Lingerie

I looked at myself in the mirror wearing my wig and translucent dress, and knew that night I would let a stranger do everything I’d imagined for weeks.

I saved his number as “S.1.” Two days to regret it, and not once did I want to: I wanted them to use me again, worse than the first time.

I had spent years imagining it: getting dressed up, putting on my stockings, and giving myself to a man for the first time. That afternoon, in a hotel room, I stopped imagining it.

I was ready from four in the afternoon, soaked and aching, when that short man knocked on my door, never imagining I’d force out his nickname.

I used the gap in the curtain to spy on her, but she caught me in the mirror and, instead of covering herself, began undressing for me again.

I drove at night transformed into another woman and no one knew. One slip at a stop was enough for him to discover who I really was.

When I arrived at the restaurant in my black dress and lace lingerie, I already knew I wouldn’t leave as the faithful wife I pretended to be.

I’d spent a year staring at that toy in the drawer without daring to use it. That night, in my lace nightgown with the padlock locked, I knew I was finally going to let it open me all the way.

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».