“What’s Victoria’s Secret?” my son asks the other day. He’s being a smartass, though I don’t realize it at first.
“A lingerie shop,” I reply.
“I know that,” he says, rolling his eyes in the age-old “I’m-14-and-I-know-everything,” way. “I mean, what’s her secret.”
“Oh…well. That she looks all prim and proper on the outside, but underneath she has, you know, sexy lingerie or underwear on.”
I catch a glimpse of his smirky face and realize he’s been yanking my chain all along. He’s 14, after all, he really does know everything.
I think I’ve mentioned Kami’s post “Kinky Underground” before, though I can’t find my post on it just now…but in it she talks about part of the beauty of what we do, part of the intensity, is in it being a hidden part of ourselves, a secret that no one, or only certain people, know. And there’s a part of me that very much gets that. That likes this secret, sexy, depraved, kinky part of me that is hidden from my coworkers, from the woman in the check-out line at the grocers, from the guy that takes my ticket at the movie line.
Ah, movies, movies…thinking about a date night with W at the movies…remembering having a “secret” the last time we had a movie date…chains in my cunt in a darkened theater…remembering standing in line at that counter, feeling the chains heavy inside me, knowing I had a secret, a secret no one could possibly guess.
Yeah, that’s hot.
I’ve got a secret today. I came to work wearing a knee-length, red, body-hugging skirt, sexy red heels, lacy black top. Of course I have “professionaled” it up with a black sweater and my hair pulled back demurely. Not too over-the-top sexy…just enough to make them think. To make them wonder.
“Sassy!” says one of my coworkers. “Great outfit!” says another.
What they don’t know is what I have on under this skirt and blouse. What they don’t know that I dress for my Owner, that I picked this skirt out at the store specifically for him, that I shop for him and dress for him and fuck for him. They don’t know that under my lace blouse I am wearing my tit collars, that I sat in the bathroom stall of the YMCA this morning putting them on, because I want him to know I am wearing them, for him, all day. They don’t know that I am wearing black lace panties and no bra and that I have shiny silver rings hanging from my cunt lips that I got installed for him, or that every time I move and I feel the rings or the tit collars I think of him. I think of his hands and his mouth, of his fingers, of his cock. I think of the look in his eyes and the growl in his voice. I think of his possession of me. They don’t know my secret life, and I am good with that. I like having a secret.
“Going somewhere special tonight?” one of my coworkers asks.
I just smile a secret smile.