Panty Thief
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The Panty Thief free porn video
The Panty Thief
By Cal Y. Pygia
"Pablo!" a shrill voice called. "Pablo Rodriguez!"
It was his mother. She was calling--for the second or third time, judging
by her tone, a mixture of impatience and annoyance bordering upon anger--
which meant that he'd better waste no time--or no more time--in
responding to her summons.
He'd been so caught up in the moment, examining his treasures, that,
apparently, he had not heard her initial calls. "I'll be right there,
Momma!" he called.
Hastily, he spread the collection of his pulp magazines and comic books
over the cache of his secret collection of--well, of his treasures--which
he kept in his dresser drawer, ensuring that all was hidden again by the
lurid covers of the action-adventure periodicals that his Uncle Carlos
had sent to him from Mexico: Guns of the Gringo, Alamo Adventurers,
Mexacali Massacre, and Terror in Tijuana.
His uncle didn't want his nephew to forget his Mexican heritage. Uncle
Carlos wanted Pablo to remember his origins and, more importantly, to be
proud of them. Moreover, he wanted Pablo to grow up to be manly, to have-
-indeed, to exude--machismo. He wanted Pablo to be a man's man, brawny
and boisterous and bawdy. He was afraid, he'd confided to his nephew,
that being raised by a single mother, without a man around the house,
Pablo might not benefit from the male role model that a live-in father
could provide.
Uncle Carlos would have been glad to fill in for his nephew's father, but
since Pablo lived in San Diego and his uncle lived in Juarez, the best
that Carlos could do was send the pulp magazines, the comic books, and an
occasional letter in which he expressed his hope that Pablo would embrace
his heritage and grow up to be a fine, strapping specimen of manhood,
just as Uncle Carlos himself had done.
Once, these stories had meant the world to Pablo. Lately, their appeal
had begun to wear off, though. Occasionally, he reread one, and he still
looked forward to the new ones that his uncle sent to him, but not some
much because of the stories they contained as because it was his uncle
who'd sent them to him. As far as the tales themselves were concerned--
well, they just didn't seem as exciting and glamorous as they had once
seemed to be. The thrill of such tales was gone. Perhaps Pablo had
outgrown them. After all, he was almost fourteen now, and, at his age,
these stories seemed more absurd than adventurous. Besides, Pablo had had
other things on his mind since he'd entered adolescence--namely, girls.
Not wanting to risk incurring his mother's wrath, Pablo left his bedroom
and hurried into the little adobe apartment's kitchen, where she was
preparing the evening's repast: tortillas and refried beans with rice.
His mother looked at him with anger in her eyes. "Where have you been?"
she demanded. "Why don't you come when I call you? Why don't you answer
me the first time I call you?"
"I'm sorry, Momma," Pablo replied. "I guess I didn't hear you."
She glared at her son. "I have much work to do. Would it hurt you to give
me a hand now and then?"
"No, Momma."
"Is it my fault that your father is a drunken bum and a lecherous
adulterer? Is it my fault he abandoned us?"
"No. Momma."
"Do you think it is easy for me to cook and clean? Do you think I like
taking in other people's laundry? Do you think I enjoy looking after you
every day, day after day, all by myself, with no help?"
Pablo hated to hear his mother talk like this. It made him sad, for her
sake, and it made him feel as if he were nothing more than a burden to
her. When she said such things, even if it were from frustration and
weariness, he wondered whether she cared about him any more than his
father had. Maybe, he feared, she would also leave him someday, when she
tired of cooking and cleaning and washing other people's laundry.
"I'm sorry, Momma."
She glared at him once more, fixing him with her angry stare for a long
moment, before she said, "Why couldn't you have been a girl? Then, maybe
you would be more of a help to me around the house, instead of always
being a burden to me. Boys are selfish. All they ever think of is
themselves. You're just like your father: lazy, selfish, and
inconsiderate."
Pablo hung his head, ashamed.
"Do you think you can bring in the laundry, at least?" she asked. "Would
that
be too much to ask?"
"No, Momma. I mean, yes, Momma. I mean--"
"Don't just stand there, mumbling. Go! Fetch the laundry, as I told you
to do!"
