Holiday Panty Sniffers – The Janitor

I’d been having a bad day ever since Robyn put my name after Laurie’s
on a cc list. She does it to keep us all sucking up to her and I fall
for it like a lamb every time. That alone would have been bad enough
but then Deb told me that Robyn had been caught feeding her pussy to
one of her interns. Anybody else would have been fired, but Robyn is a
star. If they fired her, she’d take two million in contracts with her,
so instead she was going to get away with it. They were even going to
let her keep her boy.

That just drove me a little nuts. Like who wouldn’t want that? Why
should she have it and not just anybody? How good would it be to call
in some cute intern, tell him to close the door, and put his face up
my skirt. That would improve my mood. That could so save my day, that
the thought I couldn’t have it screwed my day so much worse. What kind
of society permits such unfairness to exist? Of course, yes, the
privilege sharpens the pleasure, but really I would think that
pleasure even unsharpened should be sharp enough for anyone. I needed
to go home, have a toke and a hot shower, and then hump a pile of
pillows til I passed out.

But when I got home I found I was not alone. The first I noticed was
that the door wasn’t locked, a mistake I wouldn’t make, and then once
inside I saw a pair of big old dirty sneakers on the welcome mat. I
was sure it was Dick, the building super, fixing the bathroom taps.
Fuck. He’s not the brightest man, holds his job through some family
kindness I suspect, a sorry acquaintance of Marco’s – the landlord’s –
mother perhaps. Dick could take an hour sometimes to do the simplest
thing. Not usually a problem, he’s easy to ignore and I’m not an
intolerant woman, but on this day I’d come through the door
unbuttoning my blouse, kicking off my shoes, and heading for the
shower. I was thinking strip, toke, shower, martini, pillows, with
probably maybe dePhazz. I so wanted to get into that shower and wash
off this wretched day.

Never mind. Bad days will be bad as long as they want and once they’re
rolling there’s not much point in expecting them to stop until they’re
over. So I took a breath, and went down to the bathroom to ask Dick
how long he was going to be. Not that I thought he could predict with
any accuracy, but that I thought that perhaps a display of politely
restrained impatience might speed him up a bit.

But what I saw there stopped me. There was Dick with his face in a
handful of panties from my dirty panty hamper, rubbing them all over
his face. Moaning, I thought at first, but then I saw no that it was
crying.

And grunting. He was jerking off, too. He had his little cock out and
was pummeling it fiercely between his thumb and ring finger, his pinky
out like he was sipping tea.

It was a big surprise to me. I’d never thought of Dick having a cock
at all. He’s an arrested waif, an intense ratlike little man who’s
probably been a janitor all his life, currently on the fall from the
time he was caught in the girls’ school locker room, sobbing into a
pair of panties. A meek little pervert who hasn’t seen pussy since the
day he was born.

I was embarassed, yes, I felt invaded, sure, I even felt embarassed –
for him. But mostly I just did not want to catch him at it. I did not
want that scene. For him, for me, it was just going to be an awful
scene, so I went back to my entrance and loudly closed the door.

“Hello?” I called out in a quivering hostess voice, “Is anyone there?
Why is my door unlocked,” sounding frightened like I might call the
police. There was a pause, the sound of air moving, a sense of some
conversation as if there was someone else in there that I hadn’t see.
And then a shaky laugh, “Oh hello! It’s – ah – it’s just me, Tanya.
Dick the super. Ah – fixing your tap!” Just in time remembering what
he was really supposed to be doing there.

I went on down.

“Just getting started,” he said, showing me his wrench, “Shouldn’t be
too long. It’s just the washer.” He crouched into the tub and began
removing the tap. He looked so pathetic crouching there, perching up
his spindly little butt, peering down his greasy bifocals at his
fumbling with the wrench. His mouth open, gasping little breaths like
he’s making this huge effort. Chopping wood or trying to open a safe
he can’t remember the combination of, oh dear. A shrivelled remnant of
scrap-man hiding behind a feeble, addled look. He pissed me off. He
really pissed me off. I was starting to feel premenstrual anyway,
sensitive to subtleties, and here was this guy, this wretched horrid
little man with the most perfectly pathetic dirty little secret and I
just could not let him pass.

I sat on the toilet lid, by the foot of the tub, and plucked a pair of
grape lace boyshorts from the panty hamper. I set them spinning on the
tip of a stiletto forefinger, and barked.

