I don’t wear dresses anymore.

 

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That’s not strictly true.

 

I do wear dresses, but rarely.

 

There was a time when I wore nothing but.

 

Cute mini-skirts, long, elegant gowns, dresses that flattered, dresses that hung loosely around my body, suggesting my curves in a modest, shy manner.

 

I wore nothing but dresses because it was His instruction, so became my want.

 

And sometimes those dresses were for his eyes only.

 

 

Young woman in transparent dress

 

Rarely was there anything underneath the folds of fabric that draped around my body, a constant reminder that I belonged to Him.

 

I felt different in my dresses. That is, I felt different from how I do now.

 

I felt like who I really am.

 

And reactions, subtle though they may have been, were different then too.

 

Men smiled more.  Opened doors.

 

As I look back I wonder – was it the dress?  Was it the exposure of my delightful, beautifully shaped, elegant legs?

 

Or was it that I was under a Dominant’s loving rule and my submissive energy floated around me, an invisible, detectable and delectable aura?

 

These days, as I don my power pantsuits or jeans or slacks, I tell myself it’s because it’s easier.

 

But typing this I must ask – is that the truth?

 

Perhaps I am avoiding the sad reminder that there is now just an empty space where once He resided.

 

Perhaps I am uninspired having no-one special for whom to dress.

 

But perhaps – just perhaps – one day soon, I will wear dresses again.

 

For a new Him.

 

 

 

 

 

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