Recycled Lingerie Ch. 01

I'm a widower. I lost my loving wife, Joyce, almost fifteen months ago. I was devastated. She was only diagnosed three months before she died, and such a sudden loss weighed heavy on my heart. For a couple of months, I didn't do much beyond going to work and coming home to sit in an empty house before going to an empty bed. I even had trouble reading the Sunday paper because we used to read it together in the morning and then do the crossword puzzle over lunch.

I'm 44, about six-foot-two and not bad looking, I guess. I've been with the same med-tech company for over two decades, and am now the director of the department that develops medical imaging software.

After Joyce died, friends at work tried to get me to go out with them after work, but my heart wasn't in it, and they eventually they stopped asking. Some of the ladies who have known me for years have tried to get me to go out with them, even just casually with no romantic attachments. I know they feel sorry for me and just want to be company for a friend, but I have not been able to do it.

Mercifully, some of the guys eventually spread the word that I was "Mr. Straight-Arrow," and was hopelessly still carrying a torch for Joyce. They remembered that when she was alive I would not stray an inch out of line. Even at conventions in Las Vegas and New Orleans I would not party with them after hours. Oh, sure, I would go the various hospitality suites to glad-hand potential customers and have a drink or two, but I would always excuse myself when the others wanted to hit the town afterwards.

"Gotta call Joyce," is what they always expected me to say, and I always met their expectations.

I knew they were heading for strip bars or dance clubs to look for women. They would say things like "pussy-whipped" or "henpecked" jokingly, but most of them knew I didn't go with them because there was only one woman in the world for me: Joyce. Most of them secretly wished they had our kind of love, I suspected.

The truth was that we were in love beyond what any of them could imagine. We shared everything. She didn't particularly like golf before we were married, for instance, but she took it up so she could share it with me. Likewise, I had no interest in antiques, but her love of them led me to learn about them. Antique stores and auctions became a regular part of our travels. That was one of the secrets to our marriage. We learned to appreciate and participate in each others' interests and hobbies.

Some of the areas of interest into which we initiated each other were far more personal and intimate, but the world knew nothing of that beyond our constant affection.

It had been so long since my wife died that I finally had to snap out of it and take care of a number of issues, including my own state of mind. Except for what had to be done for probate, I had not yet gone through her papers or personal possessions for many months, and her closet space and dresser were still untouched. I was living by myself in a four bedroom house, and certainly didn't need to free up the space that her half of the closets or her office in one of the bedrooms represented, but it was time to do so.

I thought about what I should do with her clothes. She had no family nearby when she died, and when her sister and cousins were here for the funeral, it was way too soon.

With fortunate timing, her older sister, Mandy, had recently moved to a town nearby for a new position with her firm.

Mandy is one of the most loving people I know. When Joyce became seriously ill, she used up a lot of her vacation time and came to live with us for well over a month just before she died. Joyce needed constant care, and Mandy's help was amazing. During that time, we got to know each fairly well . . . or so I thought.

Mandy lives alone. She has never been married, but had several relationships with what Joyce and I thought to be really eligible bachelors. She doesn't think she is beautiful, but I always thought she really was. She is about 5'6" with a slim build that started getting just a little round at the edges when she was in her early forties, and she is now 45. She wears her dirty-blond hair fairly short in a wispy hairdo because it doesn't take much care, according to her. She has a heart-shaped face with a pert little nose and soft, round hazel eyes.

She almost never wears much makeup, but when she does, she is exceptionally pretty. I wouldn't call her glamorous or a candidate for a centerfold. She looks more like the kind of woman that would play the best friend of the lead actress in a romantic movie. You know . . . the one that winds up with the lead actor's best friend.

She told me that she even had a couple of guys propose to her over the years. I told her that I could understand why, as she is smart and funny, and she is wonderful company. What I could never understand was why she had turned her suitors down.

"I guess I'm just too set in my ways," she said. "I like being free to go where I want to go and do what I want to do." I always thought there was more to it than that, but she's an adult. I was not going to tell her how to live her life.