"Yes, Momma!" Pablo ran from the kitchen of the small adobe apartment,
snatched up a large basket, and sprinted into the courtyard that the
apartments shared. The residences were built around the square yard,
their front doors facing onto the four streets that made up their block
and their four back doors opening onto the courtyard. Several
clotheslines hung suspended from windowsills or poles, and, upon these
lines, hung the laundry of the tenants and--in the case of Pablo's
mother, not only her and Pablo's own attire, but also the clothing that
she took in to wash for others. There was quite a load today. It would
easily fill up the basket twice, maybe three times.
With practiced motions, Pablo collected the clothing, folding it as he
went, and piled it into the basket. He went inside the house and unloaded
his burden. His mother said nothing as he hastened past her, which meant,
Pablo supposed, that she was pleased. In a few moments, he hurried past
her again, into the courtyard, to collect and fold another load of the
fresh, clean laundry.
Pablo and his mother had simple, durable clothing. Most of it was cotton
or denim which fastened with brass studs or zippers rather than with
buttons. His mother also owned several scarves. She had only two skirts
and blouses, and she still wore washable stockings rather than disposable
nylons. Of course, she also owned a few pairs of panties and brassieres.
Pablo was always embarrassed to see these undergarments hanging on the
line, for all to see. He had once asked her to gather them and leave the
rest of the clothing to him, but she had scoffed at his request. "Grow
up, Pablo!" she had rebuked him. "There is no need to be embarrassed
about such things. All women wear bras and panties."
But boys didn't.
Maybe that's how Pablo's fascination with such undergarments had begun.
Bras and panties seemed almost as if they were items of clothing that the
creatures of another species might wear. He imagined his mother's big
breasts inside the soft cups of her cotton bras and her private parts and
her buttocks inside her panties. There was no fly in her underpants, of
course, for there was no need for one. More than bras, panties intrigued
Pablo. He imagined what it would be like to wear such an intimate item, a
pair of underpants that had no fly. How would he feel inside such an item
of apparel?
Not all of the panties on the courtyard's clotheslines were as plain as
his mother's bras and panties. Some were made of silk, and many were of
bright colors, rather than white. Pablo had seen every color imaginable
on these lines--red and pink and lavender and green and blue and yellow
and turquoise and purple and a hundred other shades, it seemed.
Not all the ladies who lived in the apartments adjacent to his mother's
residence were as poor as she, for many were single and had no children
upon whom they must spend their earnings. They could afford better,
sexier underclothes. Their panties were beautiful. Some were exquisite,
like huge butterflies or the petals of gigantic flowers or the plumage of
bright parrots.
They were lovely. Gorgeous. They were so beautiful that just to look upon
them hurt Pablo's heart.
And there were so many styles, too! Some were solid. Others were printed
with polka dots or flowers, butterflies or birds. He couldn't begin to
name all the different styles. He wasn't even sure they had names. Some
panties had high elastic waistbands but were very short otherwise. Many
were vaguely triangular in shape, with sides so narrow that much of the
wearer's upper leg would show and, most likely, a good portion of her
lower buttocks. Others looked as if they would ride low on the lady's
abdomen, hugging her hips and barely covering her private parts. A few
looked more like slingshots than underwear and certainly couldn't cover
much more than the essentials of a lady's femininity. Many pairs seemed
altogether incapable of covering much more than a bandage might conceal.
Pablo had even seen a pair of thongs on a few occasions. At first, he
wasn't sure what these were. They sure didn't look like panties--not any
panties that Pablo had even seen before, anyway. There was no seat in
them. They were little more than a breechcloth, but skimpier, even, than
the actor who'd played Tarzan in a movie he'd seen on television a few
years ago had worn, and one pair had been all lace, rather than silk or
satin. Looking at them had made Pablo feel lightheaded, he'd felt a
strange stirring in his loins, and, a moment later, a bulge had formed in
his own underpants. Fortunately, no one had seen him in such a state.
