I dress for myself, this is true. But this is also true: when I dress, I dress for you. I shop for pretty things, for lacy, racy things that cinch and clip and caress and cup. No need to make more of who I am, I just need enough to heighten, present, and showcase all that I love about me, all that is yours to love, and all that I have to give.
This pretty, lacy, racy me hides beneath the every day of cottons and coats – the every day me that everyone else gets to see.
Truth? When I slip into my skirt and tank, my jeans and sweaters, shorts… and when I buy my next dress, I’ll picture you looking back at me; I’ll clothe myself in a naive hope that you will be tempted by what the mirror shows. My dream is that you will be haunted and breathless, knowing what awaits you every day here, under the layers of me.
And as you settle back to watch me peel off each bit of cotton down to each lacy, racy layer, until there is nothing between us, then I will settle at your feet and spread and beg and arch and yes, buck with each strain and grip along your back, your ass, and arms; your neck and hands held tight in my gentle but oh, so needy hands… every inch of your flesh suckled and nibbled – gripped hard and sweet pink by my hungry mouth… this self-same mouth that pants and whispers and moans and groans and howls all the pretty things you want to hear.
