Saturday
Jan262008
The Cult of the Nut Tug Special: Part II
Saturday, January 26, 2008 at 03:16PM
Dick Wiley sat by the telephone day after day waiting for that call from Sir Tuggis Paddiwacker, to no avail. Every telemarketer got the quick abrupt brush off. The work number that kept on coming up on the caller ID just got ignored, in fact every number got ignored that he didn't recognize. He was obsessing. The booze in his liquor cabinet was disappearing at an alarming rate, just as the astroglide and the hand lotion were also. He practiced what he had learned in that dark, dank motel that smelled of human urine and dog sperm, or was it dog urine and human sperm. Either way. Either way.
He hadn't obsessed like this since he was younger and he thought he had broke himself of the habit. He was wrong. It was a bad addiction you can say, but it was an addiction none the less. A young Dick was a purveyor of purloined panties. He loved the panties. The silks, the satins, the cotton blend, and even the leather ones.
It all started as a child, he was having trouble sleeping. His parents worked odd hours to make ends meet and he was often left in the house alone at night while they toiled away. The only thing that comforted him was his "security blanket" which was his mother's granny-like panties. The musk that arose from them caressed his olfactory sensors like Liberace on the piano keys and it was lights out.
The obsession didn't stop there. Dick was a creative kid being that he was an only kid. He was always playing games when the parents were away. They lived across the street from a laundrymat, and it was a plethora of panty pleasure for the young Dick.
He loved to play the Panty Pirate. He would stand on the couch with a thong covering one eye and say, "Argh, ye matey. Hand over them scivies or I will make you walk the plank with a cannonball necklace."
Then there was the old western panty posse. He would say, "I am the sheriff in these here parts." He enforced his own brand of justice. He would pretend to chase down the outlaw panties; those down right dirty panties didn't have a chance. He would stand on the couch and say, "I reckon pardner, you have two choices. You can hand over dem der outlaw panties you got holed up in those pants with either a bullet in your chest or without, either way I am getting those rotten panties."
His triumph was the Undies Armor that he would wear as he played superhero. His costume was a bra tied behind his head with two holes cut out so as to see. He would wear a bra filled with pebbles that he would sling at people from his thong-converted sling shot. When the Thong Gong was struck and the image of the women's panties was silhouetted in the sky, in his imagination he would race to the scene of the crime and thwart the bad guys with his bravada.
He was caught in this surreal vision of his past when the ringing of the phone shattered this ethereal experience and brought him back to the reality at hand.
He hadn't obsessed like this since he was younger and he thought he had broke himself of the habit. He was wrong. It was a bad addiction you can say, but it was an addiction none the less. A young Dick was a purveyor of purloined panties. He loved the panties. The silks, the satins, the cotton blend, and even the leather ones.
It all started as a child, he was having trouble sleeping. His parents worked odd hours to make ends meet and he was often left in the house alone at night while they toiled away. The only thing that comforted him was his "security blanket" which was his mother's granny-like panties. The musk that arose from them caressed his olfactory sensors like Liberace on the piano keys and it was lights out.
The obsession didn't stop there. Dick was a creative kid being that he was an only kid. He was always playing games when the parents were away. They lived across the street from a laundrymat, and it was a plethora of panty pleasure for the young Dick.
He loved to play the Panty Pirate. He would stand on the couch with a thong covering one eye and say, "Argh, ye matey. Hand over them scivies or I will make you walk the plank with a cannonball necklace."
Then there was the old western panty posse. He would say, "I am the sheriff in these here parts." He enforced his own brand of justice. He would pretend to chase down the outlaw panties; those down right dirty panties didn't have a chance. He would stand on the couch and say, "I reckon pardner, you have two choices. You can hand over dem der outlaw panties you got holed up in those pants with either a bullet in your chest or without, either way I am getting those rotten panties."
His triumph was the Undies Armor that he would wear as he played superhero. His costume was a bra tied behind his head with two holes cut out so as to see. He would wear a bra filled with pebbles that he would sling at people from his thong-converted sling shot. When the Thong Gong was struck and the image of the women's panties was silhouetted in the sky, in his imagination he would race to the scene of the crime and thwart the bad guys with his bravada.
He was caught in this surreal vision of his past when the ringing of the phone shattered this ethereal experience and brought him back to the reality at hand.
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