Pablo imagined how silk or satin might feel against his skin, were he to
wear such wonderful underwear. How might he feel in a pair of thongs?
he'd asked himself. If only he could try a pair of such lovely panties
on, just once--but, no, such thoughts were absurd, he told himself; boys
didn't wear panties. Panties were for girls. Just like everything else
soft and beautiful was for girls, whether butterflies, flowers, or birds.
Or panties.
He could never try on a pair of them. If he did and his Uncle Carlos ever
found out, his macho uncle would disown him, and there was no telling
what his mother would do to him.
He couldn't wear them, he had decided, but he could collect them,
couldn't he?
Dare he?
The thought of stealing a pair of women's panties almost made him faint.
It also made his heart race, his mouth dry, and his knees weak. He
recalled the first pair that he'd taken, the ones that had started the
secret collection he kept hidden under the action-adventure magazines and
comic books his Uncle
Carlos was always sending him from Juarez, along with notes about being a
man, staying masculine, and being macho. "Maybe you should work out with
some weights, Pablo," his uncle had suggested in the letter that had
accompanied Merciless Mercenaries, the magazine Uncle Carlos had sent him
just a week ago,
The panties--the first he'd ever had the nerve to take--were made of
gold-colored silk, and they were shiny and soft. They were trimmed in
silver, and lavender ribbons were tied in tiny, tight bows down either
side. They'd also been thongs, without a seat, so that the wearer's
buttocks would show!
With a trembling hand, his heart aflutter, and feeling hollow in the
stomach and weak in the knees, holding his breath and praying he wasn't
caught, Pablo, after looking around, to make sure he wasn't being
watched, had snatched the panties from the clothesline and tucked them
away inside his basket, beneath his own plain, white cotton briefs--the
kind with a fly--and had returned to his bedroom, afraid someone had seen
him, after all, and would cry, "Stop, panty thief!"
Instead, he had succeeded. His theft had gone undetected, and he'd
started, with those lovely golden thongs, the collection of panties that
had grown, slowly, one pair at a time, over weeks and months until, now,
he had almost a whole dresser drawer full of the bright, colorful
underwear and was thinking he'd need more space soon. Fatherless and
living with a scolding mother in near-poverty conditions, the panties
were, for Pablo, the only bright and beautiful things in his otherwise
drab life. Sometimes, he would stand before his dresser, with the drawer
open, spread the layer of comic books and magazines aside, and just gaze
upon the collection of panties he'd stolen, mostly from clotheslines in
neighborhoods other than his own, and, on rare occasions, even from local
stores, and stroke the silk and satin, the spandex and Lycra and lace,
and say, as his eye roved over the vermillion and scarlet and plum and
lavender and peach and rose and cobalt colors, Someday life would be as
wonderful and splendid and elegant as these beautiful panties.
He'd stopped stealing a few weeks ago, though, when he learned, from his
mother, that word had spread through the neighborhood that a panty thief
was loose in the vicinity. Most likely, the thief was some sort of a
pervert, a weirdo with a panties fetish, and someone who could be
dangerous. The women in the area were frightened, and the ones with
boyfriends or husbands had vowed to make the panty thief rue the day he
was born if her came near their women--or their women's panties. The
police had been notified, too, Pablo was told, and they were keeping an
eye out for the panty thief.
At first, Pablo had considered getting rid of his stash of panties. If
they were found, they would incriminate him. What would his mother think
of him, if he were to be identified as the panty thief? What would his
Uncle Carlos think?
What would his neighbors think, or his friends at school? Would he end up
in reform school or jail? Maybe he would even be sent to prison!
He knew he should get rid of the panties in his dresser drawer, and he
had tried, several times, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so.
They were his sole link to beauty and elegance and the dream of a better
life someday. He might as well try to get rid of his own heart and soul
as to throw away even one pair of
his treasured panties.
In the end, he had compromised. Instead of getting rid of his collection
of panties, he'd stopped stealing the underwear. Without a panty thief on
the loose, the women would no longer be afraid, and the police would turn
their attention to other matters. Perhaps Pablo might even resume his
thefts, after a while, when things calmed down and the heat was off,
although, he knew, he shouldn't. He should quit forever. After all, he
already had plenty of panties. He didn't need more, and it was foolish to
risk getting caught. He'd managed to resist the temptation of stealing
more panties for several months now. He could quit altogether. Couldn't
he?
