My Button-Down Dress and My Submission Game

I’ve always had an overly intense relationship with clothes. I don’t shop on a whim or empty my closets for sport, but some garments dominate me the moment I put them on. A carefully chosen pair of wedge sandals, for example, changes my posture, lifts my ass, forces me to walk slowly, and plants one very specific idea in my head: that I’m not going to behave innocently that day.

With dresses, it’s even worse. I like them short, light, made of cool fabric, the kind that clings to your skin when it’s hot and reminds you with every step that there’s nothing underneath but your body. But if they’re buttoned down the front as well, then they’re no longer just clothes. They’re a provocation. An invitation. A delicious trap that I can open little by little or tear off all at once when I can’t stand it anymore.

It’s not just how I look that turns me on, but the feeling of being contained. Closed up. Ordered by a row of buttons that cover my tits, belly, and cunt as if my own dress had authority over me. And that’s precisely why disobeying it drives me crazy. Or rather, obeying another kind of order while I’m wearing it.

That fantasy changed over time. At first, it consisted only of sitting alone at home, crossing my legs, and stroking the fabric at my waist, the way someone might kill a dull afternoon. Then I began to realize it wasn’t merely a habit or a quirk. It was a ritual. A private game of dominance and submission in which I made the rules myself, yet was aroused by feeling that I didn’t entirely belong to myself while I played.

That summer day, I was alone in the apartment from midafternoon onward. It was genuinely hot, the kind of heat that leaves your skin damp even when you’re not moving and turns any sofa into a warm, obscene surface. I showered slowly, shaved carefully, and put lotion on my legs. I didn’t do it out of vanity. I did it because I had already decided what was going to happen to me.

I chose a short, sand-colored dress, fitted at the waist, with small buttons running from the neckline to almost halfway down my thighs. Underneath, I put on a soft, unpadded bra, just so my nipples would show more, and tiny panties that barely covered me. Then I slipped on a pair of high wedges. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I seemed far too put-together to be alone, and that warmed me more than I wanted to admit.

I turned on the living-room fan, left the terrace door ajar, and sat on the sofa with my legs together. From there, I could see part of the building opposite and the inner courtyard as well. No one could see me clearly unless they looked closely, but that possibility sent an electric current through my stomach. It wasn’t the first time I had played with the idea. Maybe some female neighbor had looked at me before. Maybe some man had lingered for a second too long. I never knew, and that was precisely why the fantasy stayed alive.

There was one main rule for that afternoon: I couldn’t touch myself directly until I had earned it. I had to begin over my clothes, slowly, as if someone were imposing it on me. I like the mixture of discipline and cruelty that BDSM has when no one needs to be tied up for her to feel submissive. Sometimes all it takes is a simple order and the will to obey it.

I leaned back, closed my eyes for a moment, and stroked my waist with my fingertips. Only my waist. From side to side, following the seam, feeling the heat held by the fabric. Then I moved up to my ribs and the edge of my tits. My nipples were already hard before I touched them, taut against the bra and dress, as if they had been waiting for me for some time.

—Not yet—I murmured softly, speaking to myself the way I like to be spoken to.

I touched myself again, this time tracing circles over my chest. Slowly. Very slowly. The slightest brush of my index finger was enough to draw my first serious sigh from me. Not a full moan yet, but that broken breathing that warns you your mind has already begun sinking into desire. I repeated the movement over both nipples through the fabric, barely squeezing, and felt them grow harder, sore and sensitive.

I parted my legs a little. The fan’s air touched me between the thighs, and I immediately understood that I was already wet. I hadn’t checked, but I knew. My cunt has a very clear way of responding when I feel watched, ordered around, exhibited even if it’s only pretend. It starts as a dull warmth and ends up throbbing all over, begging for fingers, pressure, punishment.

I slid my left hand toward my thigh and squeezed with my open palm. I liked the firmness of the gesture. It wasn’t a gentle caress, but a possessive grip, almost rough. I moved upward slowly, over the dress, feeling the fabric stuck to my sweaty skin. When I reached the inner thigh, I forced myself to stop. Another rule: I could get close, but I couldn’t touch the center until I had opened at least three buttons.

I began at the neckline. One. Air touched the upper part of my tits directly. Two. I was able to slip in two fingers and brush the hot skin between them. Three. The dress opened a little farther, and I let out a clearer moan when I felt my own bare hand inside it. The tip of my thumb brushed a nipple through the bra, and my back arched.

—Good girl—I whispered, and just hearing myself say it made me wetter.

