My relationship with lingerie amuses me. If I had my way, it would be all you wore, something that would become conditioned in you so entirely as to be second nature. But lingerie is simultaneously over and under dressing. It’s rarely appropriate outside of the bedroom, and yet the lace, the frills, the materials, all of them scream style and taste, a measured perception, and a considered ensemble.
And so when I’m dressed, you’re underdressed, all cleavage and just enough exposed leg to lead the eye all the way up to… there. It makes you look like a purely sexual being, which is entirely the point. But when I’ve undressed, well, that’s entirely the opposite.
You’re still that sexual thing that I want you to be, but suddenly the lingerie seems to be an unnecessary flare, something for you to show yourself off with, to emphasise rather than conceal. It’s an elaborate of your sexuality, rather than mere clothes. If anything, my lack of clothes makes yours seem all the more perverse.
A tasty little twist, I must admit.
(Source: 2drool4, via contraryminx)
