Subject: Uncle Chuck’s Underwear Drawer (gay/incest) This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Please do not read if you are under the legal age in your country or region. — I’d been looking forward to this moment for months. It was the annual family barbecue, hosted at Uncle Chuck’s house. But, the food wasn’t the reason I was so eager to get there. Uncle Chuck is my dad’s younger brother. He lived in this big old house he’s completely redone on his own, about an hour away from me. He was a bachelor and I’d never known him to date anyone. Instead, he threw himself into projects, like the house renovation or hosting boisterous relatives every year. The family barbecue brought together everyone from within a reasonable distance, which usually meant my dad was left out. He lived about three hours away in the mountains and worked crazy hours, making it nearly impossible for him to find the time to come down to see us all. So, for the past couple of years, Uncle Chuck sort of served as a father figure. The barbecue was the usual affair, with platters upon platters of meat and plenty of beers to go around. I’d greeted Uncle Chuck and had bounced around, casually catching up with various relatives and family friends. By the time I’d sat down, I was beginning to get antsy. I could barely bring the food to my mouth. It was like a sixth sense I’d developed, knowing the exact moment people would be too busy eating and chatting to notice I was missing. That’s when I made my move, getting up from the table as though I were going up to get another rack of ribs, but instead, passing the food table for the sliding glass doors. Inside, the house was silent, bar the hum of the central air conditioning. My heart began to throb and I knew I only had a few minutes before my presence would be missed. I cut through the kitchen, went down the central hallway, and turned the corner. Before me, the stairs stretched for what felt like a mile. It was always the point of no return, the point where, if caught, I’d really have to use all of the excuses I’d built up in my mind over the years. Knowing that time was precious, I took the first step as if testing for a trip wire or booby trap. In the clear, I ran up the rest of the way. To the right was Uncle Chuck’s room. The door was closed, as if that would stop me. I gently turned the knob, stepped in, and closed it behind me. The room şişli travesti was dark, shades drawn, bed freshly made. I flipped the switch, knowing that the room looked out on the front of the house and, even if you could see the light through the shades, no one would be the wiser in the backyard. On the far wall was a hulking mahogany dresser. I walked toward it, as though a magnet were drawing me in. I thumbed the cold brass handle of the top right drawer for a moment, as though any sort of guilt could stop me, before finally sliding it open. My heart picked up pace as my eyes took in the perfectly-folded pillowy piles of white cotton. Each one was presented like a present, waistband perfectly framing the shape of the fly. I took a mental picture, knowing I had to make sure it was returned to the exact same order as I found it. Then I dug in. The first pile was topped by a pair of Jockeys, its waistband crowned with a thin black line, beneath which the brand name was flanked by upside-down Ys. The seam of the fly proceeded down before forking. I was unfolded them and held them to my face, knowing it would just be the fresh scent of detergent in the fabric. They were Uncle Chuck’s only brand, the kind he’d been wearing ever since I’d first raided his drawer a few years back. I set them to the side. I moved to a different pile, which had two pairs of Jockeys on top. I flipped to the bottom, just curious for any surprises. Instead of a third pair of Jockeys, I’d instead found a pair of Calvin Kleins. I hadn’t ever run into these in his drawer before–Uncle Chuck was strictly a Jockeys man. I pulled them out and unfolded them to examine. Had a thin grey line across the top with the name repeating beneath it. The fabric felt a little bit softer, but the only real difference was that these had a vertical fly where the Jockeys had a Y-front. I wondered what had changed within him and made him move away from the brand he’d worn for at least the past five years. I gave them a sniff and was greeted with the typical detergent smell. I folded them and placed them back in, searching for another pair. Every few piles, I’d find a pair of Calvins tucked away. I kept looking until I got to the back right corner. There, underneath another pile of Jockeys, I again found something completely different. Folded just the same, this pair had no brand name on the waistband. Instead, a gold line and a black line ran parallel to one another. I rubbed the fly, the soft cotton of the front feeling slighty stretched, as though it could remember the shape of Uncle Chuck’s package. I unfolded them, reading the beylikdüzü travesti name Stafford from the back label before holding them to my face. They didn’t smell of detergent, which seemed odd for a pair of briefs in his drawer. I realized I was taking too much