Sure he could, he told himself. After all, stealing panties wasn't like
an addiction or something. He could quit.
"Pablo?"
It was his mother again.
"What's taking you so long, boy?"
"Nothing, Momma."
"You've been out there for twenty minutes. How long does it take to bring
a basket of laundry into the house?"
Thank goodness he'd been gathering and folding the laundry on the line as
he'd mused about his panty-thieving ways, Pablo thought. Otherwise, he'd
be out here at least another ten minutes. As it was, he'd folded all the
items and stacked them neatly into his basket. "I'm finished, Momma," he
called back to her. "I'll be right in."
He bent, picked up the basket, placing it on one hip, and started toward
the house. On the way, he passed a small pair of gorgeous green knickers,
teen size, with fancy, full, fluffy ruffles and bright yellow ribbons,
and, before he'd known it, and without intending to do so, he'd snatched
them from the line and tucked them into the laundry in his basket. His
heart raced as he realized that he'd struck again, right after promising
himself that he wouldn't steal again, not for a long, long time, if ever.
* * *
An hour later, just after dinner, there was a knock on the apartment's
front door.
"Answer the door, Pablo, while I clear the table," his mother ordered
him.
"Yes, Momma."
There was another, louder, longer knock. Whoever their visitor was, he or
she was impatient, Pablo thought. "I'm coming!" he said. Rising from his
chair, Pablo crossed their living room's threadbare rug, and opened the
door.
His heart nearly stopped, as his eyes widened and his mouth gaped.
Standing before him was a police officer, looking stern in his pressed
blue uniform. On the wide belt he wore around his waist, there were
handcuffs, a can of Mace, and a .45-caliber pistol. Looking to the
terrified boy like a giant, he squinted down at Pablo. His voice was hard
and cold as he asked, "Your mother or father home?"
Pablo found himself stammering as he called, "M-m-mom-m-ma!"
"Who is it, Pablo?"
"Police," the patrolman answered, before Pablo could speak.
His mother came into the room quickly. "Police?" she asked, sounding
worried.
"Is anything wrong?"
The patrolman didn't take his eyes off Pablo as he answered her question.
"Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid there may well be."
"What's this about, officer?" she asked.
"Is this your son, ma'am?"
"Yes, this is Pablo."
"Pablo Rodriguez?"
"Of course. I am Isabelle Rodriguez."
"Well, Mrs. Rodriguez, I'm afraid I received a telephone call from one of
your neighbors--"
"Who?"
"That isn't important at the moment, Mrs. Rodriguez. What is important is
that the neighbor reported your son, Pablo, here, as having stolen some
of her panties off the clothesline in the courtyard that you share with
the other apartments in this block."
Pablo's mother glared at her son. Her mouth opened and closed, like the
mouth of a beached, dying fish. At first, no sound would come, but,
finally, she croaked, "Pablo! You're the panty thief?"
"I have a search warrant here, ma'am," the policeman said, "authorizing
me to search your residence for incriminating evidence."
"Incriminating evidence?" she repeated, shaken. "What do you mean?"
"Panties, ma'am." He trained his cold, piercing gaze upon the rattled
boy. "The perpetrator we're looking for has stolen quite a few pairs."
Pablo's mother stared at her son. "Pablo! You didn't steal, did you?"
Mortified, he looked at the toes of his shoes, blushing fiercely.
"I'll start with his bedroom, ma'am," the police officer said, stepping
past
Pablo and his mother and into their home. It was clear that he wasn't
asking
permission.
"It's right this way, officer," Mrs. Rodriguez said, leading the
policeman to her son's room.
As he followed, the patrolman called back, over his shoulder, to Pablo.
"You come along, too, son."
Feeling worse than he had ever felt before in his life, Pablo followed,
each footstep feeling as if he were wearing hundred-pound boots instead
of the flip-flop sandals he had donned before fetching his mother's
laundry only an hour or so ago.
"I don't want to mess up your house, Mrs. Rodriguez," the policeman told
Pablo's mother, "but I don't have a lot of time. It would be helpful if
you could get the boy to tell you where he's hidden the panties."