Now that she was no longer living far away, I decided to give her a call about Joyce's clothes. I had seen her a couple of times since she moved nearby to welcome her to the area and help her unpack a bit at her new condo, but I hadn't thought about the clothes until now.

When I called her, she said she was busy but could come over the next weekend. I told her that the clothes had not been touched in over a year, and that another week wouldn't hurt. She said she would be over on Saturday after lunch.

The following Saturday I heard her drive up. I greeted her at the door and gave her a hug and peck on the cheek. I asked her where she wanted to start.

"I remember you have a cedar closet that opens into the master bedroom. Let's start there."

We went upstairs to the cedar closet. As Mandy preceded me up the stairs, I noticed that she had put on just a little weight over the last year or so. I don't think I noticed it on my visits at her new condo since I had not been following her up stairs with her butt a couple of feet in front of me. She wasn't even close to fat, but her butt had rounded out nicely. She was wearing a soft pullover sweater and a pair of tan cotton slacks that were just tight enough that I could see her panty lines. I looked away after I caught myself staring at them.

Mandy started looking through Joyce's coats. She tried several of them on, and most of them fit pretty well. She picked out half a dozen, and we carried them down to the living room, where I had some folded boxes already out for her. She picked up the tape gun and started putting a few boxes together. I had to go to the bathroom.

On my way back I heard her yell, "Hey, do you have any more tape? I just ran out."

"Look in the cabinet by the TV!" I yelled back.

As I entered the living room again, I heard her say, "When did you get all this great scotch?"

I remembered then that she loved single malt scotch, too.

I told her, "Well, your sister liked wine, not hard liquor. We always tried to do things together. Since I knew we couldn't share scotch together, I mostly bought wine. I liked it, too, and sharing it made it 'our thing,' not 'my thing' or 'her thing.' I only had a bottle or two of scotch in the house, which is what the two of us shared when you were here caring for her last year. After she died, I decided to go back to mostly scotch."

"Well this is what I have always wanted," she said, gleefully.

"What, a cabinet full of scotch?"

"No," she quipped, "A relative with a cabinet full of scotch! Can we taste some of these?"

I said, "Sure. You're really the first person I've had over who could appreciate them. I haven't even considered dating again, and my poker buddies only drink beer. Pick one out to start with."

She picked out a bottle of 18 year old Glenkinchie. "Let's start here with a Lowland distillery. We'll get to the peatier Islay and Highland stuff later. I want to be able to taste the lighter stuff first."

I said, "It sounds like you want the full tour of Scotland! I don't think we should have full shots of each one, or we'll never make it to Speyside."

While she was admiring the bottle, I grabbed a couple of pear-shaped whisky tasting glasses and a pitcher of filtered cold water from the 'fridge.

I poured about half an ounce in each glass, and said, "Taste it like that."

She swirled the whisky, watched how it clung to the sides of the glass, and then held the glass to her nose. She tasted a sip and swirled it around in her mouth.

"That's really light," she said.

"It's triple-distilled, Lowland style, not double-distilled like the other regions do it. Makes it lighter."

I told her to hold out her glass, and I added just a splash of water.

"Now swirl it and see how the aroma changes," I said.

She swished it around and sniffed it again.

"Wow, there's a lot more notes there now."

She took another taste and said that there was a noticeable difference. I really enjoyed looking at her face as she tasted the scotch and smiled appreciatively as she evaluated the flavor before and after the water was added. I really liked her, and it was nice to have a woman sharing a happy moment with me after all this time.

We finished the glass, and then poured another . . . and another . . . and another. Lingering over each glass, we talked about how our lives were turning out. Her career was where she had hoped it would be, and the move to my area represented a significant promotion. Her job was challenging, and she enjoyed going to work every day. She was glad the opening came up in a city near me, as she liked the thought of having family nearby again.

I told her that was sweet, and that it would be nice to have a female family member nearby.

I said, "I'll enjoy having woman to talk to without the baggage that dating and the social scene entails."

"Yeah. I'll . . . enjoy that too," she said back.

