The Panty Raid
I knew something was wrong the minute I walked in the door and saw the gold tissue on the floor. I use the delicate paper to wrap some of my rarely worn jewelry. Which had been safely stashed last I checked.
Oh God, I thought, we’ve been broken into.
I followed the trail into the master bedroom, where I found the bag that had once contained that tissue-wrapped jewelry ripped open. Its contents, along with half of my wardrobe, were strewn across the floor.
My heart hammering in my chest, I tried to take stock of what was in front of me. A quick inventory revealed that my random assortment of purely sentimental pieces appeared to all be present and accounted for. Which was a relief to be sure.
It was then that my attention was drawn to a pile of sodden fabric. I stooped to inspect it more closely and it clicked. It was my favorite pair of panties.
Or at least, what was left of them.
I was equal parts relieved and disgusted. This wasn’t a burglary at all, but a panty raid. And not the first, either.
I thought I’d found the perfect hiding place for my underthings to avoid further incident, but these perverts were craftier than I thought.
I turned to face the culprits who, at that very moment, were yipping excitedly at my heels.
They’re lucky they’re cute.