The Garment My Mistress Left to Subdue Me
I found her panties folded on the top step, still warm, and knew it was no accident: it was an order I had to obey on my knees.
I found her panties folded on the top step, still warm, and knew it was no accident: it was an order I had to obey on my knees.
The night I waited for him with my blouse half-open, I knew I was no longer the same woman: I had remade myself to ignite one man's desire.
He left me alone in his living room, still trembling, and I walked out of his house without saying goodbye. That same week I understood that something inside me had ignited and I would no longer be able to turn it off.
You threw me your still-warm panties and a smile. “Put them on and wait for me,” you said. Two hours later I was still on my knees, counting the minutes until you came back.
I brought my nose to her hair without thinking, once, twice, three times. When she turned and asked if I liked it, I knew there was no way back.
Eight years had passed since that coach trip, but the moment I saw him standing in front of the terminal I knew I wouldn’t be coming home for dinner that night.
I stared at her from the bar until our eyes met. I didn’t know yet that that night she would call me “sir” and do everything I ordered.
No one in the courthouse would ever imagine she was waiting there naked and on her knees, holding her breath for him to walk through the door and remind her who she belonged to.
One smile and a couple of billiard shots were enough for her to turn his world upside down. Now he wears a lace apron and waits, trembling, for the doorbell to ring.
The first time I saw him naked it was only for a few seconds, but it was enough to ignite a forbidden curiosity I no longer knew how to extinguish.
I’d spent months avoiding coming back, but that afternoon my sister put a video on the screen and nothing in our family was ever the same again.
I thought the whole house was mine that night. Then the lock turned, he looked at me from the doorway, and I was still naked on the sofa.
I crossed half of Spain with a fever to take shelter at my grandmother’s house. I never imagined that country woman would look at me naked the way she did that first night.
The first thing I remember from that summer is the counselor’s cracked hands and the girl with the fringe’s eyes. The last, what I saw among the trees before dawn.
When she opened the door in a rush, with smeared mascara and a wrinkled dress, I knew that night had changed everything between us.
I’d been cleaning that huge house for eight months. I never imagined what that married couple was hiding behind the row of shoes, or how far I’d go for tuition.
She knew exactly what that dress would do; what she didn’t expect was for him to dare whisper it in her ear, right in front of the whole family.
Every time we went back to Grandma’s old house, the same game started all over again: one hand brushing another and nobody watching.
Five hundred euros to let them kick him where it hurt most. He accepted without thinking, convinced three women couldn’t hurt him that badly. He was wrong.
I spent a year cleaning his house without him ever looking me in the eye. The afternoon I took off my shoes by the pool, I discovered he’d been staring at my feet for months.