Every stroke of her pen was a unique work of art, and each word a masterpiece in itself. Wherever that child learned penmanship was not public school.Each letter was signed with her first name only – Cindi with an 'i', and each 'i' was crowned with a sweet, slightly off center, heart. For some reason I was captivated by her precision and devotion to perfect writing.Whoever Cindi was, she deserved to know that the whole family was dead, without divulging that I was the new resident in David's body. That was a conundrum all by itself. I contemplated ways to get her the information, without having her transfer her affections to me, but nothing came to mind, so I set that thought aside.In truth, I couldn't wait to read David's private mail and see what I might learn about him while I inhabited his shell.The oldest letter was from just after the first of the year. We were in the last week of May, so they'd been pen pals for at least four months, give, or take. I settled back against the. I shivered a little but not because I was cold as I lifted the panties from the vanity stool. I realized that the panties were a bit beyond just being panties and knew there were two layers. Now I realized there were three. I wasn't sure why until it dawned on me that the inside layer was plastic.Plastic? Now why plastic I thought until the reason became obvious. Did she knew I'd do that I wondered as I stepped into them. She had to know or else why that lining of plastic and I flushed nearly crimson at the prospects of her thinking I might like such things. OK, I did like it, but I didn't want her knowing that. I was doing her a favor I argued with myself.I stopped arguing that point when the panties were in place and decided that plastic lined panties were most likely a good thing. I also suspected with the evidence glaring at me that she had to know 'about boys and panties' else why that layer of plastic. Thankfully I'd have the slip on covering my obvious joy and that silent.
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