Panties For Men

123ak · Senior Member

Home-made toys

pantylover · Veteran Member

my fist

123ak · Senior Member

Very nice Breezie, we are all waiting for your next installment.

pretty pink panties · Veteran Member

Wow breezie, that is an amazing story. Thank you for sharing with us a deep and personal part of your life.

Breeziestroke · Guru

EDITORIAL UPDATE, 09/24/11: I have decided to redo parts of my Play Methodology, as I believe that I wasn’t providing enough clarity; and I have deleted the original Posts, and replaced them with these new ones, in sequence, and back‑to‑back.

ORIGINAL: I'd discussed my Play Methods before, in the Old Forum, and now, it seems that there may be folks who are still interested.

First off, for general all-around wear, and intense Play, I much prefer with my Tricot wear, to wear my pretties "inside-out", as the "outside" finer and vertically-oriented knit-grain ridges and furrows, feels and is greatly softer.

These methods probably work the best, with my yet to be "Patented" custom-crafted design system, where the "front" and "back" panels are identical. This design yields more fabric play all around on the bod, and fabric play around Winkie, the groin, and the lower bum, where it all counts the most.

The Friction Method or Technique

I'll talk about the Friction Method, first. If you adopt my technique/method as your own, you will need a pillowing/bolster system. They should, of course have a little give, but not too much, as you'll want them to return to shape for many more countless hours of play, and be shapeable to a derriere form. I've yet to find pillowing/bolstering that can make the shape for a chick's Mons, so, I content myself with the Booty aspect, as, when I pretend and fantasize, booties are just as fun. The surface of the pillowing/bolstering, should be of a velour, brushed Tricot Flannelette, corduroy, fleece‑style, suede‑type, surfaces like that, as you really don’t want to feel those surfaces below what you put the stroking panties on—yet provides enough grip to the “stroker pantie” so that there is a minimum of slippage of this “stroker”. The cushion(s) should be no wider—about the width of a svelte chick’s hips—than to easily slip vertically, "up" and "down" through your spread legs and groin, and applying pressure on your tummie. The slippage I mentioned, means that the “stroker”, stretched over the cushion, is optimally smaller (It might take some stuffing, but not a whole lot.) than the cushion, to make it even more stiff, and "open up" the panties knit-grain. For a long cushion, I gather up a long nightie on the cushion's backside—that is, where I don’t intend the stroking surface to be—so that the "rubbing surface" is decently snug. With a nightie that’s bilaterally symmetrical—that is, single panel both sides, with the same dimensionality both front and back—I’ll try and take up the slack at the sides, and switch back from one cushion side to the other, as one side stretches out, and pause and re‑adjust. Since I wear my pantieware, "inside-out", I likewise have the pantie on the cushion, "inside out". Now, after I’ve adjusted the pantie that I’m wearing, "just so", I start rubbing that cushion, which remotely resembles a chick's pelvic action, in vertical thrusts; the stroking cushion starts making sweet susurrating squealing sounds, the same effect as a bow being dragged across a violin string. To me, I imagine it sounding like a fantasy lover groaning, later shrieking, as they build towards climax—my panties definitely do have a voice! If you adapt this technique as your own, you might experiment with various layering schemes of additional panties over what you're wearing and what the cushion is wearing, for whatever stimulative properties your own winkie discovers. As I thrust back and forth, and Winkie grows, and the slippage changes with Winkie's inflation, it all begins to feel like Winkie's "feeling stars", and if with the drape of the panties that you're wearing to have the slack vs. snug parts adjusted optimally, with Winkie's face being the main bearing point, just about the entire pantie is going to be activated, and this all becomes a "Tricot Vagina"! If you adopt this technique, you'll probably want a cushion to prop under your small back, 'cause the fabric slippage on your lower bum feels lotsa fun, too! That may also help as well, if one has a weak and bad back. This all works the best, when the “stroker” (Or nightie, if one uses the long cushion.) is of a similar or identical fabric composition to the one I’m wearing, to work effectively. Coarsely-deniered over finely-deniered fabric, vice-versa, just won't get that delicious "snag", because the yarn diameters are very dissimilar in size.

