I like it when he wears my knickers. I like it when he wears short silk shorts, too – the kind he’s bought for me but that look too good on him for us not to share the pleasure. Given my love of seeing him wearing my clothes, it’s inevitable that one night I suggest to him: “Let’s swap clothes.”
I’m in the same combo of flared jeans and soft jumper that I usually wear when we’re having a night in. I choose my clothes for function, mostly, though the jumper’s got a boat neck which usually exposes a bra strap, and the jeans hug tightly around my arse.
“Let’s swap clothes.”
It could go one of two ways: were there any hint of uncertainty I’d have dropped the subject, embarrassed. But luckily his eyes light up as he realises this could be fun.
There’s nothing particularly feminine about my clothes, until he wears them. The bum-hugging denim clings as tightly to him as it does me, but for some reason the clinging is more obvious when it’s his bum and thighs stretching them out, instead of my own. The jumper clings around his waist, though it’s baggier towards the top where my tits would be, and with sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and wrists looking pale and dainty against the black wool, he could easily be my double – except for his face.
We grin at each other.
I’m wearing his shorts and T-shirt: a combo that does little for me aesthetically, but inside it makes me feel like him. When we pose together in front of the bedroom mirror, I stand with feet apart, deliberately taking up space. He automatically drops one of his hips – coquettishly highlighting the now-more-prominent curve from hip to waist.
We take photos, and grin some more.
When we go back downstairs, I sprawl out on the sofa, legs spread, with one hand resting on my inner thigh just two inches from where my cock would be, if I had one. He stands in front of me, glass of wine in one hand, other on his hip, eyes shining with excitement – the way mine usually do.
I tell him: “dance for me,” and he does.
He primes Alexa to play the right song, and he begins to sway his hips. My hips. In my jeans. It feels strange to see him-as-me, similar yet different.
I get into the headspace that is ‘him’, and stretch out catlike on the sofa. I grin a sideways grin, and look at him with hungry eyes while he dances.
So wrapped up am I in the idea of us becoming each other that when he lifts his top to expose his stomach, I almost expect to see my own revealed beneath the fabric. Darker skin and less hair and the faint silver of stretchmarks at the swell of the hips. Instead I’m delighted by the slow reveal of the trail of dark hairs stretching out of my knickers and up to his belly button.
As he dances closer, I try to touch him, and he smacks my hand away. Shakes his head. Flutters his eyelashes. Feigning me-ness in a manner that’s halfway between homage and parody.
My cunt aches.
As he unzips the fly on my jeans, and trails fingers down his stomach and towards his crotch, I see the telltale swell of his cock stretching out the colourful cotton. I put my hand on my own crotch, trying to imagine how it would feel to be able to stretch out the fabric the way he does – with a cock that swells and twitches as the dance continues.
He peels off the top slowly, revealing my bra, in which he looks more masculine than I think he’d look without it. The same way when I don an old shirt of his and let my hard nipples tent the fabric, I somehow manage to look more feminine than I’d appear in a dress. The straps accentuate how big his shoulders are, and the clasp digs tightly into the flesh of his broad back.
He unhooks it then – burlesque style – he makes me wait before revealing his nipples.
This is hotter than I thought it would be when I first suggested we swap clothes. This saucy, seductive, bizarre, alternate-universe version of him (or me, I can’t decide which) makes me feel sexier than I have in a good long time. I don’t know if it’s the fact that he’s wearing my clothes, with mannerisms and movements that show this everyday outfit can be sexy, or the fact that this different wrapping on the package that is his body makes me appreciate all the details as if I’m discovering them for the very first time.
Or perhaps I’m just enjoying the role I get to play: taking up space on the sofa, with one hand on my crotch, embracing the idea that I’m mainly here as an observer. The subject, not the object.
I am so used to questioning and double-guessing my appearance. Am I pleasing? Am I sexy? Will he like the way this neckline plunges or the cling of this particular pair of jeans? Does my hair look sleek enough? Are my armpits shaved? Am I pretty, am I pretty, am I pretty?
When I tell him ‘let’s swap clothes’, it didn’t occur to me that in shedding my outfit I’d also shed a lot of those questions.
He embraces the fun of stripping for my satisfaction, and I embrace the knowledge that my satisfaction is what matters.