra garlic and salt and chili flakes to hide the taste of the rat poison and sleeping pills.

Once that’s taken care of, I will leave the house, hiding my long filet knife in my coat, and drive to Giancarlo’s apartment. I will bang on his door, I will scream and cry and tell him it’s an emergency.

One of them will open the door. I swear. Be it Giancarlo or his skank wife. They will both let me in, whether she knows it was me, specifically, who’d led her husband astray, because they are good people, with caring hearts, who would not want to slam the door in my time of need. 


My adrenaline will carry me into their apartment, my panties soaking in my fear, my rage, and my lust. 

I will take the wife first. She will lead me to the kitchen or the living room to take a seat, then ask if I’d like some water or tea. When she comes back with a glass of iced water, I will take my knife from my coat and stab her in the throat, rip the blade across, and then stab into her abdomen again and again – into her womb, trying to prove a point to Giancarlo, in case another child might be the reason he’d called things off with me. Had he still been fucking his wife the whole time he was with me? 

I would show him how much better it would be, him and I and his ugly daughter.

If Giancarlo still wouldn’t see how perfect it is to take me and his daughter away from this place to begin a new life, well, I suppose he’ll have to die, too. By my blade. 

Then I will take his ugly little girl, although she willbecome a brilliant seducer once I train her well. I will call her Estella, no matter what her name actually is.

But I promise I will stop somewhere not far from the scene of the crime and remove my panties, seal them in an envelope, and mail them to the lucky individual who has given me the price I’m asking. Rest assured, I will fulfill my contract with you before I am caught, if ever.

One more thing: if my plan goes in another direction, such as Giancarlo accepting his wife’s death and agreeing to come with me, you’ll still get my panties, but with a forty percent discount. 

Thank for your business. 


Anthony Neil Smith is the author of numerous crime novels, including the Billy Lafitte series (including YELLOW MEDICINE and HOGDOGGIN’), award-winning ALL THE YOUNG WARRIORS, plus CASTLE DANGER: WOMAN ON ICE, WORM, SLOW BEAR, XXX SHAMUS, and more.

He is an English Professor at Southwest Minnesota State University. 

He likes cheap red wine and Mexican food. 

His dog is named Herman, and he is a good boy. (RIP Herman,

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