Since I have fun in Cotton, Cotton‑Type 1 X 1 Rib‑Knit too, on my cushion, the “stroker” will be a Tricot pantie with a fine‑denier count, with that vertical "right side out" grain surface—panties, such as a Vanity Fair Lace Nouveau or Shadowline Satinrique. The vertical grain of the Tricot, meshes and digs very deep into the vertical Cotton Ribs, and delivers a different kind of softness 'n' stars whallop. The slickery ultra‑soft Tricot of the “stroker” combines with the fuzzie softness of the Cotton—that’s how it’s different. It just can't be any cotton, and definitely not Cotton done in a Jersey‑Knit. It must be preferrably made from a long-fibre Egyptian/Peruvian/Pima FINE RIB Cotton, Cotton Blend, or Cotton Type. And sometimes I do a reverse of this technique, by having the “stroker” being the TW, and you wearing the Tricot pantie, "right side" out. As I said, if you want to try all of this out You might want to put an underpantie under the TW's, on the cushion, so that the TW can get an activated "ripple" of the soft TW's, as you thrust away, with those perfectly vertical strokes.

With my 100% Pure Cotton, and Cotton-Type 1 X 1 Rib‑Knits, there really isn't much difference, believe it or not, because, as both surfaces start out the same, and with my kind of seasoning, I will soon get the fabric about the same softness as fine Tricots and Nylon Microfibre Lycra Spandexes. Select vintage Cot/Poly Blended 1 X 1 Rib‑Knit TW’s can be quite a pleasant surprise—plenty downie, fuzzie, ultra‑sheer, drapey, staticky, and clingy

Brands to of TW's to Avoid: Fruit of the Loom, for example--this stuff is stiff, not drapey, not supple, actually scratchy, and does not develop the sweet lil' fuzzies that a body and Winkie craves, with a minimum of break‑in. It may take a long time; by that time—and it could be sooner than you think—it will already be disintegrating into a mess of runs, ladders, and tears, before it becomes adequately soft and supple. You know this ugly stuff; it gives TW's a bad rep—what turns most of you off, to what could otherwise be quite a delight, done with the right grade and quality of Cotton. Hanes is a little better, but not by much, as another example.

Now, for the Good: among the exemplary domestic stuff, Jockey Cotton Classics Y‑Fronts, Calvin Klein, Knockers, Sears Covington Cot/Poly Blendeds, and, Holistas Women's by Nordstrom. Short to season‑in, break in, this stuff fluffs you up right away, gets sheer after only a few wash-wear cycles--quite drapie/clingie/fuzzie/billowie. For the foreign stuff, there's Hanro of Switzerland (See this stuff modeled by chicks, in Womens' styles, wherever chi‑chi posh undies are sold, such as Neiman Marcus.); "Euro" Jockey Deluxe Classics (Which can be found at England's NeedUndies: http://www.needundies.com/ .); and Mey, undies. Not only do these 100% Pure Cotton get super-sheer and devastatingly soft and sheer, they get a sheen, like glossy-finish Tricots!

I'm going to keep you all in suspense, stew awhile with what I've just written. I've just given you the "stroke" part of my PFM moniker, "Breeziestroke". In the next installment I'll discuss the "breezie", in the Windage Method, my ideally perferred method. Stay tuned……

-- Edited by Breeziestroke on Saturday 24th of September 2011 01:32:34 AM

Breeziestroke · Guru

The Windage Method, or Technique, Part I

BACKGROUND: I'd like to start, with a little background, to set this topic up. You may want to refer to my post in the thread, "First Time Experience". Remember when I mentioned my first stirrings, at age 9 or so, in my ultra‑soft TW's? About the same time, in grade school, there was this extremely beautiful little girl, who I had a crush on, and I couldn't do anything about it. She did have some cultured aspects about herself; she was the spoilt youngest in her family, and had two or three older brothers (Daddy's darling little princess!); yet had this feral streak a mile wide; flashing her very chi‑chi posh panties, was an expression of this wild side of hers. She was very conceited, and she was "nice" to me—and other boys. I at the time, lacked certain social graces, and couldn't read the real message behind her "approaches", and, she eventually became very hateful towards me, and as much as it was tearing me up, I had to back off from any contact with her. Yes, I was very wounded, lasted a looong time, that's all behind me, but the impact she left on me, remains exquisitely, and vividly.

Raven‑haired, slightly pale, angelic face, and dark large deep-set eyes that you could drown in. A slightly petite bod with extremely winkie‑bustin' curves—her bum—most prominently—long lithe legs—and in retrospect, I think her breasts were beginning their bloom, at about age Ten‑and‑a‑half.

