Underwear Divorce

Michaela floated through the bustling hotel lobby. Her feet hovered just above the ground as she propelled herself forward at a firm speed. None of the guests or employees seemed to notice the spectral woman wandering between the halls, ascending through the floors. She passed between rooms, scanning the families or couples lying within. Exhaling harshly, she continued to dart about until finally, she found her quarry.

Jon was laying in bed, entangled and naked beside a lithe young blonde: Clare. Michaela fumed at the foot of the bed. They both looked so peaceful, and he still had a hand resting on one of her breasts. The only thing Clare was wearing was a thin, lacey, white thong – lingerie worn for that cheater's own pleasure. It took her more than a moment to calm down; her marriage was officially going to end, but all for the better. Jon was going to get what he deserved. He was going to get Michaela's version of a divorce.

Hovering calmly over them, Michaela reached out her hands. The emotion was gone from her face, and she only stared at the lovers indifferently. With one hand, she touched her former husband on the forehead. Bending down, she reached to Clare's thong with her other hand, touching it. Both the naked man and the undergarment began to thrum softly, vibrating and seeming to blur. Michaela smirked, then turned and flew out of the hotel room.

Jon awoke, drowsy and exhausted. He smiled, thinking of the passionate night Clare and him had shared. Strangely though, he found himself too tired to even move his lips. He opened his eyes and also found that they didn't respond, yet suddenly he became aware as if he could see his surroundings. The curtains were drawn, and the room was still relatively dark, but where was Clare?

He felt a stirring on either side of his head, and a soft moan as Clare rolled in her sleep. Suddenly, he felt himself tumbling over to his side. He cried out but was jerked back, his face now resting inches away from the bedsheets at an angle. She was lying on her side, and so was he. That was when Jon noticed the smell emanating from behind him.

A wet warmth radiated against his back, and it smelled of sweat and sex. Jon himself felt damp, as if he were covered in that same, salty smell. He coughed and choked but nothing came of his actions. He found himself silent still, forced to endure the moist smell of Clare's vagina.

What was going on? Jon felt as if he had been turned into fabric and sinew. He felt the wetness of perspiration running along his back, soaking into him. Fear crept at him, but he couldn't even scream. He wanted to reach out and cling to Clare, ask her for help. Instead, he could only hang between her legs, pressing further against her whenever she shifted about. He'd become her underwear!

Daylight began to enter the room. Clare laid back into the bed and yawned. Jon found himself suddenly squeezed by her thighs as she stretched. She sat up, reaching across the now empty bed.

“Jon?” Clare asked.

He screamed, shouted, tried waving non-existent arms at her from below. Silence.

Clare laid back against the pillows. “Damnit. Seriously? What an asshole.” She groaned and covered her eyes.

Jon pleaded and begged for her to hear him. He had never left her side the entire night; he needed her to notice him. She did, though only to straighten him out and pull him snug against her. Climbing out of the bed and muttering to herself, she went into the bathroom. Jon found himself suddenly yanked to the ground as Clare relieved herself. He felt as if his face were stretched wide and pressed into the ceramic tiles lining the floor. A minute later, he was yanked up to his original place again.

“He was just using you, Clare!” she said to herself, freshening up in front of the mirror. “Should've known it was too good to be true. I am just...done with men like him. Done.” Tying her hair back, she returned to the hotel room and began to dress. Clare picked up a pair of trousers and pulled them on. She huffed as a wetness began to drip out of her lower lips. Instead of reaching for wipes or a towel, Clare merely shook her head and buttoned up her pants, anxious to leave the room.

She was in tears, and Jon wanted desperately to appease her. Half-dressed, she picked up her phone and called him, but there was no response. She texted him; no response. Even more enraged, she tossed the phone aside and silently put on her top. When she was fully-clothed again, she picked up her things and walked out of the hotel room.

“If he calls,” she said to herself, “If he apologizes and begs me to forgive him, then I'll take him back.”

Yet Jon was experiencing a new sensation, one he found particularly unpleasant. The juices from Clare's vagina – a mix of her secretions and his semen from the night before – had been left to ooze outside of her. It landed on his back, a disgustingly warm, thick liquid. It coated his backside and soaked into him. A smell of fermented tang filled the limited space in which he resided. Trapped within the tight trousers, he was forced to absorb the pungent mixture, making it a part of him. With every step she took, a little more would dribble out and pool onto him. He could no longer take the stench and screamed out, though he made no noise and found no relief.

Clare must've been leaving the hotel now. Jon had his five senses: he could hear traffic outside, see the dark fabric in front of him, and certainly smell her private parts. He simply couldn't speak or move. Exhausted from the ordeal, he rested against the trousers to his front, hoping to find respite in the denim pressed to his face. She shifted again, and Jon heard the sound of a car door opening and closing. Roughly, Clare plopped down, jostling Jon and temporarily disorienting him.

The sticky mess smashed into his back. Jon could almost hear himself gasping as the mess spread all over him. Even her lower lips seemed to press against him, rubbing the cum all over as she shifted in the seat and got more comfortable. He was a sopping, disgusting mess now, though Clare didn't seem to care. He could hear her driving aggressively out of the parking lot. Then she clicked on the audio and music began to play. It was a slow song, a country tune – their favorite song.

Clare was driving home, sobbing uncontrollably. Jon, for all of his current misery, could not understand how things had gotten this way. For one, he couldn't fathom how he had even turned into lingerie, but also how he'd made the decision to cheat and chase after his desires. In the end, he was separated from both women, and he could not even ease the pain of the one he cherished. Love was unfair. It was cruel, making him a victim to its whims, tearing him apart for struggling to find happiness, for getting so achingly close to holding it. He had held it, because he had held Clare. And now? Now he was pathetic, soaking in a mire of cum and sweat, wedged and twisted between Clare's thighs and her lower lips. Everything had turned against him, and he hadn't the slightest notion why.

The car slowed down, coming to a final stop and shutting off. Jon felt himself pulled upward again as Clare climbed out. She sniffled, wiping away at her cheeks. Then she stormed upstairs. Groaning internally, Jon withstood the battering of her thighs against him as she ascended. Her wetness slickened him even more. He'd have panted if he could; the ordeal had gone on longer than he wished to endure. He muttered apologies, his voice now depleted, the purpose of even trying to speak lost to him. When she entered her flat, she slammed the door shut, causing Jon to wince.

Hope welled up within him though, as Jon realized soon Clare would be in her room. She'd have to change out of her clothes then! She'd want to shower and sleep. Relief washed over him, and he relaxed as he heard Clare open a door and step forward. His suffering, at least for now, would be coming to an end.

Clare took off her top and sighed. She turned on the shower and let the water run to warm it. She removed her pants, and Jon could practically breathe the open air. He was still soaked, sure, but he was no longer trapped with the stagnant smells of their previous lovemaking. When she slid him off, Jon wanted to cry in bliss, he was so happy to be free. Then she scrunched him up with the other clothes and walked to the corner of her room.

Jon was feeling crushed again, struggling uselessly to hang free and breathe. He felt Clare open something against the wall, and dread filled him. A terrible, musty odor wafted from the wicker lid she had opened. A laundry hamper, he was going to be tossed in the laundry hamper! Jon wailed in despair, cursing himself for being so stupid as to not consider where she'd place him. With a casual toss, she threw him in along with the other clothes.

For hours, Jon lay there, piled against old and wet pieces of clothing. The musk and moisture of sweat and sex permeated the air in a foul mixture. Jon gagged on the putrid stench, as his own dampness added to the mix. He wallowed in the dirty laundry, the lid at the top still visible to him. Wordlessly, uselessly, Jon begged for an end. He begged for peace. He found none.

After the shower, Clare had tossed a towel on top of him, enshrouding him in darkness. Even its clean scent could not be smelled over the scent of the hamper. Jon simply soaked in his wet misery as he lingered overnight. He slept bitterly, unable to relieve himself of both exhaustion and awareness. In the morning, he heard Clare climbing out of bed and changing into some clothes. Knowing better than to waste time speaking to her, Jon kept silent as she left the room. When she returned later, she heard her tiredly approach the hamper. Then she tossed a set of sweaty yoga pants and a sports bra on top of the pile before closing the lid.

This continued for days, and every time, the pungent air reeked even worse. Dirty clothing was added on top of Jon, pressing him down into the pile beneath and suffocating him. He wondered if mold was beginning to form on him. Whatever he felt and smelled was no longer just sexual juices, but refuse of all kind. Jon was no longer surrounded in filth, he was filth. Finally, it all ended when Clare appeared again, and so did the light of her room.

She carried him and all of the laundry, dumping everything in a washing machine. Before Jon could even think of calling out to Clare again, she poured a thick, powerful batch of detergent over him and the other clothes. Then she shut him again in darkness and turned the water on. Spattered with droplets, Jon felt foam wash over him. He could almost weep at the clean scent, but soon he found himself drowning as the water rose over him. Panicking, Jon could only endure as suddenly he was twisted about and pulled and wrung. Before long, Clare returned and moved the laundry over to a dryer. Completely soggy, Jon flopped loudly against the metallic edges of the machine. He stuck to it as wet clothes were piled around him. The smell was gone, but now he had to endure the intensely hot air blown around him as he tumbled and fell.

After an hour, Clare fished out the fresh clothes. Jon sighed internally, the flowery scent of clean fabric wafting past him. He felt warm and cozy, and was even relieved that he came to rest against Clare's arm as she carried him. Needy, desperate desire for her washed over him as she held him. But she only folded him away and placed him in a drawer. He understood then. Jon knew his place now; he was her lingerie. He was her belonging, an item now, not a person. He had to accept that they could no longer speak as they once did, but at least she would always be connected to him. They would always be a part of each other.

Later that night, Clare opened the drawer. She was on the phone with someone. Reaching into the drawer, she pulled Jon out. She looked stunning, her makeup done and her body washed and moisturized. Clare smiled sweetly, her face flushed red. “I'll wear something nice for you,” she said to the person over the phone. Taking a bewildered Jon, she pulled him up her smooth legs, fitting him snug against her vagina.

When Clare returned to her flat a few hours later, she brought a new lover with her. Jon, as nothing more than her lingerie thong, sat through the entire evening listening to the two of them flirt. Clare was noticeably excited, and Jon had felt a wet spot spreading across his back. Now she was alone with him, and as they kissed and fondled one another, she slid him down and flung him away. Jon landed on the floor, his heart crushed as he watched Clare make love to another man.

It broke his heart how unfair his predicament was. That was when he remembered Michaela, and guilt washed over him. He'd wronged his wife, and this must've been karma. Michaela had always been special as well, unique. Had she done this? Could she have...? Horror seeped into the very fabric he was made of. Michaela had done this. Somehow, this was her divorce, her revenge for his actions. Jon silently begged her for an end to the nightmare. She'd ruined him; she'd won.