Thong Yesterday, Gone Today

The moment Trevor stepped through the door, the scent of onions and garlic hit him—home. His mother was in the kitchen again, humming along to some soft jazz station while dicing something on the cutting board. It could've been the same day on repeat, like the universe had hit rewind and play on the exact same Tuesday. Maybe it had.

"Hi, honey," she said over her shoulder. "Dinner in about an hour."

"Okay," he called, already halfway up the stairs. His voice cracked slightly. He didn't wait to see if she noticed.

He hit his room and slammed the door behind him, not hard, but fast—urgent. His hands went to his belt, and he ripped his jeans off, yanking the sweat-damp fabric down his legs until they crumpled at his ankles. He stepped out of them, fingers already working at the waistband of the thong.

It came off slowly. Clung to him. The thin string in the back peeled out of the groove it had dug during the day, and the triangle of pink lace at the front hung limp, glistening with his sweat. He held it in both hands, standing in the center of his room, naked but for the streaks of dirt on his thighs and the scent of labor hanging off his body.

What the hell went wrong?

He stared at the thong like it might answer him.

Yesterday—he couldn't forget it. The knife had bounced off his skin like it hit steel. He'd flown. Flown. He'd stood between a woman and a knife-wielding lunatic like he was made of solid myth.

But today? A splinter. A splinter brought him to his knees like a child who’d touched the wrong end of a stick.

Trevor's jaw clenched.

He needed answers.

But first, he needed a goddamn shower. He smelled like mulch and sweat. He felt worse. Opening his desk drawer, Trevor tucked the thong behind a row of notebooks, and slid it shut carefully. He was pretty sure it was useless to him, and so, when the moment arose for him to not be noticed, he would return it to the laundry room where he had found it. Hopefully his mother didn't notice how soiled it was now, nor how stretched out.

Trevor made his way into the bathroom, not bothering to dress before he left his room. His mother was, after all, focussed on the meal, and they lived alone. It didn't take long for the bathroom to become steamy, the hot water turning the mirror opaque in seconds. He stepped in, washed fast and thoroughly, scrubbing the sweat off his skin like it might scrub away the worry he felt over losing his powers too.

When he stepped out, towel around his waist, his eyes were drawn to the laundry hamper in the bathroom. Yesterday he had raided the one in the laundry room, but he hadn't checked the bathroom. He opened the hamper just out of curiosity. Just a peek.

Right on top: a pair of brown panties. Thin cotton, high-cut, a little worn at the seams.

His stomach flipped.

They had a scent to them—not gross, just... real. Intimate. Musky in a way that triggered something deep in his brain. A buried memory: fingers sliding under elastic, soft gasps in the dark, a girl he used to see his sophomore year, her breath hot on his neck. That first time she let him touch her like that. The first time anyone let him touch them like that. The nervous thrill, the hot hunger.

These panties reminded him of that.

He blinked hard. Waited for his thoughts to stop spinning.

Once again, these were his mother's. That part was unavoidable. She had worn them. Sweated in them. Sat in them. They were practical. Normal. The type of panties he would have anticipated his mother owning.

His mind briefly went back to the underwear he had worn just a few moments before. Why the thong?

Why would a woman like her—a widow, nearing fifty, quiet, conservative—have something so skimpy in her drawer? Who was she wearing that for?

What was she wearing now?

His pulse quickened. He shut the hamper lid, panties in hand, and padded to his room, towel still around his waist. Once inside, he locked the door.

Dropping the towel, Trevor stood naked and alone in his room. He held the panties in front of him, his thumbs rubbing the fabric, its slight scent finding its way to his nose. His skin was still warm from the shower, flushed. Slowly, he lifted one foot, then the other, sliding the panties up his legs, past his knees, to his hips.

They stretched to fit him, snug and weirdly comforting.

He sat at his desk. His body was taut, alert. The cotton hugged his groin, warm from his own skin. It was time to test.

Trevor opened the drawer, pulled out his pocket knife, and flicked the blade open. It glinted in the dim lamplight.

His breath caught as he raised the knife and pressed the edge against his palm.

This was it.

Would it slice him open?

Or would it stop—like before—like magic?

He pressed.

Hard.

And waited.