I pushed my whole hand through the opening of the dress and grabbed one tit hungrily. It weighed just right in my palm, warm and alive. I found the nipple through the bra, pinched it between my index finger and thumb, and tugged. Not gently. With that exact mixture of delicious pain and immediate pleasure that makes me open my mouth and lose all composure.

I moaned loudly. This time without hiding it. The living room was empty, the terrace open, the building opposite far too close for complete peace of mind. And that was perfect. I pinched my nipple again, then the other, alternating the pressure, twisting them until I felt a shiver run down my back and lodge between my legs. My cunt answered with a thick throb. I wanted to touch myself now. I wanted to put my hand inside my panties and fuck myself with my fingers until I came. But not yet.

I undid two more buttons and opened the dress farther. The fabric fell to either side of my belly, revealing my bra and the beginning of my legs. I lowered my hand over my stomach, slowly, enjoying the contrast between damp skin and warm air. When I reached my navel, I stopped for a second. Then I continued until I placed my palm directly over my mound, above my panties.

Fuck.

I was truly soaked. The thin fabric of my panties had stuck to my lips, and every tiny brush was a jolt. I began rubbing myself with the heel of my hand, first in short, almost exploratory movements, then more firmly. The half-open dress, my legs spread, the wedges still on, my cunt pressed against my own hand as if begging me. It took only a few seconds for me to begin rocking my hips against the sofa.

—Stay still—I ordered myself, panting.

I obeyed halfway. I stopped rocking, but kept up the pressure. My fingers sank slightly between my lips through my panties, and my clitoris reacted instantly, hard and sensitive, like a delicious wound. I rubbed it in circles through the fabric, pressing harder and harder. My breathing was openly that of a horny woman now, fast and wet, and my nipples were so hard they almost hurt.

I got up from the sofa because I couldn’t stay still anymore. I walked to the terrace door and stood there, one hand on the frame and the other between my legs. Outside, the orange light of late afternoon still lingered. Someone a few floors above closed a window. I froze for a second, my heart racing. Then I smiled. If anyone happened to see me, they wouldn’t see much. Just an adult woman, well dressed, trembling in her own doorway with her skirt slightly open. Enough to drive me crazy.

I returned to the sofa, and this time I sat on the edge. I suddenly undid all the remaining buttons. The dress opened completely, leaving my body almost exposed, held in place only by the loose bra and the panties stuck to my wet cunt. I spread my legs wider. An obscene image, yes. And seeing myself like that made me bite my lip so I wouldn’t moan again.

I slipped two fingers beneath the fabric of my panties and slowly stroked my lips, opening them. They were slippery, swollen, hot. My middle finger passed over the vaginal opening without entering, merely gathering moisture, then moved up to my clitoris. When I touched it directly, my whole body jerked. I let out a hoarse gasp and had to grip the armrest with my other hand.

I didn’t start gently. There was no point pretending delicacy at that stage. I rubbed my clitoris with short, hard movements, knowing exactly how to punish myself so the pleasure would rise quickly. My panties were still in the way, pulled aside just enough, tangling around my fingers as I spread my legs wider. The dress hung completely open. I felt sweat between my tits, on my belly, beneath my ass where it rested on the edge of the sofa. My entire body had become a sensitive zone.

Then I put one finger inside.

It slid in easily, all the way, wrapped in hot wetness. I drew it out slowly and plunged it back in, this time accompanied by my ring finger. My cunt swallowed them hungrily, squeezing them. I began fucking my vagina with a steady rhythm, neither hurried nor slow, while my thumb searched for my clitoris from the outside. The combination tore a long, filthy moan from me, the kind that no longer seems to come from the throat but from the entire belly.

—That’s it... that’s it, fuck—I said through my teeth.

My hips moved against my hand. Every thrust of my fingers raised a wet, obscene sound that aroused me even more. I love that real, raw noise, without romance. An open cunt, fingers moving in and out, lubrication doing its work, disordered breathing. No metaphor can improve on that. I shifted farther back to support my back better and continued penetrating myself harder, curling my fingers inside to brush that rough spot that makes my vision blur.

I found the place and stayed there, pounding it again and again. My cunt began squeezing involuntarily. My thighs trembled. My clitoris was so sensitive that every brush made me want to pull my hand away, but I didn’t. On the contrary. I pressed harder, almost cruelly, while continuing to push my fingers all the way in. I felt the orgasm building quickly, too quickly for how much I wanted to draw it out.

That was why I stopped.

