I’ve always hated the thought of not wearing underwear and would go so far as to call it a soft limit. TSH and I actually discussed it earlier this week. He saw me getting dressed, pulling a long skirt as the first item. He wasn’t in the room when I finished dressing. When he came back in, his first reaction was to run his hand up the back of my thigh and bottom to see whether I’d put my knickers on.
He was a very disappointed man.
There’s the whole thing of ensuring you’re wearing clean undies in case you’re in an accident (morbid, right?) or my mother’s policy that I’ve not fully taken on board of making sure that bra and knickers match… all these things feed into the idea that you’re supposed to wear underwear.
I think it’s fear. Fear that I’ll somehow embarrass myself. Fear that I’ll literally, somehow, be exposed.
But I don’t quite know what there is to be scared of. I’ve never been, like I often read in erotica, absolutely dripping with lust.
I don’t wear short skirts either, much to TSH’s disappointment.
I like the idea of it – it’s something incredibly ‘naughty’ in my mind, something that totally rebels against what I’ve been brought up to believe. And when I sunbathed naked on holiday or went for a swim, I loved the feeling of the air or water on every part of my body. But I’d never do it voluntarily.
I like the idea of being told not to. Erotica where the Dom sits in the restaurant with his sub’s knickers in his pocket (or a variation on that theme) is quite frankly, extremely hot.
But, it’s the idea of it. A theory. If I were told, I’m not sure I’d willingly agree. It’s not something that I could know the night before or even before I got dressed; I’d completely overthink it. It would have to be sprung on me, almost like my knickers were being confiscated… whether I’d manage in real life, without having a minor meltdown, I don’t know.
But it’s a great fantasy.
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