"It's been a rough year for me, but I turned the corner and I'm now getting back to some semblance of normal. I haven't even casually seen any women, let alone dated yet. I don't really have any women friends outside of work."

"I see you are still wearing your wedding ring," she said. "I wondered if you had started dating again, and I was going to suggest you take it off. It's really hard to pick up women while you are wearing one, you know," she said with a wink. "Tends to turn women off. I knew you took it pretty hard when Joyce died, but I didn't realize how deep the grief went. Wow! Over a year, and no dating."

"Nope. Not even once."

"You realize that's Victorian-Era-quality mourning? Textbook stuff! Even in the 1800s most people didn't mourn a whole year. You poor baby!"

"Well, I just needed to deal with it in my own time. I realized lately that I can finally go through her stuff, and that's why I called you about some of Joyce's clothes. It is finally time to let them go. I would rather give them to family than to just donate them to charity."

"Oh, yeah. The clothes!" she giggled. Holding up her sixth glass, she said, "I guess we got sidetracked."

"Yeah," I replied, "I guess we did. Let's go back upstairs."

We finished our current glasses, and I poured the next stop in the tour. We had gone from the Lowlands, thorough Islay and were now taking our first venture in the Highlands with an 18 yr old Highland Park. With the equivalent of about three or four full shots in me in the last hour, Mandy's ass looked a little sexier as we climbed the stairs, and her sweater really accented her breasts.

"Nah," I thought to myself, "She's your sister-in-law. Never in a million years . . ."

Back in the closet, Mandy started going through the dresses and skirts. She was amazed at the variety Joyce had accumulated, and she spent quite a while going through them. There were business clothes, summer dresses, evening gowns, a few sexy pencil numbers and more.

"We liked to go to dinner at fancy restaurants, and would often go out dancing afterwards. We loved cruises, and would dress for dinner, even when it wasn't 'formal night' on the ship."

Mandy asked, "Can I try on some of the outfits?"

I said, "Of course! After all, I'm hoping you will take most of them."

She gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek.

"I think I'll put on a fashion show."

The softness of her sweater-covered breasts against my chest when she gave me the hug felt good, and I had to resist the urge to let my hands roam a bit over that sweater.

She asked me to go to the bedroom.

"I'll meet you there in a minute with the next 'tour stop of Scotland,' I replied.

She handed me her glass and said, "Ooo, there's a good laddie," with what she had hoped was a Scots accent.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that it sounded more like it came from Monty Python than Braveheart.

Returning to the bedroom, I saw she had changed into a blue cocktail dress with a sequined bodice.

"I love this," she said while running her hands over the fabric.

I held out her glass, and she walked over to me in a mock-runway stride, took the glass and struck a pose.

I said, "You look like a scotch ad from a Sixties copy of Esquire."

She laughed.

"I'll be back in a minute."

With that, she disappeared back to the closet.

She tried on several more outfits, modeling each one for me. I could tell she was having a great time, and the poses she struck each time got a little sexier as the afternoon (and the "stops around Scotland") wore on. When she came in wearing a red swing dress, she danced over to me and held out her hand.

"Care to?" she asked.

I said, "Sure."

I grabbed the remote, clicked on the cable and chose an easy listening music channel. I took her hand, and we danced for a few minutes. Feeling her in my arms was electric. I had not held a woman like that in ages. The soft bodice, the flowing skirt that billowed out when I twirled her . . . absolutely heady! Still, this was my sister-in-law, I reminded myself again. I swung her around, and again to arm's length. I let go of her hand, and bowed slightly.

"Thanks for the dance, M'lady."

She blushed a little. I was pretty certain that she had enjoyed the dance as much as I had.

She disappeared back into the cedar closet, but didn't come out in another outfit. I became worried that I had embarrassed her, maybe moving my hands a little too far when we danced. I went into the closet to apologize. She was standing in front of the drawers that were built into the end of the closet. My wife's lingerie chest. My heart stopped! I had forgotten all about it and what was in the bottom drawer, and I immediately started to blush. I knew what she had discovered.

"Mmmandy," I stuttered, "I didn't mean for you . . . I had forgotten . . ."

