'Sincerely Yours.... Little boy Blue, with the Horn.

This excerpt is from 'Eunice Dyson's Lost panties'. Also on inkitt.

'Eunice' (yes, that was how her name should have been spelled, with an ‘i’ and not an ‘a’, (the same mistake had been made on over a hundred name tags sewn into her clothes) was annoyed with her friends. They had too easily given up on that search for her panties after finding their own, and after that wind had scattered all of their clothing far and wide when it had suddenly picked up as they'd bathed and cavorted, naked in the pool on the felltop.

These were her panties they were talking about, and possibly the most essential part of her armamentarium. Anyone who saw her walking back to school would know immediately that she had lost them. It would be written all over her face even if nothing else was obvious.

An airplane could not have announced it any more 'loudly' if it had painted it in the sky: ‘Eunice Dyson has no knickers on. Roll up! Roll up! Come one, come all, and see for yourselves!’, for all to see, emblazoned across the sky.

Oh, the shame of it!

Everyone would know! Her name had been in those panties.

They would be found and put on display somewhere, or would do the rounds of the pubs, being handled by every Tom, Dick, and Harry, maybe even with them sniffing them: (yes, a delicate bouquet, impudent; youthful vintage, needs to be a little more mature but holds promise. Needs a soupçon of man, a dash of this, a pinch of that, a tincture of semen to become more robust, complete), wondering who this mysterious pantie-less young woman called, Dyson, could be, and chuckling loudly about it as they quaffed another beer.

They would scour the countryside for her, advertise on the radio; ’found under suspicious circumstances, (one pair of girls panties, small, white—apply after seven of an evening)’, even putting large billboards up with a full blown picture of her panties, and an address, with a photo of her without them—if they knew what she looked like—and lifting her skirt tantalizingly and with a ’come-and-get-me kind of smile, to show everyone her deeply-felt loss. ‘Reward, for the lucky finder’! And what a reward they could imagine!

They might even get forensic scientists out to try and construct a body image of her to show what she looked like in real life.

All, from her panties.

There was no point in her offering a reward for their return, and advertising her loss of panties any more widely.

Reward offered for return of lost, white panties, pink ribbon on the waist at the front, to the girls’ school. Small size. Lost on the fells yesterday in the wind. Apply in person to Eunice Dyson at….

She would say nothing of the little heart she’d sewn on the front.

As if she’d dare do such a thing as to advertise herself like that.

Miss Dawkins would have questions of her own to ask after that, and the less she knew of this, the better. She would want to know where she had been and what she had been doing to lose her panties on the fell. Who had been with her and what were the circumstances? All of them! And how, exactly had the wind removed her panties if she had been wearing them? And…What was his name? Admit it, girl!

Instant notoriety, her parents would be informed, and with it being strongly suggested they should remove their shockingly careless daughter before she brought any more defamation down onto the school, or sullied its reputation any further.

Losing her panties on the fells, indeed! A likely story!

Then there would be a hundred, or more, curious, intent young men, pleading love, or some other basic emotion, stampeding to the school, anxious to meet her, and proffering their wife’s, or their girl friend’s, or mother’s panties in various sizes, to find out if they could meet this pantie-less soul, gaze deep into her eyes while inspecting the other region by touch, and press them upon her, offering their eager assistance to put them on her bare, nether regions to be sure that they were indeed hers, but only after a suitable period of discovery and inspection.

Photographers would record every detail for posterity and the more lurid Sunday papers. Books might be written about it. A film could even be made!

That fairy tale about Cinderella, had been about a glass slipper, with the prince slipping it on her foot to be sure she was the one he had danced with, but all of the time intent on holding her ankle and trying to lift her dress to look up it. Of course he would. He was always thinking of slipping her something else after the slipper, as he leaned in to kiss her. The story said nothing of those more lurid details about real life, to cloud the minds of children, but adults knew better. Those nursery stories always had a darker and more gritty side.

Cinderella had not lost her knickers, which would have made a much more interesting story than losing a glass slipper. She couldn’t lose them because she would not have worn any. Exciting times! She wouldn’t even have known what they were; another fact never admitted, but that, was because of the times. They did not wear knickers then. They didn’t need to; at least, not to keep the wind at bay, and fairy godmothers knew nothing of them either, or they may also have been ‘gone’ at the stroke of midnight, as many pairs of panties do anyway, near that magical hour of orgy and witchcraft.

