Sweetest
I walked into the lingerie boutique, tried to calm my nerves, tried to wipe off my sweaty palms, tried to look like I belongs.
"Good morning," a voice behind me said, startling me.
So much for looking calm, I thought.
"M...morning," I said, turning, seeing the sales woman behind me. She was cute, blonde, tastefully dressed in slacks, a blouse, heels.
"Wife or girlfriend?" she asked with a smile?
"Huh?" I asked, not sure what she meant.
"Are you shopping for your wife or your girlfriend...I assume not yourself," she said, "though you'd be surprised."
"No, um, my wife," I said.
"What's the occasion?"
"We...um...date night," I said.
"So dinner and...after?"
"I suppose," I said.
"Well then we're talking a set," she said, "bra, panty, garter belt, stockings. Transition from dinner to...well...after."
"That...that sounds great," I said. "I have her measurements." I pulled out a paper from my pocket where I'd carefully written down her measurements.
"Oh, that's great, most husbands aren't so proactive. I'm usually left trying to guess. Let's look at a few things."
She went to a screen, pulled up a set.
I looked at the sheer pink set, felt myself stir just imagining that on my wife. "Wow," I said.
"Kind of what you're looking for?"
I thought about that. For her to wear for me, yes, but...
"I like it, it's kind of...innocent?"
She smiled, pulled up something else. "This?"
"That's...wow again," I said.
"Sheer, still something to the imagination."
I felt myself stir again, frowned. "How about something in black, more...I don't know...risque?"
"Risque?"
"She said something that he...we...I don't know...more naughty."
She nodded, typed on the screen, stopped. "I think I have just the thing but I want to..."
"Want to?"
"Make sure I understand," she said.
"Naughty...risque," I said.
"Something like this?" she asked, showing me a black set that was devastatingly sexy.
"Naughty...risque," I said.
"My god," I blurted out.
"I think he'll love it?"
"We'll?" I said, not sure I heard her right. "My wife and I?"
"He," she said. "You said he earlier. This isn't for a date night for you and your wife, is this, you're picking out something for her to wear for someone else?"
"What?"
"I told you we get all types," she said, "I'm not judging, just understanding. It's not the first time I've had a husband buy lingerie for his wife to wear for someone else, trust me."
"I...we..."
"Boyfriend? Lover? New guy? If I know, I can help."
"I...I don't..."
"If I know I can help," she says again.
I looked down, ashamed. "B...boyfriend," I blurted out.
"Did she ask you to buy this or did he?"
"He did," I say, my voice a bare whisper.
"Did he give you any guidance?"
I nod but don't speak the words, instead I take the paper with my wife's measurements on them, turn it over, show her the word I wrote.
Whore
"Well you're right to go with the black," she said, "the first two are more appropriate for...a husband...not a boyfriend. How long have they dated?"
"About a year," I say.
"Are they exclusive? Do you..."
I shake my head. "He...he won't let me...you know..."
"Inside her?"
I nod. "I understand that's usually the case," she says. "I think this black one will be perfect."
"I know," I say.
"Will you get to...see her in it?
I nod again. "I'm allowed to...dress her," I say, "for her..."
"Dates?"
"Yes."
"Well I don't know if this means much, but I think it's sweet of you, I really do. The sweetest."
The saleswoman, whose name tag read Elena, didn't break eye contact. Her gaze wasn't mocking; it was clinical, yet oddly warm, like a tailor measuring a suit for a funeral or a wedding. She reached out and gently took the paper from my hand, her thumb brushing over the word I’d scrawled on the back.
ReplyDelete"It’s a powerful word," she murmured, turning the paper over to look at the measurements again. "It sets a specific tone. If you're dressing her for him, and he's the one who gets to... well, enjoy the results, then we shouldn't just look for something pretty. We should look for something that marks her."
She walked toward a restricted-access cabinet at the back of the boutique, beckoning me to follow. My legs felt like lead, but I moved, the scent of expensive perfume and silk closing in around me.
"Does he like to see the skin, or does he like the struggle of removing the clothes?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave.
"He... he likes to take his time," I whispered. "He makes me watch while he does it."
Elena stopped and pulled a hanger from the rack. It wasn't just lace; it was a construction of black silk straps, gold hardware, and sheer mesh that looked more like a beautiful cage than a garment. "This is the 'Obsidian' set. It has a front-clasp bra—very easy for him to undo—but the garter belt is complex. It requires focus. It forces her to stand still while he works."
She held it up against the light. "If you are the one dressing her, you'll want something that feels substantial in your hands. Something that reminds you, with every hook and eye you fasten, exactly who she is dressing for."
I reached out, my fingers trembling as they touched the cool silk. The reality of it hit me—the weight of my role in their dynamic. I wasn't just a shopper; I was the valet for her betrayal.
"Is it... too much?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"For a husband? Perhaps," Elena said, her smile returning, sharp and knowing. "But for a 'whore' going to her boyfriend? It’s exactly enough. Shall we look at the stockings? I suggest a back-seam. It gives him a line to follow."
I nodded, unable to look away from the black lace. "Yes. The back-seam. He'd like that."
"Good," she said, patting my arm. "Let’s get you rung up. Don't look so devastated. You're being a very 'good' husband, in your own way."
The drive home was a blur of gray pavement and the crinkle of the black tissue paper in the boutique bag beside me. Elena’s parting words—“the sweetest”—echoed in my head like a cruel joke. I pulled into the driveway, my hands finally dry, but my heart hammering against my ribs.
ReplyDeleteThe house was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning. I found Sarah in the bedroom. She was sitting at her vanity, already brushing her hair, her reflection meeting mine in the mirror. She looked beautiful—radiant, even—in a way she never quite looked when it was just a Tuesday night for the two of us.
"Did you get it?" she asked, her voice airy, detached.
"I did," I said, my throat tight. I set the bag on the bed. The gold foil logo of the boutique seemed to mock the domesticity of our duvet cover.
I reached in and pulled out the "Obsidian" set. The black silk felt colder now, the gold hardware clicking softly. Sarah turned on her stool, her eyes widening as she took in the sheer mesh and the intricate cage of straps.
"He’ll love this," she whispered, more to herself than to me. She stood up, shedding her robe in one fluid motion, standing before me in the dim afternoon light. "Dress me, David. He’ll be here in forty minutes."
My fingers felt clumsy as I began. I started with the stockings, kneeling at her feet. The back-seam Elena suggested was a razor-thin line of black that ran from her heel to her mid-thigh. I had to be precise; if the line wavered, he would be angry. I smoothed the sheer fabric over her skin, my palms catching on the delicate weave.
Next was the garter belt. It was a complex web of silk. I circled her waist, my breath hitching as I fumbled with the clips.
"Hurry," Sarah urged softly, her hand resting on my shoulder—not for affection, but for balance. "You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
I moved to the bra. The front-clasp Elena had pointed out snapped shut with a definitive, metallic click. It felt like a lock turning. As I adjusted the straps, pulling them tight over her shoulders to lift and present her, I saw the word I’d written on that paper again in my mind.
I stepped back. She looked devastating. The black lace didn't hide anything; it highlighted the fact that she was being prepared, packaged, and delivered.
"How do I look?" she asked, preening in the full-length mirror.
"Like... like what he asked for," I managed to say.
The doorbell rang. A sharp, rhythmic double-tap that we both recognized. Sarah’s posture immediately changed; she straightened her back, her eyes lighting up with a submissive spark I hadn't seen in years.
"That's him," she said, her voice trembling with excitement. She looked at me, a brief flash of something—pity? gratitude?—crossing her face. "Go open the door, David. Tell him I'm ready."