Before I could finish my sentence, Mandy turned around with several items in each hand. She was holding up erotic lingerie and a couple of sex toys.

"I knew you and Joyce had a lifelong love affair, but this . . ."

I started to speak, but she found the words to finish her sentence before I could get anything out.

"this . . . this is amazing!"

"You're not embarrassed?" I said.

"You have to be kidding! Assuming that she actually wore this stuff for you and used those," pointing to the bottom drawer, "makes me think that my sister had a more passionate love affair with you than most women ever dream about. She and you must have shared more passion in her short years than most couples experience by their diamond anniversary! Embarrassed? No!"

She stood up and hugged me.

"I love you," she said, "for making my sister happy all those years."

She pointed to the lingerie chest again.

"I have only dreamed about finding someone with whom I could share such intimate desires as the two of you did, and I'm a little jealous of what my sister had with you."

She paused for a moment, and said tentatively, "and I'm a little bit excited, too. I'm sorry you have been so alone since she died. I wish there was a way I could comfort you."

We stood there hugging for a while, and it felt good. I hugged her back as much as she hugged me. She was still wearing the swing dress, and I felt her fingers massaging my back while I started to do the same to her through the soft material. I was in a daze.

I had gone from a carefree fashion show, to a brief dance, to total humiliation, and then to this warm, new sensation in a matter of minutes. Her left hand seemed to stray a bit low toward my butt. I slid my hands down, too, and felt the seams of her panties through the silky material of the skirt.

She started to run her hand through the lingerie chest. She looked up into my eyes, then picked up something black and silky.

"Am I embarrassed about finding this stuff? Not even a bit. In fact I want you to go back to the bedroom. I want to continue the fashion show."

I was stunned. I went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed for five minutes, not knowing what was happening or what I should expect to see next. My mind was racing with conflicting thoughts, and then through a fog I saw Mandy emerge from the cedar closet wearing a sexy black slip and black stockings.

The slip had a slit up the side, and a lacey bodice. I could see something under the bodice, but I couldn't tell what it was.

Mandy started moving to the music that was still playing. She slowly and sensually ran her hands over the silky fabric of the slip, first sliding over her hips, then her midriff. I was transfixed. She was enjoying the sensation that produced, I could tell. Her eyes closed, and she softly hummed to the music as her hands slowly made their way to her breasts. She caressed them, squeezed them and fondled them. Moving her hands on the soft lace of the bodice was driving me wild!

The alcohol and the events of the moment had done their work on both of us. I didn't care any longer that she was Joyce's sister. I wanted her!

Mandy opened her eyes and looked straight into my gaze. Her hands slid down to the slit in the slip, and pulled it open. She ran her hands up and down her thighs, and I could see that she was wearing Joyce's silk stockings with a garter belt. She gently caressed the white skin between the tops of the stockings and her panties. Her hands briefly moved over her crotch, and then she grabbed the hem of the slip and pulled it over her head.

Underneath, she was wearing a push-up bra. It was dark red, and had a front closure. It had a little lace on the cups. My wife was a 30B, and the bra was just a bit snug, giving Mandy fantastic cleavage.

She was wearing a pair of lacey lavender bikini briefs that weren't large enough to hide the fact that she didn't shave her pubic hair. It just looked neatly trimmed above the low, low waist of the briefs.

I stood up as she walked to me. We both reached out and embraced passionately. When our lips met, it made the electric feeling I had when we danced seem like a tickle. Our mouths were locked in a hard kiss for more than a minute as our hands explored each other. She opened her mouth, and I opened mine. Our tongues touched tentatively for an instant, and then with abandon, her hands now behind my head pulling my mouth tighter against hers.

She stepped back and ripped my shirt off, buttons flying, before unzipping my pants and letting them drop. She pushed me back on the bed, and pulled them off, along with my shoes and socks.

She crawled over me, and whispered in my ear, "I never wanted you to know, but I have had such a crush on you since the first time Joyce brought you home. I couldn't betray my sister, so I bottled up my feelings for you all these years. Even after she died, I felt it would be wrong to let you know, but I don't care anymore."