Glaring at her son, Mrs. Rodriguez barked his name; it was an order for
him to follow the policeman's directive, and Pablo, looking dejected, his
head down, his shoulders slumped, trudged forward, to his dresser, and,
with a trembling hand, opened the drawer and spread the layer of
magazines and comic books aside to reveal the bright silk, satin, and
lace panties beneath the periodicals.
"Pablo!" his mother shouted, shocked to see, with her own eyes, what her
anonymous neighbor had reported--that her son, her own flesh and blood,
the child to whom she'd given birth and reared all these years, working
her fingers to the bone, was the panty thief who'd terrified the
neighborhood and kept both girls and women afraid to walk the streets or,
for that matter, even to hang their laundry out to dry! She cuffed him
hard against the back of the head, shouting his name again, but sounding
angry this time, not shocked. "Pablo! My son, the panty thief! How could
you do such a thing?" She stared at him, through narrowed eyes. "How
could you be such a thing!"
"I'm sorry," the boy muttered, sobbing.
The policeman removed the periodicals, tossing them onto Pablo's bed. He
removed a paper bag from his pocket, unfolded it, and began to put the
stolen panties into it, collecting evidence. Incriminating evidence, Mrs.
Rodriguez thought, staring at her son, the panty thief.
When the police officer had collected all the booty, he put handcuffs on
Pablo.
"Really, officer!" Mrs. Rodriguez protested. "Must you handcuff my boy?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, and he really did sound sorry, Pablo
thought--sorry that her son was a perverted little panty thief. "It's
procedure." Then, he turned to Pablo, and he said, "You're under arrest.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be
used as evidence against you in a court of law. You have the right to a
lawyer--"
Pablo's mother sat down heavily on her son's bed, scattering the lurid
magazines and comic books. Several fell to the floor. Pablo read one of
their titles. Macho Man. That's me, all right, he thought.
His mother started to cry, whether for him or for herself, Pablo wasn't
sure. As the patrolman finished reading Pablo's rights, she asked,
"What's to become of him now, officer?"
"He'll be taken downtown, booked, and questioned. Since he's a minor, you
may be present at the interrogation, if you like."
Interrogation! Pablo didn't like the sound of that.
"Then, he'll be released into your custody, pending his court
appearance."
"Court?" Mrs. Rodriguez repeated, her eyes wide. She looked scared, Pablo
thought. His own eyes filled with tears. He had brought her to this, the
woman who'd done all she could to provide him the best home she could.
Sure, sometimes she could be a little strict, a little stern, a little
impatient, and more than a little demanding, but she didn't deserve this.
How could she ever live down the shame he'd brought upon not only
himself, but upon her? "What will happen then?" she asked, her voice a
whisper.
"That'll be up to the judge," the lawman said.
* * *
As the policeman had said, Pablo was released into his mother's custody,
and she took him home, on the bus, her face like stone. She said nothing
to him all the way across town, from the police station. Once or twice,
Pablo had tried to initiate a conversation with her, but she had silenced
him. "I never want to speak to you or hear your voice again!" she'd
thundered. "You have shamed both yourself and me. I did not raise my son
to be a thief. I did not work myself half to death, taking in other
people's laundry, to have you become a pervert and steal girls' and
women's panties!"
Her voice was loud enough for the other passengers to hear her every
word. It hurt her, no doubt, to be heard saying such terrible things, but
it hurt him even more, and he bowed his head in shame, tears gathering in
his eyes. "I'm sorry, Momma!" he cried.
"Pervert!" she spat the word out, as if it were acid. "Panty thief!"
* * *
A month later, Pablo, his mother, and their attorney, a public defender,
were in court. The arresting officer, John Thomas, was also present. Much
to Pablo's chagrin--and his mother's mortification--there were also a
dozen or so spectators in the courtroom, come to enjoy themselves at his
expense.
The black-robed judge, a handsome woman in her late forties with auburn
hair, touched with gray, looked down from the bench, regarding Pablo as
if he were a vile insect. Pablo shifted under her gaze, as uncomfortable
as if she were shooting daggers from her eyes that pierced him to the
heart. After a long moment, she moved her Gorgon's gaze to Pablo's
lawyer. "I trust you've advised both your client and his mother, Mrs.