She almost invariably wore very short lightweight flouncy skirts—not your silly "sissie" skirts—sometimes some smart dresses/skirt suits—and she had this stride, this swagger, with hip‑swing, and pivot of knees and ankles, that could send those skirt's hems flying to the hips and above! When she kneeled, bent over, she always flashed, with some deliberation, not like other little girls, who were properly taught by their mommies to be more modest; so she definitely knew that she was prick‑teasing, no doubt about it!!

And those UNDIES of hers!! From my researches many years later, I'd since learned that her Mother, maybe Poppa too, bought nothing but the BEST, for their little princess. Rippley pettiepanties, whose lace, and scrim of fabric peaked out below the skirt hems, even when she was "at rest". Full briefs, with the rears of her legs that sometimes were hiked up above the lower swell of her beautiful bum. And, I know that a lot of you, put the "knock" on Cotton, but when she’d periodically switch out to Cotton, this was defintely Hanro‑Zimmerli‑Class fine-knit Rib‑Knit, that she wore—sometimes Full Briefs, and sometimes lacy, billowy Cotton Pettiepanties. She was also the pioneer girl in school, for wearing high‑gloss pantiehose, often with lacy stuff knit‑in, right into the hose'es fabric. This was late '64, early '65, before hippie fashions exploded full‑force.

In Autumns and late Springs, Northern California gets these warm windstorms, called Diablos or Mono's that have much the same meteorlogical origins, as SoCal's legendary Santa Anas. I'll call this girl Maria, as somewhat in Jimi Hendrix'es song, "The Wind, [does] "Cry[ies] Mary". Anyway, Maria's out on the playground, with these gusts topping out above 50MPH {MAN, OH MAN; OH BOY!!!! I now gotta stop to play now; my hands are now trembling so much, Winkie's now got a wild hurt you won't believe(!!), I'll resume my saga in a few minutes—it's all cumming back way too vivid!} {Whew!! I’ve just taken the cure, courtesy of some artificial windage. Winkie now feels better; so do I, and there's this clear singing tone in my head.}. She never made any attempt to hold her skirt down. It was madly snapping, halfway up her chest and back. She wore her undies snug, not tight, so there'd be at least some alternate ambient "strategic" rippling, and taught spots, about her curves, when she and her panties, were, "at rest". But when the gusts were slamming about Maria's pantieware, those ripples and loose bubbles of fabric would be bubbling so fast, they'd be a blur. Maria would tug this way and that on the legbands and waistband, swinging her legs and hips in different ways, channeling the ripples in new exquisite directions, across her legs, tummie, and bum. I especially liked the ripples that would pin themselves onto her Mons!! And Maria had this strange distant smile. What on Earth, was she feeling, please pray tell?? She indeed, was a prick‑teaser royale; I cannot repeat it enough!! There were some late‑middle‑aged battleaxe Playground Monitors that patrolled the playground during recess, and they would sometimes run over to tell her to hold her skirt down; and some of my fellow red‑blooded lads would be whistling and whooping, but would stop deadpan, should Maria shoot around, and cast daggers at us, with her beautiful eyes.

Those gusts were so powerful, that a huge Pine tree, already madly lurching, with a scream thundering through its needles, presently tossed off a huge limb, it went flying across the street and struck a parked car, on one of those days, so yes, it had to have been blowing around 50MPH.

I told you about the ultra‑super‑soft TW's that I wore at about the same time. The same gusts were hitting me, too, through my trousers, pinning the soft TW's to Winkie. Winkie would begin to swell, and, as I’ve said, I didn't quite understand all of what was happening to me, I didn't know what to do, at all. A strange kind of frustrated anger at myself, for having these sweet devilishly sensations, when I didn't want them, and I thought this weird stuff was not supposed to happen. I simply didn’t understand what was happening to me. That, along with Maria's pantie‑flashings and later spurnings, made me at first, morose, pensive, jittery, cranky, and sullen, whenever the Diablo's struck. I wished the damn wind would go away! That would all change in a few short years' time, though.

I was often in close enough proximity, to see the details of her Briefs and Pettiepanties. Extremely fine knit‑grain textures—including Maria's Cotton pantieware—free‑floating tunneled waistbands—a Van Raalte signature detail—and often intricate embellishments, for the most part, unobtrusive in the main, of the principal areas of her pantieware. But what really made me throb, was not the high gloss of some panties; nor the ethereal matte finish of others; nor not the sweet fuzzie haze on and about the fine‑knit Cottons (I think that made a subconcious connection, with my soft TW's, then.). It was the sheerness, of most of Maria's panties! I could see her bum cleavage, the baby soft skin of her thighs (If wearing Pettiepanties.), and her burgeoning and maturing Mons, right through what must be wildly soft fabrics, including her Cotton pantiewear! Sometimes she wore slinky slips, they were nice enough, but it was always the panties I was craving to see. Nylon, Acetate, Cotton, it mattered not what, as long as Maria was wearing them, in gold, pink, baby blue, lavendar, peach, red, white, canary, and yes, BLACK(!!). I think it was the last time that I was treated to such a sight at close range, she happened to see my s‑hitfaced grin, and she let me have it, both barrels. The spurnings then started, every time I tried to be friendly to her. She even told her parents that I was stalking her! That got back to the school, and I had a few joint sessions with the Principal, my parents, and Maria's mom, right there(!!), with her casting daggers at me, with her eyes, and at my folks. Thereafter, Maria would giggle at me, and taunt me: "I've got you just where I want you!" She would deliberately flirt with other boys in the vicinity, when I was around, and I wasn't supposed to notice, and for most of the time, I was succesful in vacating their presences, other times, I couldn't readily vacate, without being conspicuous, and those times were hell.

As the years wore on, in Junior High, my moods became darker with each Diablo that blew, Maria became a cheerleader, got some academic honors, and hung around alternately, with the Jock boys and the switchblade packin' hoodlum boys. Some kids taunted me with the appellations of "fag", "homo", "queer", and in retrospect, those nasty rumors may have started with Maria. I still dutifully vacated the premises, when I saw Maria in the distance, and those turned out to be some of my better days. The worse days would be, when some of the hoodlums waylaid me with their blades an inch away from my eyes, threatened my life, and made me into a blubbering idiot. They said the only way I'd be safe was to give them a blow job. Once this was done at a bus stop, on my way back home, and a nice Thirty‑something gal stopped them, by telling them her husband was a police officer. "Oh the bitch has a f‑ucking pig pimp hubbie!! We should teach him a lesson!!" "No you don't! See that telephone there?" They then scattered, and I, likewise, was too humiliated to hang around, to thank the nice gal. Academically, and socially, my life was in shambles for most of Junior High. I was driven to hang around with a loser weakling crowd of no consequence, for show, for protection, even though I detested their presence.

In High School, 1971, I finally took my first toke of weed. I somehow was becoming a proto‑hippie. I was in the library, and someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Maria, wearing one of her now very stylish miniskirts. She gently smiled and said, "Hi, how're ya' doin, **** [The Breezester's real name]?" I stammered, "Okay, I guess; I gotta go!" I then bolted, in a fashion that must have seemed rude to most other folks. I was actually frightened of a pretty girl!

About 20 years ago, I ran into Maria in a shopping plaza close to home. The first thing she said was for me not to run away from her. She showed me a picture of her baby granddaughter, and we hadn't both quite reached Forty years of age. I imagine now, that Maria's a Great‑Grandmother, by now. Some of my friends, in the meantime, told me that she did indeed make wreckages of other guy's hearts; and lives; she’d nearly died (Drug OD?); found herself a sugar daddie in the Los Angeles region; did comfortably as a realtor; and, most recently; keeps a winery in the California Sierran Gold Country. Back at the plaza, she gently reached out her hand, and told me that she cared, about the lackluster life I thought I was living, wished me nothing but the best, pecked me on the cheek, even though every fiber of my being was resisting her. All that I could stammer at her, was, "Thanks, Maria, may God Bless and Keep you." I've never seen her again. She sure was a strange and most curious midwife to my pantielove, this Maria. Maria, wherever you are, I forgive you, of this strange and powerful spell that you put on me, and do bless you, for bassackwardly putting me on the road to "pantie perdition", wherever you may be—and I shall always "Call the Wind Mariah" (With apologies to Clint Eastwood's sweet singing, in Paint Your Wagon!!). the details of my Windage Technique shall follow in my next, and finally hopeful, last installment; Details at Eleven……

-- Edited by Breeziestroke on Saturday 24th of September 2011 01:34:39 AM

Breeziestroke · Guru

The Windage Method/Technique

Part II

MORE BACKGROUND: Well, the '70's rolled—and blustered along—and I was building up a meagre stash of pretties. These were all roadside throwaways, a few of my ancient TW's, big woven silk scarves, and, items that my mother had thought that gone to the rummage. I also still raided her lingerie drawer, and was slowly—yet not quite fast enough—learning to be more careful. I was just beginning to teach myself how to sew, though the results were crude and unstable; I was beginning to learn how to modify things for my bod. Marijuana and other psychedelics were beginning also, to putting an interesting twist, on my sensory and sensual experiences. When not at play, I wore broadcloth boxers (For “big boys” & men.), or went commando, as Tricot and very soft knit cotton almost invariably and automatically triggered arousal, and to a large part, it remains so to this day. Obviously, there are situations, when arousal is inappropriate; your mind's a million miles away in Pantieland, when you must focus on serious matters immediately at hand.

EVOLUTION: Thinking about Maria's pantie ripples…observing the wind's behavior, with some weather history, too…losing my sulleness…because I put Two and Two, together.

Very early in life, when I happened to be wearing something soft, and a breeze would catch it, it tickled me very much. I didn't give it much thought, then. I thought of Maria seeming to enjoy the breezes, no, hammering gusts, how the wind‑induced hard pressure of softness, rapidly alternating with somewhat snug ripples, with what obviously were extremely sensitive and sensous zones of her body, acting as bearing points, just had to be doing some major jangling of her, with softness that otherwise, would not have that level of amplification. Softness just digging at the skin without relent!! There were other similar things that I've witnessed through the years, but I use Maria as the best example.

With my older brothers now out of the house at college and-or in The Service, I now had the entire one-room upstairs to myself—ALONE!! It was quite separated from the rest of the house, most importantly, visually. There were half-roofs that made it very easy for me to climb to the tip-top of that room of the house. A precipitous 30'+ drop to the breezeways separating our line, with the neighbors, with heavy foliage and a big Deodar Cedar tree on one side; the other, the series of half‑roofs that enabled me to climb to the top. Some of the other half‑roofs would also take me to the roof of the main part of the house on the other side, which I’d use as well, when my parents were out of town. The pitch of the upstairs roof wasn't steep at all—I could easily stand without danger of slipping off—and the Deodar tree on the dangerous side acted as a windbreak for the wind directions and forces that didn't matter as much as Diablo, and his allies. Catty‑corner to this side, grew an almost 100‑year‑old Sequoia, very grand, planted when this house was built prior to World War One. It was like being in a tree house, in this room. This Oakland, California house was once a summer cabin, for a wealthy banker from San Francisco, back when this was mostly a wilderness area. It sits upon the summit of a very tall and steep hill, with a million‑dollar view of The Bay and beyond.

Late at night was when my thoughts stewed overactive. The neighbor's upstairs parlour and bedroom were dark, and I prayed the neighbor didn't have insomnia, and was up, staring out their window, through the dark. Yet, we had strategically placed big trees, around the immediate perimeter of the house, that would make it difficult for other houses to see us, yet made favored avenues for the Northerly‑to‑Easterly winds. Late night, early morning was so ideal, for what was brewing in my mind, with Winkie, and the rest of my body. I do not remember the exact first time, in the early '70's, that I actually "took windage", so I spice it up with bits and pieces, into a collage that best approximates truth.

It's sometime in late Summer to late Autumn, perhaps as late as the first week of December. The day has been very warm, downright hot, very dry to the touch, sultry, with an eerie stillness filled with portent, broken by infrequent, tiny, random puffs from any compass direction, at less than 5MPH. Plus, there's this sweet, musky, ozone‑y electrical kind of scent that just hangs in the air. Late afternoon, the scent gets stronger, it gets dead still, 'til maybe an hour or Three after sunset, and the heat of the day seems to close in upon us. No, it's sometime closer to Eleven, after everyone's gone to bed. Sometimes, also, curious mirages hung and undulated around the setting sun. My windows are still open, and I'm staring out at that million‑dollar view, my mind weighed down with the day's troubles, and also with the tension of anticipation of a mystery that I could not figure, half-undressed (F-uck that homework, I can't understand it anyhow!). It's probably cooled only to the upper Sixties, the upper Fifties at the lowest. A sighing roar off in the Northwest to Southeast, high in the sky, except I see no jets in that area of the sky. Less than 5 minutes later, the trees slightly shimmer with susurrations, slowly bowing to the West. They go still. The roar ceases a few moments, then gets loud, and soon is surrounding me, as the big trees are now suddenly drunkenly staggering and lurching in a small gale! Leaves, small debris, and dust, go racing down our streets. It holds at that speed, with a few small higher jerky gusts, for about Fifteen minutes, and I've closed all the windows, save one. A savage thrill enervates me! Presently, a huge sally of even more powerful gusts hammers away, and the walls of the house flex ever so slightly, and they groan. And that level of wind velocity shall pretty much hold, past dawn.

El Diablo has arrived, and now is the time to make friends with him, via my "panties"! Trees and utility lines are now screaming, shrieking, thundering, and howling, with a few "rifle"‑like shots, as some lose limbs or small and weakened trees, go down, outright.

A little trepidatious, I climb out that window, making sure that all the surrounding houses are dark. One big tree's scraping against power lines, showering sparks.

BAM!! The gusts are tearing at me, threatening to strip me naked, as I make my way to the top roof. Immediately, my whole body transforms into a big winkie, wherever the Nylon or Acetate covers me. One hand helps me to climb to the roof top, while the other is desperately trying to keep all that "evil" Tricot away from errogenous zones, or I'd explode and collapse right then and there. My very first spontaneous explosion, from my First Pantie Experience—in my mother's Van Raaltes—was positively nothing, compared to now. This was a million times better!! Wherever Tricot touched me, my skin positively buzzed!! No spot of coverage was immune. With the highest gusts, my "panties'" fabric would whistle, with all that vast quantity of air coursing through the fine knit-grain. And a low buzing roar, from the fabric vibrating upon bearing points, like the snapping of a breeze‑flung flag, only much faster. Pace yourself, Breezie, just pace yourself. When the gusts died, it would feel cooler, but when they hit full-force, it felt like someone hitting a blowtorch, a hundred miles away. I was sweating, but it dried as soon as it left my pores, due to the extremely low to nonexistent humidity.

I experimented with all kinds of positions to present myself to the gusts. I soon found that having the wind fire straight up my groin felt the best, as I lay supine—on my back—there seemed to be this gigantic bubble of Tricot, grabbing at my inner thighs, bum, lower back, tummie, chest, and, most importantly, Winkie! I'd snug and release this bubble alternately. Loose, there was this audible snapping like a flag, as it slapped me with the innermost essence of its softness--tight, it seemed to buzz and float Winkie to Rigel 12 and beyond, squeezing Winkie so impossibly and "intolerably" hard, with its softness. No wonder he'd spontaneously responded. The harder and longer he got, all the much harder the finer vibrations would squeeze him, with the softness, taking him deeper into the world of Nylonland, than seemed possible. I'd guess the higher gusts, must have sustained up there for a good Two minutes apiece, must have exceeded Gale Force, and were now verging on lower Hurricane Force. It's almost beyond me to explain, what it was doing to me.

A lot of Tricot slips are given anti-static treatments, to help protect a woman's modesty, and, to a lesser degree, her comfort, when she's dealing with a few layers of clothing. She probably doesn't want to deal with a wad here, and a clump there. My stuff is not treated so; and I may boil my wares on the stove, in an attempt to drive off that treatment, followed by a hot spell in the clothes dryer. Well, this Tricot, on that wild and windy night was most definitely treatment-free. As I've mentioned before, my body took a long time to reach its present hirsute state; I had this sweet downie stuff on my legs and tummie, back in the day, along with my coarser hairpie. The almost non-existent humidity, combined with the violent dancing motion of the fabric hitting my downie hairs, standing away from my body and gently tugging at the skin, under static influence (Just blow up a balloon, rub it on something hairy, such as your arm, or something vinyl, and tell me if it doesn't feel trippy, if not downright nice, waving it towards the hair on your arm.), amplified the softness all the more, if that can be believed. So, I was also sparking in the dark quite frequently, not minding the little "stings" in the least.

By the way, full moons are really nice, because I can clearly see the sheerness and sheen, as my panties' fabric madly flutters in the gusts.

So, this bubble of soft relentlessly hammers at me with a juggernaut of sweetness, and I'm beseeching Winkie to just pace himself. He is now truly painful with pleasure. We can hold back no further as he explodes with cum drops vaulting through the fabric, high in the sky, as the wind takes them and makes them airborne! Wait, Winkie's not done! As I climb off the roof, after my very wild ride, whilst gazing at the stars under the clearest city skies I'd ever see, unless it was the mountains and-or desert, another "unsullied", still buoyant patch of fabric caught him in a sneak attack, and he exploded again, I staggered and rested, and it happened twice again, before I could climb through the window, back in my room. I figured that I could continue that routine until sunrise--I was so excited--if I wanted; the low‑humidity wind would rapidly dry out cum stains, and jiggle 'em right out of the fabric, and I could recycle, and recycle, and recycle (Which I’ve been able to do, on a few occasions.); whhooppeee!

