Second-hand
© 2002 by Chris Bridges

A parking space up front! A good omen, Martha thought.  She got out of her Jetta, locked it carefully—she'd been wearing gloves for so long now that handling car keys was nothing—and headed into the thrift shop to see what her sex life was about to be like.

Not very crowded today.  Good.  She grabbed a shopping basket and made some perfunctory browsing motions through the skirt aisle, but her attention was on the rack at the far end of the store, where the lingerie was.  There was a large woman over there now, sifting through the hosiery and underwear bin.  Martha shuddered.  How could anyone buy second-hand panties? I mean, doesn't she know where they've been? Martha did, better than most people.

After a few moments of sideways observation it became obvious that the woman was living in a dream world anyway.  She consistently passed over clothing that might actually fit her to grab for undies that would have to stretch to fit Kate Moss.  Martha smiled to herself.  Any minute now she'll get fed up and.

The woman left, but not before storming over to the counter and complaining loudly that all the clothing was sized wrong and how dare they treat their customers that way.  The door slammed loudly after her passing, and Martha fancied she could feel a collective sigh of relief from the other shoppers.  After glancing around to see where everybody was, she meandered, in a purely accidental, totally coincidental path that led her directly to the lingerie rack.

It was full.  Martha took a deep breath at all the possibilities.  Too many weekends she had come in to see the same threadbare rags hanging in the same place.  This looked more like someone had turned in a collection of quality things, and she knew without looking that the prices would reflect it.  But that was okay.  Martha got a lot more out of these garments than anyone would think.  She looked around a final time—no one was paying attention—and she carefully pulled off her right glove, and brushed her hand against the first nightie.

She had looked it up once.  It was called psychometry, the ability to touch an item and "read" its history.  Thank God it only happened when she touched something with her bare hands, or she'd have gone insane the first year.  While she'd always been very sensitive to her surroundings, it wasn't unmanageable until the night in high school when she started to get into a friend's new (used) car and suddenly found herself in the midst of someone else's flaming maelstrom of heat and death.  She had screamed and clutched at her face with both hands, and the vision had stopped cold, even if the memory of it didn't.

Thus followed years of therapy, during which she was very careful not to reveal any more psychic ability than she had to, having no wish to become a lab rat or an X-Files subject.  After that were many more years of loneliness.  A few abortive relationships and traumatic experiences taught her quickly that it's not good to know everything about your loved one.  How could she live with anyone when every time she picked up something of theirs she became them, thought their thoughts, knew their secrets? She wore gloves every second she was out of her apartment, and was careful never to touch anything she had owned for less than a year in case it carried memories of its manufacture, or some horrible disaster that happened in the store while it was on the shelf.

One night, depressed and lonely, she was doing her laundry in the basement of her apartment building (with her own detergent, and without ever touching any of the dirty, memory-laden quarters) when the young blonde girl from the apartment above hers came in with her own basket.  Lucy was her name, Martha knew, and she was a college girl with a cat and a boyfriend and a red Miata.  They nodded pleasantly to each other and went about their business.  Martha kept her eyes downward, slightly embarrassed; many a night she had heard the thumping and gasping coming from the room above, and she considered her own bitter envy to be inappropriate.  Lucy dumped her clothes out on the wooden counter and started separating them, only to realize she'd forgotten her change.  Martha agreed to watch her pile and she dashed upstairs, all bounces and golden shining hair.

On the top of her clothing was a crumpled nightgown.

Martha listened for movement outside, and then lifted the nightie.  It was a sheer thing, pink and lace-trimmed and entirely useless for modesty or comfortable sleep.  Martha, flannel to her core, had never worn anything remotely like it in her life.  In her mind she heard the sighs and the moans and the gasps.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she slipped off her glove and grasped the nightie, and instantly she was Lucy.

When Lucy came back down with a Pringles can half full of quarters, Martha was just finishing up her load and heading out.  She waved to Martha, that nice lady, before turning back to her washing.  She never noticed the missing nightie, or the way Martha's face glowed with sweat, or how Martha trembled as she hurried back upstairs with a basket of wet laundry.