Rodriguez"--a note of sympathy seemed to creep into the judge's voice as
her eyes flicked briefly in Pablo's mother's direction--"of the
consequences of the defendant's having agreed to plea bargain his case
rather than to stand trial before a jury?"
The attorney nodded. "I have, Your Honor."
"Mrs. Rodriguez," the judge called from the bench, "you understand that
my sentence, whatever it shall be, is final and is not subject to
appeal?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
The judge nodded. Turning her Medusa's stare on Pablo, she said, "The
defendant shall rise."
Trembling, his knees ready to collapse, Pablo managed, somehow, to gain
his feet. He looked down, at his shoes.
"Look at me, boy!" the judge's voice boomed.
Pablo's head snapped up as if it were attached to a marionette's string.
He wanted desperately to look away, but he was more afraid to defy the
judge's order than he was to look upon her outraged countenance.
Her features expressed both anger and disgust, just as her voice all but
dripped with sarcasm as she spoke to him. "You have disgraced yourself
and, more importantly, you have disgraced your mother." She paused,
letting her words sink in.
Pablo wanted to look away, to hide his tears, but he dared not. He
gulped, focusing his will on stifling the sobs of fear and despair that
welled up within him, from the depths of his soul.
"I would ask you to explain your actions, but I doubt you could," the
judge declared.
Pablo thought of the pretty panties and how they had made him feel happy
and tranquil and full of hope for a bright, beautiful future, and how
their sleek fabric was comforting to the touch, offering a bit of
softness in a life that seemed, most of the time, more coarse and rough
and vulgar than otherwise, but, he knew, he would not be able to express
such sentiments. Instead, he would sound merely perverted and twisted and
sick, so he said nothing.
"Perverts seldom can explain their behavior," she went on. "They just do
what they do, hurting the innocent and those who love them, without
thought or care for anyone or anything but their own sick desires."
Pablo felt a warm wetness on his cheeks. He wiped away the tears that
coursed down his face.
"Don't think those crocodile tears will move me, young man!" the judge
warned. "If anything, they will make my sentence even harsher."
With as great an assertion of his will as Pablo had ever made before in
his life, he managed to suppress his tears, if not his fear and
humiliation, and stood quietly before the judge, feeling as naked as if
he were clad only in a pair of the thong panties he'd stolen.
"You may not care how your victims, or even your own mother, feels, but I
do," the judge snapped. "And believe me, I know how they feel, because I
am one of them."
Pablo looked shocked.
"That's right," the judge resumed. "Officer Thomas showed me the evidence
he collected, and, among the panties you stole and kept hidden in your
dresser drawer are a pair of my own!"
Pablo felt dizzy. The room swayed, and the murmuring voices of the
spectators in the courtroom seemed far away. He felt himself falling, and
he threw a hand out, catching himself on the table's edge, and managed to
stay on his feet. He couldn't believe his ears. Among the panties he'd
stolen during his month's-long career as a panty thief were a pair of the
very judge who was about to pass sentence upon him. Having recovered--to
the extent that he was able to recover--Pablo managed to return the
judge's predatory gaze, although his every instinct shrieked at him to
turn tail and run, fleeing for his life.
"Pablo Rodriguez," the judge said, each word like a bolt of thunder
unleashed by a vengeful goddess on high, "I hereby sentence you to enroll
in the Sylvan School for a period of not fewer than two, but not greater
than four, years." Her gavel banged sharply down, sounding, to Pablo,
like a gunshot.
Behind him, he heard his mother ask his attorney, "He's being sentenced
to enroll in a private school? I can't afford that!"
"Don't worry," the lawyer assured her. "You won't have to pay."
"Thank goodness for that, at least, and a school doesn't sound like such
a bad punishment," she said. "Pablo is fortunate. The judge has let him
off light."
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," the lawyer said. "You don't know
the reputation of the Sylvan School or what they do there."
Marisol
- 06.01.2022
- 15
- 0
