Fleeting Glimpses


I have had the good fortune in life to have shared my penchants with likeminded women, in the ebb and flow, they have accommodated me to a great extent by acquiescence or persuasion.

However, nothing quite compares to the spontaneous, unexpected or clandestine flashes of a girl’s ( or woman’s) knickers.

Knickers in Britain, panties to the rest of the planet – it all comes down to the same thing.

When I was a young lad, I worked in a supermarket in a Scottish city…I would have been 16 or so.I had signed up for an army apprenticeship and had several weeks to kill before my formal enrolment. I took this humble job, secure in the knowledge that I would have a plethora of slim and pretty girls to banter with as we stacked the shelves, served across the deli counter or manned the checkout tills.

One girl in particular caught my eye – to be honest, I can barely recall her name, but memory has it as Morag. She wore spectacles, had long gingery-blonde hair and was impossibly pretty. She also had a boyfriend who worked in the Butchery department – he was a likeable enough character, although he never seemed to acknowledge the little jewel he had in his grasp.

To my naive little çankaya escort mind he seemed to be too casual with her, slapping her back and pushing her around as if she were a pal. It may well have been her comfort zone, who knows, I do remember thinking that if she was my girlfriend, I would romance and enchant her to distraction – I felt that I had the language to do this, although I never really found the courage to try too hard.

She did seem to like me, however, singing along with me to the endless loop of pop music on the primitive PA system, smiling and joking and generally being splendid company. I took the chance to be with her whenever possible, just to see her delightful face, smell her flowery girl’s perfume and watch her pert little bottom clad in the Store’s nylon livery as we happily stacked tins of spaghetti.

In those days, girls generally wore quite proper underwear in everyday use….I know because I had seen my sisters’ on occasion in careless moments and I knew her to be a girl of the world, however, it never even crossed my mind that one day I may see Morags’…….

One part of our duties was to take delivery of goods in the loading bay within çankırı escort the bowels of the shop. The cardboard boxes full of produce would be put on a conveyor from the trucks, stacked loosely, then formally stockpiled in the warehouse. This was a sort of Monday morning job, vaguely tedious, tiring and uneventful, but if I had my little darling alongside, the time would become irrelevent and I would quietly revel in her presence.

I suppose the singular and entire erotic episode lasted less than half a minute, but it is indelibly engraved in my memory and has fed my gentle fantasies for all my adult life.

The conveyor belt broke down one cold morning…. which was not uncommon and for whatever reason, Morag elected to climb onto the belt with another girl and complete the unloading by hand. This was very pleasant in itself, because the girls were bending, stooping, twisting and turning a good yard above my eye level…almost like a catwalk and although I never had much more than a glimpse of a nylon stocking band, I can comfortably confirm that I had an erection to rival a donkey having a party in my britches.

Eventually the task was completed and the girls had to climb çayyolu escort down….ignoring the steps at the far end, Morag approached me with her arms held forward to assist her. As she squatted down in front of me, I became transfixed, as in slow motion, her pretty, slim legs spread a foot apart, exposing her tan stockinged thighs and pure white nylon knickers.

This in itself was jaw-dropping, I could only stare hypnotically at the plump, slightly moist folds of material inches from my slavering mouth. What was remarkable about this revelation aside from the erotic and reckless exposure, was the accompaniment of possibly the hairiest upper thighs I have ever witnessed.

Morag was just a young lass, but she was blessed (or cursed ) with a sheen of silky blonde hair cascading from her undies like a waterfall – I have never seen anything quite like it and probably never will again.

I remember her looking steadily at me as I helped her dismount the conveyor . feeling her little hands in mine, watching her pert, blossoming breasts and holding her tiny waist as she bounced down to the ground.

I have had many similar opportunist encounters in my life, mostly inadvertent, yet richly rewarding

nonetheless and I am happy to recount them here if anyone cares to respond, but none of them can hold a candle to those brief moments (pardon the pun) glancing up Morag’s skirt at her silky mound

and gorgeous little furry mane.


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