This story was written based on a suggestion from someone over on Patreon. Come support me there if you’d like to make suggestions for other blog posts, and massive thanks to the person who suggested this topic. The ‘bottomless’ look is very popular in my house, although here we call it ‘top no bottoms’. Or rather, my partner excitedly yells ‘top no bottoms!!’ if I walk into a room wearing a t-shirt and no knickers, and plonk my naked arse onto the sofa. That’s why this one’s written with love as well as horn. Hope you like it.
Bottomless – t-shirt and no knickers
When he’s writing his wedding speech, he can’t shake the image from his head. The vision of the first time she walked into the living room wearing only a long, white t-shirt and sat her naked bottom down on his leather sofa. He thinks ‘surely that can’t be the moment I realised I loved her?’
It’s embarrassing somehow. The idea that this – can you even call it a kink? – desire is so powerful that it represents the point beyond which he knew he wanted her forever. The desire to see her shuffling around the house in a t-shirt and no knickers feels simultaneously intensely taboo yet utterly pedestrian. After all, what is it other than casual comfort and easy access to her cunt?
The cunt thing. There’s that. The fact that in the split second before she sat down his eye wandered to the hem of the shirt, and as she bent her knees and started to fall back onto the soft, cold leather he could see the crease at the bottom of her buttocks and the tiniest glimpse of the lips of her cunt squeezed neatly at the top of her thighs. He doesn’t even need to close his eyes to see the picture, and feel the rush of adrenaline that he felt that day, as he realised he could simply place his hand on the seat of the sofa and catch her plump cunt in the cup of his palm.
He didn’t, of course, though he knew if he had done she’d have squealed with delight and wriggled gently upon finding his hand trapped beneath her naked bottom. Squirming on it to rub her scent on him, maybe playfully ruffling his hair or reaching out with soft fingertips to stroke the tented fabric of his pyjamas.
He wanted to do that, would do that – on countless more occasions over the next few years. But that first time he did nothing. Just stared and drank in the sight of her lowering her naked bum onto the sofa, and settling down to watch whatever TV programme had just lost any shred of his attention. He didn’t need to touch her because it isn’t just the cunt thing: it’s the comfort.
The moment she sauntered in, naked thighs swishing past his head as he turned to greet her, was the moment she told him she was comfortable there with him. Far more than make-up-less mornings and leaving the bathroom door open, this was the moment when he realised she trusted him. She could slouch into the living room in a t-shirt and no knickers, without worrying that she’d exposed some deep mystery. It hit him with a feeling much like the first time she first cried with laughter – in a pub garden, on a chilly afternoon in October, when she dissolved into a laughing fit worthy of a stoned teenager. Her shoulders shook and her cheeks streamed with happy tears and her big, ugly, beautiful cackles were loud enough to draw attention from people sitting nearby. The sheer abandon of it touched him – that she was simultaneously vulnerable and safe, relaxed enough that she could fall so deeply and easily into joy.
The bottomless look felt like that to him too. And perhaps that’s why he’s poleaxed by the vision of it today, as he writes his wedding speech. But you can’t really write that, can you?
I knew I first loved you when I saw the naked flesh of your arse peeking out from the bottom of a t-shirt. When you sat down with a neat smack onto the leather sofa, then turned to me and asked ‘what are we watching?’ – casually unaware of how the vision made my dick twitch and my heart hurt. And when my head caught up I realised that I wanted to grow old knowing that on a lazy Saturday morning, your naked bottom would always be parked in that seat.
And yeah, you can’t say that at a wedding. He could probably say it to her, though. Tell her ‘hey, you know the first time I realised I wanted you forever was the moment when you wandered bottomless into my living room?’ But she knows. She knows because for the rest of that day his eyes were glued to the hem of that t-shirt, hoping for another glimpse. She knows because he gradually became braver in his advances – touches and strokes on her upper thighs and the lower curve of her bum until eventually one day he shot a hand out to grab her wrist and yank her – giggling and squirming – onto his lap.
She likes to feel his dick getting hard against the nakedness of her skin. Likes to gently nudge down his PJs (if he’s wearing them) so she can wriggle and grind her own flesh against his. He likes the way it feels like she’s marking her territory – smearing the wetness of her cunt over his rapidly-stiffening cock and the tops of his thighs. And above all she likes standing back up again, leaving him hard and vulnerable and cunt-scented, to stare in delight at the place where the hem of the t-shirt meets flesh.
But yeah, you can’t say that at a wedding. You can’t say ‘I love that she can be bottomless in front of me.’ Likewise you have to ditch words like ‘knickerless.’ ‘Naked from the waist down.’ You can’t talk about cunts and cocks and flesh and soft cotton: there’s family present. And besides, love isn’t about that really, is it? Love is much more family-friendly. It’s comforting someone when they’ve lost their job or remembering their favourite books and writing quotes from those books in birthday cards. Running errands for each other even when you’re hungover. Talking about what you’ll do when you retire, and holding hair back while they puke.
Bollocks, though. That’s not what love is. That’s not what love is to him. To him, love is walking into a room bottomless and slapping your naked arse onto a leather sofa, then responding with a wicked grin when you realise the impact you’ve had. It’s discovering this pleasure and playing it over and over, like a favourite song, until the sex and the vulnerability and the casual, easy comfort all become part of the same feeling. Until you stop wondering whether it’s sexual or loving or warm or romantic, because you’ve realised that something can be all that stuff at once.
That you can wrestle with someone playfully, get hard when your hand brushes the naked slit of their cunt, yet end the bout in fits of laughter as one of you falls off the sofa. And all of this should be counted together. It’s not lust or love or friendship, but all the above, all at once.
When he stands up at the wedding to thank all the half-drunk guests, he prays his cock won’t grow hard at the end of his speech. He hopes no one will notice that she tips him a little wink when he mentions that day, and the t-shirt. Some sweet-yet-dull story about knowing she loved him when she wore his Nirvana t-shirt, because he knows how much she hated the band. She smiles at him because she doesn’t mind the band, and she remembers the t-shirt. She likes the way being bottomless makes her feel – vulnerable yet powerful, ready to fuck or be fucked.
As he tells their guests how she hates the song Lithium, she pictures the same things that he does: t-shirt and no knickers. Her naked arse on his leather sofa.
And his hand outstretched – palm upwards – to cup her cunt.