Martha was trembling again at the cash register.  She always did; it seemed impossible that the cashier couldn't tell why she was buying five pieces of lingerie, no two even remotely the same size.  As always, there was no outcry of screams of "Pervert!" and she clutched the bag to her chest as she hurried out to her car.  She rushed inside her apartment, locked the door, and tossed the bag through her bedroom door so she could begin her weekend ritual, crystallized over the last few years.  One glass of red wine, to accompany her into the bathtub.  One capful of "Amethyst Dreams" in the steaming water.  Exactly one half-hour in the tub, to relax and soothe her and to make her skin soft and smooth.  Dry off with a thick, fluffy towel, and then walk naked-but-for-gloves where her fantasies were waiting in a white plastic bag.

She stretched luxuriously across her covers with a delighted, anticipatory smile, and then sat up with her legs straight out in front of her.  Her gloved hands shook the lingerie out of the bag into a small silky heap.  Martha brought her hands in front of her face and began to slowly tug at the fingertips of her right glove.  The heat began to build, a purely pavlovian reaction built up over the last two years, and she felt her nipples tighten into knurled buttons.  With naked hands, she grabbed the first nightie, bunched it up against her breasts, and she was.

"Honey?" he called. "You left me already?"

"I'm in here," Michelle/Martha called in a husky voice. "Did you bring dinner?"

Hank appeared in the doorway, a burly bear of a man with a big grin and a large bulge leading the way. "Happens I did, ma'am," he said. "Hot and ready, if it's not still tired from last night!" He all but leaped out of his clothes and jumped onto the bed, capturing Michelle in a rough embrace and kissing her throat and breasts.  She arched up to meet him and her fingernails dragged lines across his broad back.  His hands pushed her teddy aside to pinch at her nipples.  His cock was a hard, red-hot presence below, pushing stubbornly at the sheets to get to her.  Michelle swept the bedclothes aside to reveal herself in all her glory—tanned, tight, and aching with need—and she slowly rolled over to her hands and knees, planting her face solidly in the pillow and pushing her rounded ass into Hank's crotch.

"You know what I want, lover," she said.  Michelle shook with desire as she felt the first touch of Hank's cock pushing against her asshole ...

That was one advantage, she supposed.  She could try all the sexual kinks she wanted without fear of discovery, disease, or social acceptance, and so eventually, hesitantly, she had.  Martha had, at times, been a lesbian, an exhibitionist, a swinger, a submissive (dominants didn't wear nighties, apparently, or else didn't give them to Goodwill afterwards), old, young, white, black, brown, yellow, red, handicapped, athletic, thin, fat, and every possible combination of those and more.  Intact though she may be, she had figured that after two years she had fucked almost a thousand men, sort of.  She would have had an impressive roster of women as well, but while lesbian memories invariably caused massive orgasms, she always felt uncomfortable about how much she enjoyed them.

Her disappointment was easy to quell, she usually counted herself lucky if even a third of her purchases were keepers.  She firmly put away the insistent memory of how badly she had wanted her ass filled and she picked up the second nightie.

The gift had its drawbacks, that was for sure.  It had taken quite a bit of trial and error before Martha settled on her routine.  At first she thought, despite her first encounter, that panties would provide the strongest charge.  Unfortunately she quickly discovered that while they were often filled with incredibly powerful memories of toe-curling foreplay, they would usually go cold right when the owner (or owner's lover) yanked them off, leaving Martha shuddering with interrupted passion.  Two or three traumatic menstrual memories after that and she decided to avoid other people's underwear forever.

When she heard about porn stars and amateur web girls selling used panties, she did wonder for a moment whether or not there were others like her out there, buying them for the memories inside, but it wasn't enough for her to consider buying any herself.  Besides, second-hand lingerie was cheaper.

The third one was a long nightgown with little lace roses at the neck.  It looked like something Martha might have chosen for herself, should she ever wear anything to bed that wasn't chosen for warmth, and she had been intending to save it for last but after the first two she badly needed one to work.  Casting caution to the winds she rapidly pulled it over her head and wrapped her hands around her breasts, crushing the thin cloth between them.