time on the hunt and not enough time enjoying its pay off, so I hastily folded them back up, tucked them away and closed the drawer. Next to his dresser was a laundry hamper. I lifted its lid, hoping for at least something. Too many times I would arrive on laundry day, greeted by an empty bin. There was a button-down shirt at the top of the hamper, which I gently moved, uncovering a pair of khaki pants. As I turned them over, I saw a flash of white. Still in the pants, it was as though he’d slipped them off in one go. I plucked them out. Another pair of those damn Calvins. I began to wonder if they were his new favorite. Unlike the pairs I’d just seen in the drawer, these were loose, still remembering the prize they’d let go of the day before. The crotch was especially worn. I rubbed my knuckles gently along it, imagining how it would feel if he were still wearing them. I brought them up to my face. The edge of the fly was a bit darker, clearly from where he’d fished himself out. I smelled the spot, getting a faint whiff of something stale, likely from an errant drop or two as he’d put himself back in. My hands were shaking and I could feel my dick leaking in my pants. I grabbed the Calvins, as well as the clean Jockeys I’d pulled out initially, and stepped into the bathroom. I locked the door, unbuttoned my pants, and let them drop. In the mirror, I saw myself. In one hand, I held two pairs of Uncle Chuck’s tighty whities. Around my waist, the familiar Jockey waistband. My cock stuck out at an angle, soaking through the thin fabric beside the fly front. I’d taken them a few months back and had been wearing them regularly. Sometimes I’d fill them with load after load until they began to smell. Other times, I would just wear them like they were my everyday undies. I rubbed my fingers along the waistband before stepping over to the toilet. I sat down, pulled my cock through the Y-front fly, and thumbed off a bit of the precum that had bubbled up. I sucked it off the tip of my thumb. I then turned my focus to the Calvins. I flipped them inside out. The fabric revealed a splattering of drips from his cock. With one hand, I brought the shorts to my nose; with the other, I grabbed my cock. As I inhaled his scent, as fresh as I could ever get, I began to stroke myself with fervor. I let my tongue flick out, tasting the salty istanbul travesti bits that had dried into the fabric. That drove me wild and forced my hand into overdrive. My cock was leaking so much precum that the friction between it and my hand vanished. My fist glided over it with ease. Faster and faster I stroked, deeper and deeper I inhaled, moving the briefs to take in every part. There was the fabric right below the waistband that smelled musky. Beneath it, to the left where the cotton got thinner, it smelled sharp and tangy. As I moved my nose farther down, right to where the seam of the fly met the leg, the musk came back, but was deeper. Where the sweat from his balls evaporated all day long. Lower still and it grew ripe. I rarely needed to go farther than the back seam for my fix. I was getting close. I began to stroke even faster, my fist banging into the white fabric of the Jockeys I still wore. The breaths grew to be deeper, huffing in his scent. As I would hit a wave of euphoria, I’d let the fabric beyond my lips, his scent touching my tongue. I opened the fly of Uncle Chuck’s dirty briefs. Beneath where the balls would sit, the fabric of the fly comes together with the fabric of the front to form almost a tunnel that, if worn, would be right between his legs. I slid the tunnel over my cock and began stroking again. The return of the friction must have been what done it. Finally, I’d hit my peak. My cock throbbed and jet after jet of cum shot forth, filling the underwear and quickly soaking through. I shook all over, my hips clad in a pair of my uncle’s stolen briefs bucking forth, spreading my seed deep into his dirty shorts. As I came down from my high, I slid the Calvins, now wet with my semen, from my cock and tossed them aside. Lifting the Jockeys by the waistband, I maneuvered my cock from their confines and slid them down. I wiped the last drop of cum up with the inside of the fly, right at the front, and folded them up in the same way Uncle Chuck always kept them. I grabbed the fresh pair and slid them on. They felt tighter, fresher, and ready to be used in any way I could imagine. My jeans followed, hiding away my new prize. Unlocking the door, I peeked out to see if the coast was clear. Not sensing any noise from downstairs, I stepped out, tiptoeing back to the dresser. I opened the top drawer again and slid in the pair that had served me so well back on top, knowing that in the coming days he would wear them, unaware that his cock was right where mine had been, the dried remains of my cumshot rubbing against his most sensitive spot. I tossed the spent Calvins back into the laundry bin. It was risky, but part of me hoped he’d find my load and discover me. I left his room after another successful mission, sneaking down the stairs, around the hallway, and out the back door. No one had even noticed I was gone.