Chapter 3. A Day Without Panties
A week has passed.
You're waiting for messages from me.
I know.
I like that.
I don't write for three days.
Then, briefly:
— No panties today.
Under the dress — nothing, just stockings.
You'll leave the house like that.
Write when you get to work.
You read it. Silently.
Your cheeks are burning, but you smile at yourself for the first time.
It's hot inside, as if you're someone else.
You go to the bathroom, pull off your panties.
You take off your tights and put on stockings.
The skirt glides over bare skin.
You tremble.
Before leaving, you twirl in front of the mirror, double-checking that the dress isn't see-through, and several
times you bend over and squat to better remember how not to "flash" your charms.Your bag feels heavy with the secret — and for the first time, you rejoice in your own boldness.
You leave the apartment.
On the stairs — footsteps echo, unfamiliar.
In the elevator — it feels like you're transparent.
On the subway — people nearby, someone brushes your shoulder.
Your whole body is on edge.
You walk quickly.
Your pulse races.
You want to turn back, but you keep going.
At the office — you greet people, smile, pretend everything is normal.
But you know: I know.
And you're no longer the same.
In the restroom — you write to me:
— I'm here.
I reply:
— Good girl.
Take a photo of your thighs.
Just skin. Just the skirt.
Send it to me.
You take the photo, your hands are shaking.
You send it.
You look at the screen, waiting for a reply.
— Good.
Nothing more today.
You're wet all day.
You look at men, catch their glances.
You want someone to guess.
In the evening — I write again:
— Home?
— Yes.
— Get undressed. Record a video of you coming. Don't get your face in the frame, just your body.
Show me.
You lie down on the bed.
Fingers between your legs.
You record.
Everything is visible. Everything is audible.
You come.
For a long time.
Loudly.
After — silence.
I write:
— Good girl.
I'm proud of you.
Sleep. There will be more tomorrow.