I could now sleep contently, as the sulleness was now gone forever, because I'd danced with El Diablo, and he gave me supreme pleasure, through my panties! It would now matter nada, with all the racket El Diablo could dish up, as long as he didn't hit 100MPH and blow the house down around me. Yet, I did have some very sweet difficulty dropping off, sleeping commando--no more little kids’ PJ's! I was experiencing a phenomenon that I'll call "after‑tingle". For you see, every part of my body that was hammered by the wind, most certainly the area covered by my crude "panties", was still feeling them buzzing about my bod, for a good hour or so, and the rest of my skin surface figured the same, and followed suit. Winkie was so fooled, that as I was merely reflecting on the adventure of an hour ago, he thought he was back in his Tricot Vagina, got sweetly sore, and gently and slowly jerking, with a thimbleful yet more, of cum. I could now easily drop off, with the loud crashing racket outside lulling me to sleep, so content and peaceful I was. My head definitely felt clearer, with a most sweet singing sound inside, above and beyond the wind's noise. And Winkie had this sweet ache about him, for about a week afterwards.

Marijuana and hashish could make things even more interesting, if you catch my toke, er, drift!

This windstorm must have lasted a good 36 Hours, if not more, and it would die back to, say, 18MPH/Gusts 33, starting late morning, after being a minor hurricane during that first night, rise to almost the nighttime's force—I guess about 75‑80%—for a couple of hours during the afternoon, die back again, then return with a vengeance soon after sunset, lasting until about Noon that next morning, almost abruptly dying to a flat dead calm. I forgot to mention that I'd occasionally see electrical power transformers blow, and that only added to the show. That second night was much chillier; I could only stay outside for no more than 10 minutes, before I'd start shivering uncontrollably. At storm's end, I saw where shingles had been torn off of people's roofs; drifted-up debris, in the lee sides of things; and, quite a number of downed tree limbs, and some whole trees, mostly small, downed. This phenom, also unfortunately generates terrifying fire weather—think of The Oakland‑Berkeley Hills Firestorm, October 19, 1991—we were sooo lucky, those nights of the windstorm, that I've just described.

El Diablo and I had finally formed a great and lasting friendship. Maybe sometime, while I'm kicking about Los Angeles-way, he'll introduce me to that big bad lady friend of his, Santa Ana! Perhaps that Indian friend, Chinook, whilst I'm in the Rockies?? And then, there's that German pal, Herr Foehn, who resides in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps! Go Katabatic!!

I shall describe, in my next installment, the ways and means of windage, and what to do with it, in your pantieware. I'm tapped out for now.

-- Edited by Breeziestroke on Saturday 24th of September 2011 01:37:08 AM

-- Edited by Breeziestroke on Saturday 24th of September 2011 09:33:50 AM

Breeziestroke · Guru

The Windage Method, or Technique Part III

In the past installment, I described what was about the best, the Perfect Storm, for catching windage, with my pretties.

When I lived in the hilltop Oakland house, from the early Sixties to the Turn of the Century, I believe there were about Six of these Diablo windstorms that exceeded Gale-Force magnitude. Since then, El Diablo has gone anemic, rarely exceeding 45MPH; lasting less than Twelve Hours; not as frequent, in the Autumn and Spring transitions, into and out of Winter; and only above 1,500 Ft. Elevation.

El Diablo and Senorita Santa Ana are associated with the Tule Fogs, which afflict mainly the Great Central Valleys of California, often after the first round of Pacific storms of late Autumn to early Winter. When the offshore winds blow off the heads of these fogs, then they're extremely icy and clammy, not much fun.

That said, the fog machine, along with the present spate of Winters—say, about the past Ten years or so—is much more prevalent than the hot, dry, and lusty gusts, now. There is now some change to the flow of seasons that I can't put my finger on. This past Summer in the San Francisco Bay Area has been extremely chilly, too; and where can the thermal energy to drive El Diablo be stored, well inland, to enable him to make his appearances? I dunno.

The upshot, though, is that the likelihood of calamitous mass firestorm conflagratory holocausts in the coastal mountains has decreased—that's good. But when El Diablo and his girl, Santa Ana, return in force, it's going to be only more catastrophic, due to man's foolishness and malice, in living in the Urban/Wilderness Interface, when the weather and climate cycles swing back.