Just think about it, rationally, for a moment.

It would have been difficult, if not impossible to be in the outhouse juggling those long, voluminous, heavy skirts; hold them aloft with one’s arms around and under them, allowing you to see nothing with them up in your face, and then have to fumble under that lot to try to get knickers down too. A girl could have a serious personal accident or even fall over, struggling indecorously like that before she ever got herself uncovered enough to sit down over all of that ordure and stink, and pee. And then dabbing delicately… and getting them up again? Knickers, were not needed. They were just a damned encumbrance to all and sundry. But they always had been. Just ask any boy.

A curse, and a pox upon the one who had invented them!

Indeed, there were several advantages to being a woman in a long dress and without knickers.

When the moment came, you just had to stand still, wherever you were outside, with your legs apart—but not too far apart—a vacant or bemused expression or a smile,on your face, and pee, while carrying on an intelligent conversation a little more loudly with a few coughs and clearing of throat.

You always hoped, of course, that the hissing sound would not be audible, and that the spreading pool around your feet would not be noticed as you gently hitched up your dress so as not to get the bottom wet. Except, doing it that way was also hazardous. You were likely to piss down your leg and into your glass slippers (and the prince might notice that when he thought he was drinking champagne), or would wet the inside of your dress, with the rebellious hair sitting over that place, redirecting the stream in every direction but the one you wanted. It was not easy being a girl.

The way around that, was to have a nifty little pocket to reach into at the side of your dress, so that you could rummage around in the hairs, moving them out of the way of that rebellious little channel, and then parting those lips... opening yourself up better to direct the stream where you wanted it to go.

That is, if you didn’t mind doing that and getting your hand wet, all the while, fidgeting, while trying to carry on a polite discourse at the same time as you were peeing.

While we’re on the topic, a long dress like that, absent knickers beneath it, was a godsend for the men.

They could stealthily intercept their target coming out of the outhouse, as she focused on settling her dress and petticoats around herself.

While she was thus occupied, the men would quickly swoop in behind her, stoop, lift her long skirts from her ankles to over her head from behind with a chuckle, and tie them there with a few turns of twine, trapping her hands and arms as in a sack, muffling her complaints, trip her to the ground, and then…?

It must have been a common occurrence at one time.

By the time she got out of that bind, she’d never know who had been at her, or how many, once he, or they, had left, and it probably didn’t matter in that day and age. All girls and women were fair game to all men in those... good-old-days, as they called them. Good luck on finding out who your father might be.

Eunice’s epitaph, would be about her lost panties, and someone other than a prince, slipping her something memorable, and in private, before he would give her panties back to her. There was always a price to pay for being so careless.

Eunice’s horror at losing her panties with her name in them, and walking back without them, and the feeling that everyone would easily know about it, was magnified, as every little breeze under her skirt seemed to mischievously lift it where it never had before. It was drafty too.

She did not understand how loss of such a flimsy cover over her little portal down there could create such uncertainty and psychological discomfort.

“Snap out of it, Eunice; act your age, we’re almost back at the school.”

She suffered two long days and nights of agony as she lay awake at night, worrying about it. All manner of thoughts ran through her fevered brain to try and solve the problem.

Her friends were no comfort, and refused to mount a search party to go back to that location.

It was not the end of the world for them, but it was, for her. They also ruthlessly continued to torment her about them.

She could change her name!

Leave the school for a few weeks!

Run away!

It was just a matter of time before her panties were found and passed around the local pubs for everyone to chuckle over and lay bets about her, the mysterious ‘Eunace Dyson’, as they got the blood hounds out and hunted her down by the scent of her panties; ‘Eau de Eunice’, ‘parfum de quim tres jeune’. She could almost hear them baying on her scent, sniffing her out, like Tolkien’s ‘Gollum’ along the dark of the school corridors steadily getting closer and closer, or about the grounds. Or could that be the men, and not the dogs?

She would never dare go out or into the village again for at least several months.

There was nothing in her panties to say that she was at this particular school, so that was a relief, but how many girls were there in this area with her name? Or misspelled like that? And how many girls’ schools were there close to the fells?

It was just a matter of time before her life was ended!

But then, all was resolved.

She'd worried for nothing.

They were returned to the school... anonymously, without fanfare, in a brown-paper wrapped package... but by whom? How? Who?

That thought tormented her for long enough... and then... she met him.

Fate had destined this, of course.