John came back to a darkened room.  He made his way to the bed to find a double-armful of scented delight.  His hands roamed over the familiar wonders made new again by a satiny wrap that slid like oil over blood-hot skin.  Never once did he fail to find a sensitive spot or a fiery nerve ending, and within seconds Anne was panting and nearly mindless with want.  She gasped aloud as he ran his hand along her side, over her hip, to squeeze at a ripe buttock before slipping between her legs.  His knowing fingers pushed the slick cloth against and around her, tugging at her skin and setting her folds aflame.  The sensations threatened to overwhelm her and push her too close, too fast, so she grabbed the hem of the gown and wrapped it around his cock, drawing it back and forth and causing him to cry out in surprise and desire.  A race began, the fever building and cascading, until both combatants surrendered and merged into one.  The nightgown slipped up over her thighs as he entered her, and it slid between their bodies as they moved, adding an intoxicating sensation that drove them harder and harder until they roared into each other's mouth and ...

She wrapped her hand in the sheet to move that nightgown over to the side.  Painful though it was, that one would get saved for later.  Psychometric memories never lasted long; her own experiences quickly overrode the lingering traces of former owners.  But they were usually good for two or three times before they became too faint to read, and she already had a crush on John.  Not surprising, she often got crushes on some of the men she experienced.  It never lasted.  The sensation of abruptly knowing everything about a strange new man was a heady one, but there was always another one to replace him in the next touch.

It was a source of private amusement to Martha that she had become a psychic slut.  One more sip of wine, and she touched the next pile.

Last one.  She looked back longingly at the one John bought for Anne, but steeled herself to try the last one.  Not a good idea to obsess on a perfect lover who's never met you, she thought, and reached for the new one.  It was peach and white, and it eased over her head like smoke.

"Hello? Hey Jimmy.  Look, I'm kind of busy right now, can I.  what? They were where? The Motel 6?" Unexpected terror captured Anne's mind as John looked down at her, anguish blossoming across his face. "No, I.  no, thank you for telling me, Jim.  I have to go now." He hung up, looked at her for a long, questioning moment, then got up and left without a word.  Anne shook quietly for a long time before the wracking sobs broke free and consumed her ...

Riding Anne's mind she had learned all there was to know about him, his tastes, his loves, his life, their wedding day, his favorite Chinese restaurant, everything that Anne knew.  She had felt the thundering passion and she had cut out his heart, and living through both events in a matter of moments was enough to tear her own soul in two.

With a shock, she also realized something else.  This had happened recently.  The feelings were too fresh, too intense.  That night, the night John found out about Anne's infidelity, somehow led to Anne's lingerie ending up in a thrift shop, and the possible reasons why were all Martha could think about for the rest of the night.

Sunday morning at the thrift shop, the cashier opened the front door and jumped aside as Martha rushed in, yanked the glove off her right hand, and began grabbing at every article of clothing in the store.  Weirdest thing the cashier had ever seen, in a business guaranteed to attract weird customers.  The lady would grab a nightgown, her eyes would pop and she'd sag a little, then she'd shake it off and grab the next one.  It was like each one gave her a migraine or something, and she was desperate to get 'em all.  She went from rack to rack, shuddering with spasms, and almost went to her knees in the underwear bins, but that lady never once slowed down.  Weirdest damn thing she ever saw.

Martha drove herself on, memory after memory, life after life.  She dashed through the thoughts and lives of thousands of people, searching for clues to John's life, his present situation, and where she might find him.  She had to know if he was all right, if he was recovering.  Her own life completely forgotten, all she could think about right now was a man she had never met, a man she had loved and lost in the space of ten minutes, a stranger with whom she was deeply in love.  Waves of thoughts washed over her mind, threatening to overwhelm her in the flood, but she kept on doggedly grabbing everything within reach, looking for traces of her fantasy lover.

If I don't find him here, she thought raggedly, there are an awful lot of thrift shops out there.  It's amazing the perfectly good things that people throw out.  And she reached for the next memory.

© 2002 Chris Bridges.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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