Like a pervert, I want to feel and stroke the lingerie.

You root around for a long time though Mr. Hewitt's personal effects, but you don't find anything more. He must have fallen ill without having had a chance to get ready to leave. There's not even a wallet.

I suppose I was lucky to have the keys. You think to yourself.

But then, something about his lingerie....

Even though the house is probably the most remote property in the state, you first look around, feeling a flush of shame, to make sure no one's looking, then you pull out his panties.

I am holding a dead man's panties, you realize. They are made of a delicate, luxurious silky/nylon fabric, trimmed in lace, and are a dusky rose pink in color. You feel goosebumps as you caress the fabric with your fingers.

It feels so sensual... You wonder... what would they feel like...

And then, for some reason deeply embedded in your soul, you can't help yourself but to hold the panties to your face, stroking the sensual fabric over your cheeks and lips. Then you turn to smell them.

They smell delicately of roses.

"What the fuck am I doing?" you shout, horrified. These are a dead man's panties!

But then you see something... something embroidered on the inside of crotch, right on the gusset.

Is that... writing?

It's very small... and you have to look very closely. But that means holding the crotch of a dead man's panties right up to your face.