Lingerie

I lit only the red candles, adjusted my babydoll, and waited. When the doorbell rang, I knew that dawn would remind me who I truly was.

When she invited me to dinner at her place, I thought she just wanted to thank me. I had no idea what she was hiding under that pencil skirt, or how far she was willing to go.

I’d spent months begging her for a session. When I finally stepped into her studio, I understood she hadn’t summoned me to photograph her, but to teach me obedience.

I found her biting her lip in front of the mirror, wearing her bikini, her crotch already wet. I wasn’t going to wait for her to be ready.

I had kept my secret hidden at the back of the closet for months. That night I opened the door in a pleated skirt and red bow—and never wanted to turn back.

I took off my trousers in the passageway, stowed them in my backpack, and pushed open the gate. I knew exactly what awaited me upstairs—and it drove me wild.

She wore a miniskirt, black stockings, and sunglasses that kept me from knowing when she’d caught me watching. Until she stopped pretending and started playing with me.

My husband doesn’t need to touch me first. He needs to see how other men look at me without permission, how they falter when I pass. Then he comes, and desire no longer fits in the bed.

I thought the party was over when I closed the door. But she was still barefoot on my sofa, glass on her knee and another box in her hands.

We’d been waiting for months. My parents finally left, she arrived in dark blue lingerie and both of us trembling, and then the body decided otherwise.

I dressed up like never before to see him: miniskirt, heels, wig. What I didn’t expect was his sister showing up and, with one look, reading everything we were hiding.

My boyfriend introduced me as his friend to his entire family. His uncle noticed and slipped me a note with his number and one word written on it: «later».

I thought it was a secret date with my girlfriend’s cousin. What I didn’t know was that the phone beside the bed was streaming everything live.

Don Salvador had been in the building for a month when I caught him hiding his phone. I didn’t see what he was looking at, but from the way he stammered, I imagined it right away.

I opened the door to his apartment wearing the shortest miniskirt I owned and saw his expression crack as his gaze climbed up my legs.

When Bruno looked up from his monitor and saw his boss staring at his mother, he knew he had two options: make a scene or stay silent.

I went out to clear my head one Saturday afternoon. When I looked up from my coffee, she was already sitting across from me, smiling as if she’d known me all her life.

She was fifty-two, trapped in a lukewarm marriage, and wearing lace stockings for the first time. She didn’t expect the man who would board two stops later.

When the hallway lights went out, the moans started on the other side of the wall, and I knew I’d never forget that week at my aunt’s house.

Thirty-two years old, red nails, and a way of looking at women that seemed like a greeting and a question. I was a married woman. That is, until the night I forgot my keys.