Making a great display of effort, he got himself round to face me,
figured out what I was spinning, and looked an uh-oh.

“How did these get away?” I asked crisply.

He tried a number of responses but couldn’t get any of them past the
first syllable.

“We all know,” I said, “Everyone in the building knows. Panty perv.”

“What have you heard,” he said, puzzled, trying to remember when he’d
been caught. Or perhaps, I realized, this was his very first time. In
which case I was the busted one.

“You and the panty sniffing. Everybody knows.”

He looked confused. This worried me, but I pressed on, assumed the
best, thought maybe at best I could make him believe, “Don’t even try.
If you were any kind of actor, you wouldn’t be a janitor. Here…” I
leaned forward and rubbed the little shorts into his face. “…smell
these.”

He was helpless. He resisted for perhaps a second, raised his skinny
hand to push me away, but he never found the strength. He wilted.
“Guilty as charged!” I said. “Panty sniffer. What a pathetic thing to
be. Of all the sick things. Panty sniffer. Where’s the evil. Where’s
the crime? It doesn’t rate. It’s just pathetic. And disgusting! Dirty
laundry? Dirty laundry – what a fetish. Have you ever even seen a
pussy? Ever even a pussy in a panty? Ever?”

“It’s not… I can’t…” he said earnestly, “I’m so..”

“I asked you a question,” I said.

“A question?” Puzzled again.

“Have you ever seen panty with a pussy in it?” I asked again, making
clear it would be the last time I asked before I did something
unpleasant. “In real life,” I added gravely.

He tried to remember, swallowed hard, said “No,” as if it was
something he’d really never thought about.

“Well here,” I said standing, slamming a foot beside his ear and
pushing some real pantied pussy half a thigh from his face, “Have a
sniff.”

Instinctively he backed away but I chased him right against the wall.
“Sniff,” I said, “Come on… Come on, Panty Sniffer. Sniff.” I waggled
up closer, making his eyes cross, “Have a whiff of Fresh.”

I have a big cunt, fat snarly lips and a long bulbous clit that bursts
its hood when aroused. Wrapped tight in thin cotton panty it looked
like a fist in a glove – so I pushed in closer, waved the knuckles
around to finally tap the tip of his nose with my clit joint. “Come
on…” I made a sniff to show him how, “Smell my pussy.” He beseeched
up at me, trying to understand, thinking maybe he had to say
something, but I nuzzled the glove up tighter under his nose and
showed him how to sniff again.

He had to breathe, of course, and in that breath he was transformed.
His brows went up, his yellowed and horribly veined old eyes rolled up
and then – thank god – closed, fluttering, little winks of jelly. His
face fell in and then tumbled like a puppy panting, nuzzling,
breathing ecstatically, burrowing. He was starving for, ravenous,
couldn’t fill himself fast enough.

“Well, well, well…” I marvelled, “You’re a real panty sniffer,
aren’t you, Dick? I bet you’d like to just put your nose in there,
wouldn’t you. Your whole nose.” I slipped my leg out of the panties
and replaced the little fist with a greedy-looking mouth. “Smell
that,” I said, “Get a really good sniff.” I spread wide and shoved,
wriggled in as tight as I could, pushing juice up his nose,”You’ll be
smelling pussy for days.” I pulled back to let him breathe, heard him
sniffing up juice like he had a cold. I opened wider, pushed forward
and slobbered cunt all over his mouth. “Suck it,” I said, “You’ll like
that even better.”

He liked it so much I had to sit down and slide down to the other
wall, he following, or maybe even once or twice pushing, like a
slobbering bloodhound. There was a moment when I was afraid, when he
started to snarl like he had a rabbit in his jaws and I thought I
might have to break his mood, but he settled into a steady growl, a
sloppy slurping with the occasional whimper or moan. It was so
intense, I came twice before I’d really got comfortable. I had to look
away, up at the ceiling, stifling what would have been wrenching
groans into delicate gasps. I couldn’t let him see.

“Oh yes. He likes to suck,” I said, but he didn’t hear me. He was
gone, there was nothing more I needed to do until I tired of it which
I didn’t see happening soon. I do like having my cunt devoured. But I
had to think, as I felt myself peaking to my fifth pop, that this
wasn’t something I’d like people to know. Like Robyn keeping her job
and her little suck slave, that’s something you’d want people to know,
something any woman would be proud to have a buzz about. It’d be a
status thing. But getting blown by your pathetic panty-sniffer janitor
just didn’t have the same *cache*.