I stopped abruptly, and the emptiness made me whimper. I pulled out my dripping fingers, brought them to my mouth, and sucked them unhurriedly. My own taste aroused me brutally. I spread that same wetness over my nipples, squeezing them between my wet fingers, and the contrast between the sensitivity of my breasts and the frustration of my cunt left me on the brink of desperation.

—Don’t come yet—I told myself in a broken voice.

I reached into the drawer beneath the table for a small toy clamp I sometimes used in my solo games. Nothing extreme. Just enough to add a touch of controlled pain. I put it on one nipple first, feeling it harden even more under the pressure, then on the other. The tug made me close my eyes and throw my head back. It hurt. Of course it hurt. But that pain opened my desire wider instead of stopping it.

I touched myself between my legs again while the clamps remained in place. Every movement of my torso jostled them slightly and reminded me that I was submitting to my own game. This time I inserted three fingers slowly, enjoying the way my entrance yielded and opened. My cunt was so wet it almost sucked them in by itself. I began penetrating myself harder, pulling them almost all the way out and pushing them back in to the knuckles. The wet sound grew clearer. My breathing had become one continuous pant.

With my other hand, I pinched the skin of my thigh and then smacked myself sharply. The blow made me moan louder. I repeated it. Another one higher up. Another brushing my ass. They weren’t caresses; they were reminders. Small, exciting punishments that made my circulation race and turned me more animalistic. I felt my cunt throbbing around my fingers and knew I would come if I kept going like that for barely another minute.

I yanked one of the clamps off my nipple. The sharp pain pierced me and mingled with such a powerful wave of pleasure that I almost came right then. I left the other one on. I liked the asymmetry, the sensation of having one tit free while the other was still under control. I squeezed the freed nipple hard while fucking myself faster and rubbing my clitoris with the heel of my hand.

There was nothing elegant left about me. My dress was open and wrinkled, my panties twisted, my hair stuck to my neck, my legs spread wide, my cunt dripping over my fingers. And that image made me even hotter because it was exactly what I wanted: to lose my composure, stop being the orderly woman in the mirror, and become a defenseless female undone by her own fantasy.

—Come—I spat. —Come already, you fucking slut.

I obeyed instantly.

I buried my fingers all the way in and began moving them in short bursts, pounding that internal spot while my clitoris received constant, brutal pressure. My cunt closed around my hand. The first spasm folded me at the waist. The second tore a muffled cry from me. The third was already a complete, disorderly, powerful orgasm, the kind that makes your legs stop supporting you and your body surrender entirely to the convulsions.

I came trembling, mouth open, neck taut, my hand soaked. My vagina squeezed and released around my fingers again and again while I kept brushing my clitoris because I couldn’t stop. The pleasure became almost too intense, sharp, but I continued for a few seconds longer, forcing myself to endure it, letting myself sink into that exquisite mixture of relief and torture. The clamp on my other nipple was still there, embedded like a signature of the game, and every tremor made me feel it more strongly.

When I finally relaxed my hand, I sat there breathing as if I had run a race. I slowly withdrew my fingers from my cunt and watched them gleam. The living room seemed different after the orgasm, quieter, wider, as if the air had emptied out with me. I removed the last clamp, and the lash of sensitivity made me moan again, more softly, almost tenderly toward my own battered, satisfied body.

I rested my head against the backrest and laughed to myself, still experiencing little spasms between my legs. I was a complete mess. Dress open, one sandal half hanging off, bra askew, cunt throbbing with that foolish happiness left after a good orgasm. I looked toward the terrace, still open, and felt one final stab of arousal. Maybe someone had seen something. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. The idea had done its job.

I closed my dress without buttoning it completely. I left a couple of buttons open, simply because I liked continuing to feel the air on my skin. Then I went to the bathroom to clean myself, but before turning on the light, I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. My cheeks were flushed, my lips parted, and I wore that brazen expression I only have after I’ve fucked myself with real dedication.

I suppose that’s why I keep returning to that fantasy. It isn’t just about the dress, the heat, or masturbation. It’s about the entire ceremony: choosing the garment, feeling contained, imposing rules on myself, working myself up until I’m nearly frantic, and finally breaking those rules in the filthiest way possible. That mixture of control and surrender brings me to my knees even when I’m alone.

Since then, I look differently at every button-down dress that enters my wardrobe. It’s no longer simply pretty fabric for summer. It’s a promise. An intimate uniform for my most indecent afternoons. And when I put it on, I already know how it will usually end: legs spread, skin burning, and the certainty that sometimes the best domination is the kind you impose on yourself so you can enjoy your own submission even more.