There's another wind phenomenon that I'd like to experience, and that occurrs along the West Side of California's Great Central Valleys, more specifically, in the San Joaquin Valley. These gales are fueled by the Summertime fog machine that happens along the coast. By the time these maritime humid air masses reach inland, they lose humidity; increase in velocity; and, they warm, due to downsloping, about the opposite of the offshore El Diablo and Senorita Santa Ana. There's plenty of desolate lands along the I‑5 corridor, that I'd like to explore, some of it BLM lands, that is semi-desert, and I suppose that I could find areas that are upwind of the frequent nasty dust storms.

If you happen to share a love of windage with your pretties, as I do, obviously you have to be very prudent to locate especially desolate spots that are well away from busybody lookie-loos; LEA's & LEO's; and patrolling landowners and their employees. Avoid late mornings to early afternoons, to minimize sunburns, too. If you find some stretches of woodlands, or a tall topographic feature to shade you, then you needn't worry about sunburn.

There's several land features that can amplify the windage that you seek. Passes, gaps, saddles, certain ridge lines, and canyon courses, oriented to the favored wind direction, are pretty tasty, to set your pretties electric!

Manmade structures and alterations of the topography would most certainly be the gouges in the landscape, for example, such as abandoned quarries or grading for new housing and subdivisions--more likely abandoned housing developments, such as what you might find, around the Mojave Desert community of Victorville. I understand some there's some homeless folks that squat in those empty late-model houses, along with some illegal aliens, using them as way station rest areas, and supplies caches.

Find old abandoned quarry machinery and outbuildings, water towers, and bridges, etc., that no one uses any longer. Abandoned ranch/farm buildings and barns will offer you shelter. You can camp at these places for a few hours, to play in the gusts, if you're assured that no one will bother you, roust you, arrest you, or, God forbid--assault you and‑or kill you. Take along play partners, brother and sister "nature boys & girls", too, if they too, like the mad, mad shiver of wind‑powered Tricots against a bod, a Winkie, and a Winkette! If a ladylove understands the combination of windage and pretties, and if you're both hiking along a seldom-visited trail, that's probably a wonderful experience, the two of you watching the gusts ripple your respective pretties, about your contours and your curves, as you hike along!

But, you can't always do it in the great outdoors, for a number of obvious reasons. For these instances, find and use manmade windage, such as high‑velocity living room and shop fans. The exhaust ends of tank‑style vacuum cleaners, with the hoses and nozzles attached thereof, work nicely, too, secured with bungee cords against something stationary, to keep them from writhing and flicking around. Industrial-grade fans might be even better! Firefighters, who are pantielovers, can use their room‑smoke‑exhausters. Those in showbiz, can use those wind machines that are used for close‑ups. You of those, in the aerospace design professions, have it made in the shade, with the wind tunnels, that you have access to; I'm downright jealous of you(Laughs!!)!!

Fire those wind‑jets (If from a vacuum cleaner nozzle.) from one side or another, or straight up your groin. Aim it towards Winkie, as he serves as a bearing‑point, with the looser surrounding fabric to provide all that delicious vibration! If you're like me, you'll probably be more relaxed, doing it lying on your back, with your legs splayed and spread wide. Cushions, bolsters can support you, and enable manmade windage to reach more of where your pretties contact you. Experiment with gently stretching your pretties—if they're Brief-Style panties, stretch them about your upper thighs, so that the fabric wind‑bubble is tight around Winkie—to get even tighter vibration of the wind bubble(s) against Winkie. The softness will dig even harder, into his nerve-endings, especially as he grows. An almost endless, infinite stream of Tricot, and‑or such, as all that fabric grabs Winkie hard, in a Tricot Vagina! The up‑the‑groin direction ensures additional stimulation in your groin and your lower bum, as that sweet fabric madly tickles away at you.

I've now shown you all, the methods, the techniques that I use, to make panties, and associated lingerie come absolutely and positively alive, as they minister to Winkies'; your souls'; and, your bodies' needs. Unless the future brings nanotechnological panties that can activate, cum "alive", of their own accord, these ought to suffice.

-- Edited by Breeziestroke on Wednesday 12th of October 2011 02:45:07 PM

transgender52 · Member

Yes the good old Makita variable speed sander. Start slow and increase to a little faster while seing a auto polish pad over satin panties!you can regulate the cum fast or a little longer. I have cum in a little as half a minute.

satin _lace_luvr · Newbie

I use all kinds of anal toys