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It wasn’t that our long distance relationship was hard. The knowledge that it was a temporary arrangement made getting through our separation doable, and I appreciated having time to myself in order to write. It would be more difficult to blast electronic music and pound out my newest legal thriller with Patrick constantly puttering around the apartment in his sweatpants. When his lease ran out in the fall I’d lose my precious isolation bubble in exchange for his miraculous cooking and companionship. It was a trade-off I was more than happy to make, but I wanted to savour these last few months of freedom.

I had a routine to make the time apart easier: on Sundays I organized the chaos Patrick had created in the apartment during his visit, then went for a long run. Then I did a load of laundry, devoured the leftovers from whatever restaurant we’d been to the previous evening, and settled in with my laptop to pick up where I’d left off writing on Friday afternoon while waiting for him to arrive.

I was post-run, pre-laundry when I discovered Patrick had left something behind. On the loveseat, under my raincoat and a few pages of newspaper, was a pair of navy blue boxer briefs. The memory of how they’d gotten to the sofa made my skin heat up—they’d been flung there just before we fucked on the living room floor. My knees were still rug-burned.

Without thinking I raised the briefs up to my nose, smelling sweat and pre-come in the cotton. Or, to be more specific, the tangy scent of Patrick’s balls. The memory of nosing around his inner thigh before licking his cock from its base to its head made me lose track of what I was doing. I abandoned the laundry basket on the coffee table along with my running shorts, then stepped into the boxer briefs and pulled them up my legs. They were too big for my slender frame but the elastic kept them on my hips.

I went to my bedroom to check myself out in the full-length mirror: the fabric caught the swell of my ass and I actually looked hot, in a somewhat messy, delicate way. The effect was more arousing than I thought it’d be; the very act of wearing a man’s underwear felt inappropriate somehow. The cotton folded pathetically in the front with no dick to fill it out, but that left more room for my hand when I slipped it under the elastic.

That’s when I realised I was masturbating while wearing my boyfriend’s underwear on a Sunday afternoon. I yanked my hand away from my crotch like I’d touched a hot stovetop… but I didn’t take off the briefs. They were comfy, I reasoned. No different from borrowing his threadbare college t-shirt to sleep in. He wouldn’t mind me giving his underwear some use as long as I washed them before next weekend. Like most men, he got a kick out of seeing me wear his clothes.

Read the rest in Tongue In Cheek: The Best New Erotica Written by Women.