Lingerie

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 let her hands tighten every wire 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’d been protecting that job like gold for three months. 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 myself to ignite one man's desire.

She left them folded on the sink, still carrying her scent, with a note: “You’re wearing these today.” I knew the afternoon would be a long one.

I agreed to accompany him, knowing I would 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.

Friday night, alone at home, caged, with the key hundreds of kilometers away. She left me only one huge toy, and I knew right away she’d bought it for this.

I went down to the garden in the dark, not knowing that this time she wouldn’t leave me alone with her underwear: she had something of her mother’s saved for me.

Every night she asked me for something new through the bars of her window, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no, even if it meant rummaging through my own mother’s laundry basket.

Lying on the edge of the bed, black stockings climbing my legs, I warned him I wouldn’t use my hands that night: I’d undo him with my feet alone.

The mirror in the dressing room reflected a woman she didn’t recognize. In a few minutes, dozens of strangers would see her naked. And still, she chose to step through the curtain.