She wears no knickers

I love history, and where history and fashion meet to tell the story of women and religion and prudery I made a decision and gave up knickers. It was either that or trying to find something to stretch comfortably around nine months of pregnancy.

I think, being honest it was the latter, but it is the former that has saved me from running back to Marks and Sparks and replacing my sensible cover-alls because they don’t add anything to my life other than to the washing pile. They don’t make me more modest. I haven’t worn a knee length or shorter skirt in years. I don’t climb out of cars with my knees akimbo. Like ladies from a bygone age I am perfectly “ladylike” without pants.
But it is more than that. I feel in touch with myself (no puns intended even if it is KOTW). My body is sexual when I like. Functional when I like. I don’t wear a sign on the outside in the form of lace and satin or granny pants to say what I am and when. I am not ashamed or overly proud, not focussed on sex or hiding myself away.
Like everyone else I am naked beneath my clothes.
And sometimes….sometimes it gives me a naughty little smile because I know I am maybe just that little more naked than the next girl.
She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress. I know it as surely as the groom and damn it if my brain had no idea what to do with that thought. Her colours are firmly pinned to his mast. Her cream on his dick. Good on him.
It doesn’t mean I can’t remember the feel of her unfettered arse through a summer dress. Coarse fabric dragging against peach-skin soft skin. The imagined heat and scent of her on the air, as though a tiny scrap of cotton and lace could have truly made a difference.
Women surround me in dresses designed to entice and she, shrouded in ivory from shoulder to floor is still the one who raises my pulse. I wonder if they would utter “she has no shame” if they knew. She has no shame and needs no shame. She is herself. Glorious. Unbound. Free.
Neatly shaved pussies hiding behind sexy lingerie in a peek-a-boo of show and tell above sharp heels and painted toes. Prizes, if I coax and beg. Part of a language, a bargain. Dressed to enhance their worth. But her generous cunt, given without conditions, naked and wanton made me feel like I was something to her. Alive and valued and vital.
I wonder if I told her that. Wonder if it will spill as we drunkenly circle the floor this evening in time honoured tradition before moshing our way through Bohemian Rhapsody. That she spoiled me and I’m sorry that I never told her.
His hand smooths over the silk draped curves as he greets her, and they share a smile laced with knowledge. Carnal. Intimate. A smile laced with promise.
 
She wears no knickers beneath her wedding dress and I let her go.
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