The Mystery of the Missing Panties

by Emmas St Giles

  The Domination Diaries

  The Mystery of the Missing Panties

  By Emma St Giles

  Erotic Fiction By Emma St Giles

  The Librarian Tales Series

  1 - The Virgin Librarian’s First Time

  2 - The Virgin Librarian’s Bondage Secret

  3 - The Virgin Librarian’s Sex Show

  4 - The Virgin Librarian’s Suppository Surprise

  5 – The Virgin Librarian’s First Time Spanking Experiment

  The Virgin Librarian’s Erotic Collection

  Volume 1

  6 – The Virgin Librarian’s Sex Wager

  The Dominatrix Diaries

  1 – First Time Femdom

  2 – The Flute Teacher and the White Cotton Panties

  3—The Mystery of the Missing Panties

  The Succubus Series

  1 – College Girl Succubus – The Awakening

  2 – College Girl Succubus – Caned

  3 – College Girl Succubus – The Bottom Problem

  4 – College Girl Succubus - Gang Bang

  5 – College Girl Succubus – The Public Sex Contest

  College Girl Succubus – The Erotic Collection

  Volum e1

  Author’s Note

  The Mystery of the Missing Panties contains descriptions of self bondage. Please remember that this is a work of fiction and that self bondage techniques should only be explored with a friend on hand to make sure that things remain safe.

  Happy reading,

  Emma St Giles

  Text copyright © Emma St Giles

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – The Stolen Panties

  Chapter 2 – A Pre-investigation Spanking

  Chapter 3 – The Squash Match and the Shower

  Chapter 4 – The Dildo Trap

  Chapter 5 – Shopping for Panties

  Chapter 6 – The Underwear Trap

  Chapter 7 – Sub/Dom or Dom/Sub?

  Chapter 8 – Trudy the Dominatrix

  Chapter 9 – Jess’s First Caning

  More From Emma St Giles

  Chapter 1 – The Stolen Panties

  There were many things that Trudy Messenger might have dropped on the kitchen table in front of us that afternoon, but her panties were not what I expected.

  There had been three of us sitting there—Jess, the economics student, the bossy bitch of the house and the niece of the owner. She was slim, medium height, with dark, shoulder length hair and small, pert breasts that she used, weapon like, to command the attention she felt she deserved. And there was Francis, the maths student, the slightly gawky but good looking male presence in the house. He was tall, with broad shoulders and fair, unruly hair. Given that he was the only guy in a house containing three girls, I assumed that one of us would nail him eventually, but as far as I was aware no one had yet. And finally there was me, Antigone the literature student. Like the others I was twenty-two years old and halfway through college. I was sort of average looking—averagely good body, averagely good breasts, and an averagely nice arse, or so I’m told.

  Jess was lecturing us about household chores and using her tits on Francis, first pointing them at him, then leaning forward slightly to give him a tantalising glimpse of bra and cleavage. I sighed and took a mouthful of tea—it was situation normal.

  And then it happened. The door opened and our missing housemate entered. She walked straight up to us and dropped something on the table.

  ‘I want to know which of you has been stealing my panties!’

  *****

  ‘What?’ Francis broke the silence, his mug of tea halfway to his mouth.

  ‘I asked which of you has been messing with my underwear.’ Her voice was trembling slightly. As she waited for a response she tugged nervously at the long sleeved top she was wearing.

  ‘And what makes you think that one of us would want your underwear?’ asked Jess. ‘Trust me, I have much nicer knickers than you.’ This was probably true. While the rest of us were on a budget, Jess was certainly not.

  ‘And I don’t wear women’s underwear,’ Francis said, grinning. ‘Honest.’

  ‘No, but I could imagine you tossing yourself off into a pair of Trudy’s,’ said Jess, as much to embarrass Trudy as Francis. It worked. Trudy’s face, already red, turned a bright shade of scarlet.

  I reached out and picked up the scrunched up ball of white cotton that Trudy had dropped on the table. It consisted of two pairs of panties. I put one pair back on the table and examined the other pair carefully. They were standard, store bought underwear. The type you wear day to day. Not big, comfortable ones, but not tiny little ones either. They were multi-purpose, wear all day but still give a guy an erection knickers. They appeared to be fairly new, the whiteness undimmed by constant washing, and the waistband showing no sign of wear. But on the other hand they were stretched out of shape as if someone had tried to rip them apart. I turned them inside out and checked out the gusset. It was clean. Either they’d not been worn or whoever had taken them had washed them before returning them to their owner.

  ‘Interesting,’ I commented. I picked up the other pair and checked them out, too. They seemed to be exactly the same, stretched and misshapen.

  I passed both pairs back to Trudy and sat back in my chair. It occurred to me that she was rather attractive when she was upset. Her long blonde hair was pulled back behind her head, framing the high cheekbones of her reddened face, and her large breasts were rising and falling in time to the quick, shallow breaths she was taking. My eyes lingered on her chest for a second and then slid down to the skin tight Lycra pants that framed her firm, muscular thighs. She was young, fit and healthy. In short, a typical physiotherapy student.

  ‘It’s kind of a locked room mystery,’ I said, answering Jess’s question.

