♦ As some of you might have read on my Twitter recently, Crush and I decided to put Friday evening aside last week for a nice meal out at a restaurant and a bit of a romantic evening together. We try to go out to eat every now and again but it had been a little while, not least because I’ve been on a bit of a diet-type thing (I still feel like I get 20 boring points just for saying that) for the past few weeks (going well, thanks for asking). So, we decided to give me the night off that so I could enjoy nommy food and drink plenty of red wine. Red wine is awesome and certainly no hindrance to a nice, sexy romantic evening.
Being a Friday, I didn’t really feel much like making an effort and dressing up smart, but dammit, Crush deserved it. Tired or no tired, I should damn well make a bit of effort for him because it’s not all that often that I really get the chance, what with busy and all. I have a whole drawer at least of gorgeous underwear begging me to come back to it and give it one more chance.
So I picked out something nice and got myself dressed. Then, before choosing outerwear (so much less important and fraught with decision), I made the silly mistake of telling Twitterites that I was wearing something devastatingly smexy.
Of course you demanded pics or it didn’t happen. Of course.
Point of Interest 01: Yes, I have now done one of the ubiquitous wobbly Ikea mirror self-taken shots that Jake was talking about.
Point of Interest 02: I certainly do have a triceratops sticker on the back of my phone. Sorry these pics are from a phone at all. Hope they’re clear enough.
Point of Interest 03: BOOBIES!
The last one there includes my outerwear. A black velvet bodice-type top (I’m still not quite sure I’m over my aversion to velvet, I worry that it screams “overweight goth”) with a frilled black and white striped shirt, a long black skirt and nice stompy boots. Don’t worry, I wore a colourful necklace to overpower the goffick.
What was interesting about what I was wearing was that I should have felt perfectly secure in it. My skirt was long, not see through and not likely to blow up in the wind, however, when we left for the short walk to the restaurant, I felt extremely exposed and vulnerable.
In a good way.
I suppose what you can’t see in any of those pictures is that the bottom half of that little set was a relatively tiny (but pretty) thong. This coupled with the sense of ‘rigging’ of wearing garter-belted stockings has to be the main part of why I was feeling this way. As I walked down the street, arm in arm in with Crush, I could feel that I was wearing something skimpier than my usual affair under my skirt. And it all felt precarious.
Garter belts (or suspenders if you want to sound British but like your nan about it) are tricksy mistresses liable to suddenly ping off a strap or two when you least expect it. The one I’d asked Crush to do had already done so before we left the house. And, hey, I know I’m overweight. The extra strain I’m probably putting on those snaps ain’t gonna help.
I could feel the straps snug against my legs as my skirts swished. I love that feeling. In my mind it equals bondage. I’m not saying that wearing a garter belt is a form of bondage, I’m saying that my mind reacts to both in the same way. I feel garter belt straps as bondage even if I don’t think of them that way.
And I could also feel the places where my stockings were not pinned into place by straps and how the stockings were even then trying to wriggle down in those places as we travelled. It was unlikely, so unlikely, that the whole set of rigging would come undone and I’d find knickers and stockings around my ankles and a gust of wind whipping up my skirts, but the thought niggled nonetheless.
I felt like an Art Frahm drawing waiting to happen. I’d even bought celery that week.
I felt, also, like sin on legs.
I was already feeling turned on by the time we walked into the restaurant door, so staring at Crush lit by candlelight for the evening on several glasses of Red Wine the Mighty Hornifier was just going to make that worse and worse. Heck, I found even the act of the waitress pouring our wine to be strangely compelling (a story for another time perhaps). As the evening drew on, I felt like the sexiest woman alive. It’s strange to describe it this way, but I actually felt brimming with a sort of sexual energy. A lustiness, a sexiness, an allure and a desire all at once.
Crush was divine that evening. I fell in love with him all over again. He was glorious. Things progressed much the way you might expect when we got home as he easily slid his cock in past my panties.
The point of this little post? Well, mostly because several of you clamoured for pictures and I had handily thought ahead enough to take them, but also to say that wearing underwear that makes you feel sexy, especially if it’s a little different from your everyday stuff, can really make an evening go with a bang. I’d have enjoyed myself anyway, of course, but walking down that street with my head full of nerves and excitement and my body carefully wrapped in sartorial predicament bondage was an experience I’m glad I didn’t miss out on.
I shall have to wear this kind of thing more often. ;) ♦
This is my first Wanton Wednesday, hurrah! See other participants here: