It’s a special occasion, so I dress up fancy. I toy with the idea of wearing my standard ‘slut’ outfit (thigh-high socks, tight black top, Doxy butt plug) but ultimately chicken out. What if he wants to chill out when he arrives before we get down to the fucking? Maybe he’ll be overwhelmed by an immediate and clear demand that he get it in me right now please please get it in me? What if the special occasion dictates that we should spend some time on wine and chatting first? So I, a wuss, eschew the slutty outfit in favour of a lovely posh dress – one I wore to a good friend’s wedding before Covid, which I hope to wear to dance at other people’s weddings when the After Times arrive.
I put on lots of make-up, do my hair, and roll on the thigh-highs. Wonder if I bother with knickers or not, and decide I probably should. I’m in ‘dressing up fancy’ mode, after all, so I put my sluttery on the back burner.
This feeling isn’t one I’m used to: I think I’m nervous.
I bustle around in the kitchen, cooking dinner and drinking wine and checking my phone every five minutes to see if he’s on his way yet. And I look really nice, like I’m going to a wedding.
I feel awkward and uncomfortable, like I’m going to a wedding.
When he texts to say he’s on his way, I grin but I’m still tense. Something just feels a bit off. I’ve never really felt comfortable in dresses – the black-top-and-butt-plug slutty outfit is way more naturally ‘me’. In this posh frock I feel a little uncomfortable, like I’m squashing myself into a box marked ‘femme’ when the one marked ‘slut’ is more appealing.
I want tonight to be awesome, because it’s a special occasion, but in my desire to make things ‘special’ I’m accidentally reading off someone else’s script: one which has ‘special’ down as posh frocks and nice wine and not fucking someone the second they walk in the door. I feel like an awkward, slutty goth who’s shoehorned herself into a posh frock but can’t wait to get home and tear it all off.
Then, five minutes before he arrives, I remember that’s exactly who I am.
And I realise what I should do.
I down my glass of wine, run upstairs, and throw off the posh dress and my nice bra. Put on an old bra that’s long-past ready to be chucked away and rummage in the back of my wardrobe for a different dress: a simple, floaty thing with white flowers on a purple background. I don’t intend to ever wear it again, and it’s made of t-shirt fabric that is very very easy to tear.
I put it on, take a quick photo in the mirror so I can remember the last time I ever wore this outfit, then grab the bracelet. Regular readers might remember the bracelet game: there’s a specific bracelet I put on which signals to him that everything I’m wearing can be thoroughly destroyed if he so desires.
The slutty outfit is everything
Now I feel comfortable. Now I feel like me. No longer posh and untouchable and feminine and handle-with-care, but slutty and horny and utterly-fuck-me-up. The switch of dresses and addition of the bracelet makes very little difference to my appearance, but a whole wide world of difference to my current state of mind.
I no longer worry about whether I’m pressuring him to fuck as soon as he gets in – I’m wearing the bracelet, so we’ll fuck whenever he decides it’s time to start tearing my clothes off. No need to wonder if I should keep my knickers on – the bracelet means I’ll keep them, because the more I have on, the more fun it’ll be when he rips the whole lot off me.
Now when I answer the door, I can greet him with a grin: bracelet firmly on one wrist, cunt already wet, ready to be me.
A big fucking slut.
I’m linking this post to Sinful Sunday which is an amazing blogging meme in which people take cool pictures of themselves on Sunday. I so rarely take pictures of myself (because I suck at it) that I always get excited if I can do one that legitimately counts as a Sinful Sunday pic. If you like sex bloggers showing off their sexy bits, click the button below – you’re gonna love it.