  ‘What?’

  I picked up the copy of Sherlock Holmes that I’d been reading as part of my literature course. ‘A locked room mystery,’ I repeated. ‘It’s where there’s been a murder but no one could have got in or out of the room where it happened. Except in this case it’s Trudy’s panties and only one of use could have done it.’

  Jess turned her attention to me. ‘Well it wasn’t me,’ she spat.

  ‘Or me,’ echoed Francis, the economics student, shaking her head.

  ‘So it wasn’t any of us,’ I said. ‘Interesting. Definitely sounds like a case for Sherlock.’

  Chapter 2 – A Pre-investigation Spanking

  Later that evening I was sitting on my bed thinking about Trudy’s panties when my phone started buzzing. I leant over and picked it up off the bedside table. It was Dean. I smiled and lifted the phone to my ear.

  ‘Yes?’ I snapped. ‘What do you want?’ There was silence on the other end of the line and my heart melted for a second as I imagined him sitting in his room across town.

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you . . . Mistress,’ he said eventually. I glanced over at my wardrobe where I knew my cane was, carefully hidden and waiting for its next opportunity to meet Dean’s bottom. I shook my head to clear it, forcing myself not to break role. When I’d lost my virginity to the boy next door over the summer break, and discovered the dominatrix inside me, I hadn’t really realised just how hard it could be.

  ‘All right, then tell me about your day,’ I ordered.

  Ten minutes later, after promising that me and my cane would visit him the following weekend, I ended the call. I dropped the phone on the bed, imaging him now, lying on his bed with a huge er
ection as he thought about the caning he was going to be given in a few days time.

  At that moment my bedroom door opened. It was Jess. She stood there, in the doorway, hands on hips, staring at me. ‘You could at least knock, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that. Remember our arrangement,’ she said. She took a couple of steps into the room and stood there, feet apart, hands still on hips. She was wearing tight, blue denims, tucked into knee length, black leather boots. Her dark, silky top emphasised her small breasts, and the twin peaks of her erect nipples pushing through the thin material were evidence of her excitement. Despite myself I found I was responding to her, a dull burning ache igniting between my legs and spreading up into my belly.

  I swallowed, mouth dry in anticipation, and then I got up off the bed and sank to my knees in front of her.

  ‘Say it,’ she ordered.

  ‘Please spank me, Mistress.’ As I said it I wondered if I was the only submissive dominatrix in town, and I wondered what Dean would say if he could see me now.

  ‘The others have gone out,’ she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked. She sat down on my bed and gave me an expectant look. In a state of reluctant excitement I slowly unbuttoned my shorts, stretching out the moment before what was coming. I let them drop to the floor and climbed onto the bed next to her. Still moving slowly I lowered myself until I was lying across her knee. I felt her hands on my bottom and a second later her thumbs slipped under the waistband of my panties and pulled them down. My bottom quivered as I waited.

  *****

  Thirty minutes later, alone once again in my bedroom, I stood with my back to the mirror on my wardrobe door and looked over my shoulder at the reflection of my red cheeked bottom. She had a strong hand and was an enthusiastic spanker. Both cheeks were an even shade of red and they both stung . . . badly. It had seemed like a good idea when it had first happened, that evening when I’d had a few glasses of wine and we’d had the house to ourselves, and the benefits of being spanked by what was, effectively, my landlord, were obvious. The place was just too good and too cheap to lose just because she was a bossy cow who had it in for everyone.

  But, I thought, as I pondered my well spanked bottom, at some point I was going to have to do something about the situation. The spankings were getting more frequent and they were getting harder. And I was not looking forward to the day when I was sure she would appear in my bedroom doorway carrying a cane—who better to know what a cane can do to a bottom than a dominatrix.

  I eased my panties up over my still stinging bottom cheeks and then my shorts. Jess had gone out after she’d finished disciplining me, but I’d heard her talking to someone as she was leaving, so either Trudy or Francis had returned. I left my room and knocked gently on Francis’s door, but there was no reply. A couple of steps across the corridor and I tapped twice on Trudy’s door. There was the sound of someone moving inside and a muffled voice. I took the voice as an invitation and went in.

  The room smelt of perspiration and deodorant, with a background of perfume. Trudy, who had just got back from her evening run, was sitting on an office chair, unlacing her running shoes. I took a deep breath—the mixture of sweat and femininity was a real turn on. She lifted her head to look up at me, giving me a clear view down the front of her T-shirt and her breasts, encased in a white, sports bra.

  ‘It wasn’t me, you know,’ I said.

  She studied me for a second, as if she was trying to read the truth, or otherwise, in my face. Then she nodded and went back to unlacing her shoes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why does she pick on me?’ she asked in a sudden change of subject.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because you’re too nice. If you’d just stick up for yourself a bit more . . .’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ she shrugged.

  ‘But I’ll help you find out which one of them did it, if you like,’ I continued.

  She threw the first shoe over into the corner of the room, where it landed next to what looked like a small tennis racket, and started on the other one. ‘How?’

  ‘I’m studying literature. Sherlock Holmes and all that crap.’

  She laughed and the seriousness was broken. The second shoe followed the first and she sat up, smiling. ‘All right then, Sherlock. Go for it.’ She brushed her blonde hair back from her face and for a second our eyes met.

  I crossed the room and picked up the racket. ‘I play a bit of squash, you know. How about a game?’ Our eyes met again, and a little thrill of anticipation went through me.

  ‘All right. Challenge accepted. But what are we going to be playing for?’

  I smiled. ‘Who knows? I’m sure we’ll think of something. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening, although it’ll have to be later on. I have the keys to the club, so we’ll probably have the place to ourselves.’

  ‘Agreed.’ The deal struck, I returned to my room and sat down at my desk with my books. But as I tried to concentrate on 19th Century French literature, thoughts of Trudy kept intruding—her blonde hair, her firm thighs and her large breasts on display as she leant over.

  Chapter 3 – The Squash Match and the Shower

  The university squash rackets club was a square, brick building, skulking in the fading light as we walked across the empty car park. Trudy produced a key on a plastic fob and opened the door. She reached inside and there was click, followed by a flickering hum as the lights came on. It was the first time I’d been in there, and I looked around with interest. We were standing in a small entrance hall. The walls were bare brick, unadorned apart from a noticeboard covered in announcements, advertisements and the other minutiae that keeps a college sports club going. Next to the noticeboard there were a couple of cheap, plastic leatherette couches, their shiny, worn surfaces garish in the washed out light cast by the neon tubes hanging bat-like from the ceiling. Straight ahead was a door that led to the courts, to the right the women’s locker rooms, to the left the men’s. Trudy turned and locked the door we’d just come through and then we made our way into the women’s locker room and dumped our bags on a bench. Towards the back I could hear the steady drip of a shower. I unzipped my bag and pulled out my racket, taking a couple of practice swings.

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve played,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘I’ll try to take it easy on you.’

  Five minutes later, and I was one game down and losing the second. She was strong, with a good sense of tactics. Her shots echoed pistol like as the ball hit the front wall of the court and came back at me in a blur of rubber. And, if I was being honest, I was distracted by the sight of her body moving around the court—her strong, lycra clad thighs, her slim waist and her large breasts bouncing slightly as she moved, despite the sports bra.

  ‘Why do you always wear long sleeved tops?’ I panted as I moved back into position after losing yet another point.

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just do.’ She tossed the ball up in the air and a second later it was, yet again, coming straight back at me. I dived to the left, almost got my racket on it and fell in a heap on the floor. She came across and held out a hand to help me up. I felt a small thrill of excitement at the physical contact and our eyes met briefly.

  ‘You have nice breasts you know.’ I said, the words out before I could stop them.

  It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but she thought about it for a second before replying. ‘Thank you.’

  *****

  The match lasted just over forty minutes, by which time I had lost five games in a row. The muscles in my legs were burning from the exertion, and my whole body was covered in sweat. I was glad to see that, despite destroying me on the squash court with relative ease, Trudy was similarly hot, her chest rising and falling from the exertion, and the perspiration running down her flushed face. ‘I think I need a shower,’ she said.

  Back in the locker room I pulled a towel from my bag and wiped my face before wandering down to the far end to check out the sh
owers. There was a row of individual cubicles, eight in total. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, returning to where she was rummaging through her bag. ‘Let’s shower in the men’s locker room. It’d be fun. I dare you.’

  She gave me the same look as earlier. ‘I’ve never been in there . . . but all right.’ As she uttered her agreement I noticed her face, already flushed from the exercise, further redden.

  I grabbed my towel and headed for the door. ‘Come on, let’s do it.’

  The men’s locker room was pretty much the same as the women’s, the only differences, as far as I could tell, the condom machine on one wall and the sharp, exciting odour of men’s bodies that pervaded the entire area. We left our towels on a bench and headed, still clothed to the shower area. Another difference, instead of individual cubicles there was one, large communal shower—a white tiled room with shower heads set at regular intervals along the walls. We stood in the entrance and looked at it.

  ‘Looks like we’ll be showering together,’ I said after a while. I slipped out of my trainers, pulled my T-shirt up and over my head and pulled down my shorts, letting them drop to the ground and stepping out of them. I stood in my bra and panties and looked at her. ‘Your turn,’ I said.

  She looked doubtful for a second, and then she too kicked off her trainers, pulled down her Lycra pants and shed her top. We stood there in our underwear and looked at each other. ‘Nice wrists,’ I commented.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. You have nice wrists, that’s all. You shouldn’t keep them covered up with long sleeved tops all the time. By way of changing the subject I reached behind my back and unhooked my bra, slipping the straps from my shoulders and dropping it onto the top of the slowly growing pile of clothing. Then I quickly slipped out of my panties and stood naked in front of her. ‘Your turn,’ I said.

  She hesitated for a second, and then copying me she removed her bra. I had been right, her tits were magnificent. I was surprised that I’d never realised just how good they were before—large, beautifully shaped and tipped with large, rose pink, saucer like nipples. I also couldn’t help noticing that the nipples I was currently admiring were very, very erect. My own nipples, also already stiff and erect, responded some more.