Lingerie

I’d gone almost two months without hearing from him. Then the message came: “Tomorrow come to work wearing women’s underwear.” And I knew I wouldn’t be able to say no.

At fifty-three, single and bored, Ramiro discovered that supply and demand also work at three in the afternoon, on the sofa in his living room.

I put on the lingerie she would never wear and wait for him to knock on the motel door. I know he’ll come back: at home there’s a man starving.

I had a week to decide whether to leave everything behind. That night, four men set out to make me forget the decision, even if only for a few hours.

He told me to close my eyes in front of the shop window. When I opened them, I knew Hugo wanted to see me turned into something I’d always wanted to be without daring to say it.

When she came out of the bedroom wrapped in that black latex, ponytail pulled tight and high heels on, I knew we weren’t going to sleep early that night.

I’d never paid for anything like that before. We met on a Tuesday morning, she handed me the bag in a hurry, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what was waiting for me at home.

The door opened and I understood that tonight I wasn’t deciding anything. She waited tied to the headboard; he, standing in the dim light, only looked at me and nodded.

She ordered me to take off my clothes, and I let her hands adjust every cable against my skin. When I started getting wet, I knew there was no turning back.

When he looked in the mirror, he no longer recognized himself: blonde wig, red corset, heels. And she, smoking on the sofa, was waiting for him with a smile he had never seen before.

I was three months into guarding that job like gold. That morning, alone with him before opening, I discovered how much I liked being told what to do.

The receptionist handed me a package with no return address. Inside, a metal plug and a note in his handwriting: “For our date, I want you to wear it.”

I was never attracted to him, but every message he sent left me hotter than the last. And that night, with my husband only a few feet away, I stopped resisting.

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.

When he turned his back to make the copies, his hand slid up my stockings as if he had every right to do it. And I didn’t say no.

The night I waited for him with my blouse half-open, I knew I was no longer the same woman: I had remade my whole body to ignite one man’s desire.

She left them folded on the sink, still carrying her scent, with a note: “Today you wear these.” I knew the afternoon was going to be long.

I agreed to go with him on the trip, knowing I’d be his woman for a few days. What I didn’t know was that my body was already part of the deal.

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.