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She lived about two miles from the station and couldn’t ride with flat tyres.“Bob? Can I store my bike at your house tonight?” Margaret asked.“Of course,” I replied. “But I might be able to sort the punctures out,” I said.“Punctures! Look. Someone has unscrewed and removed the valves.”She looked at the other dozen or so bikes left on the rack. The valves had been removed from all of them. We couldn’t inform the station staff. It was unmanned except for the morning rush hour.“OK, Margaret. I think I have spare valves. If not, I can take the valves off my bike. I rarely use it. Come on. It isn’t far to my house.”It wasn’t. I was buying a small Victorian end of terrace house about two hundred yards from the station. There was space alongside for the garage and off-road parking for my ancient car.I continued carrying the bags Margaret had given me. She pushed her bicycle. At the house we went in with her possessions. She made tea while I ferreted around in the garage for the cycle repair. She glanced at the floor next to her hamper and didn't see her panties. She thought that was strange since she didn't remember putting them in the hamper. Putting the hair dryer down, she walked over and opened the lid. The panties weren't in the hamper. Suddenly she realized that Chris had to have taken them. A sudden rush of anger rose in the pit of her stomach. First he spies on me and now he is stealing my underwear, she thought. It was infuriating, but also embarrassing since she had masturbated twice that day, at Jason's orders, and the panties were still wet. Chris's heart was pounding in his chest as he rushed into the hall bathroom and closed the door. In his haste he didn't notice that the door had popped back open. He sat on the toilet, trying to catch his breath. He could almost feel his mother's panties burning a hole in his pocket. With a trembling hand he reached inside and pulled the silky pink material out. He felt and then saw that they were wet in the crotch. A.
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