Soon (very soon) I’ll write about buying clothes for women with whom I stretch. I’ve done it a few times. First, with Diana. Then, Athena. More recently, Leyla, and Bri. I haven’t spent much money. In most of the cases, it’s been “fast fashion” stuff from Shein (about which I also hope to write soon – but spoiler – while I’m completely anti-slavery, I’m entirely unconvinced that Shein is all that much worse than, oh, say, Apple, never mind the manufacturers of all that un-branded stuff we buy, or that is in the things we buy).
I have tended to buy different clothes for different women, but there have been some themes. I like stuff that’s sheer, that’s if not transparent, at least translucent. Or maybe transparent. Or else loose. Or really tight. I don’t, generally, crave the women with whom I stretch to get nude for me. (Leyla likes to get topless, and I’ve come to enjoy that, but it has much more to do with the dynamic between us than it does with my desire to see her breasts unobscured.) No, if anything, I’d prefer that they stay clothed, and that I manage to see what I see of their breasts, or thighs, or cunts, in spite of, or through, their clothing. Not in its absence. I want nudity in person. At a distance? It does little to nothing for me.
So.
Persephone and I have continued our stretching affair. She’s lovely. Smart. Interesting. And our conversations are as good as our stretching. AND, she assented to my buying her four things. As I showed you in this post. I had seen # 1 and #2 from that post. The third and fourth, though, had not yet arrived when last we stretched. And, in the penultimate session in which we stretched, Persephone mentioned, almost as an aside, that she was looking forward to stretching with me in this…
… and a bra, and shorts.
My heart sank. It was the final moments of our session, so I didn’t say anything. But [imagine a whiny three-year-old’s voice] I don’t want to see her in that with a bra and shorts! I want to see her in that. Which is why I bought it for her!
In yet another post to come – this one about Bri – I’ll share a questionnaire that I sent her, in which I laid out quite explicitly my hopes as it relates to clothes I buy her:
- For the duration of our relationship, that/those items are to be worn only with my explicit permission. As in, “May I wear the panties you bought me now/today/this evening?”
- For the duration of our relationship, at any time that I reasonably ask you to wear any such item, if your circumstances permit, you will in fact wear it.
- For the duration of our relationship, any time you wear anything I’ve bought you, you should expect a) to show me at least two photos of you wearing the item that day, once on its own, and once, along with whatever else you wear that day, and b) to come for me at least once in that item that day (and share with me by audio and/or video), if circumstances permit.
But shame on me: As clear as I was with Bri, I made my hopes and expectations in no way clear to Persephone. My first response – one of which I’m, if not ashamed, at least a little sad – was to feel petulant fury rise in my abdomen, up into my chest.
We closed our session, and I went about my day. The next time I saw her, I had reflected on all this, and I was prepared to say what I meant, in a way that was respectful and honest. “I fucked up!” I said. “I bought that for you hoping to see you in it, and nothing else! When you said ‘shorts’ and ‘bra,’ I was devastated! My bad!”
I wasn’t trying to be manipulative. I wasn’t trying to exert power. Of course, there is a power dynamic: I pay her to stretch with me. But. I think (I hope) Persephone knows that my relationship with her is in no way contingent on her allowing me to buy her clothes, or to see her as I might wish in those clothes. The vast majority of women with whom I’ve stretched – and with whom I’ve had long-running relationships – I’ve not bought clothes for. [I’ve stretched with a lot of women!] So I wasn’t angling for anything with what I said, other than clear communication about future purchases. Which I had only begun to do really. I’d made a mental note to be crystal clear, going forward, with any woman for whom I buy anything to which I have attached expectations.
Imagine my surprise, then, when, as I returned to my office after meeting a couple of friends for lunch, I received this text: “Since I can’t stretch with you in this in public…it’ll have to wait until the new year. Unless you don’t mind a bra and shorts,” along with two of the hottest photos known to man: Persephone’s flawless body modeling the jumpsuit. No bra. No shorts. In the first shot, her body is visible in a bathroom mirror that occupies the top two-fifths of the frame. The bottom three-fifths are her toothbrush, the faucet in her sink, and some Dr. Bronner’s products. (Perhaps one day I’ll tell you one or both of my very funny Dr. Bronner’s stories.) I think she might even let me show it to you, as she nearly let me show you her full fucking face pretty recently.
I know. RIGHT?!?!?!?
Persephone has been stretching with me in the common area of the complex in which she’s living, because she lacks privacy in her actual apartment. Or maybe she doesn’t lack privacy, I’m not sure. She certainly lacks privacy where she has been stretching with me: octogenarians abound in the background when we meet. In any event, she is very much in public when we meet. And she’s moving in the new year. Hence the text.
Anyway – there was another shot, too. This one, even hotter. In the second shot, her full, soft lips and lustrous, dark hair are visible as she holds the phone up to take the selfie. She’s a bit closer to the mirror. Her body fills two-thirds of the screen in this shot. There’s no soap (except the very top of the sugar soap plunger), and just the little round nib on the top of the faucet. No, almost all of the image is her phenomenally hot self. DAMN, woman. You may not see this shot.
“Um,” I wrote by text the moment I saw the images.
“HOLY FUCKING SHIT”
I confess: Persephone’s inscrutability made the arrival of these images entirely shocking to me. I never imagined there would come a day when she was sending me sexy selfies. Let alone that today would be that day. Yet again, I have to reexamine my understanding of just what’s happening between us. As I did in that previous post I wrote about her.
And a tiny postscript: it’s of course possible that, while I wasn’t trying to be manipulative in what I said to her about my desires, she is being manipulative in sharing with me. Maybe she’s sharing these images not because she wants me to have them, not because it turned her on to send them, but because she likes good stuff, and I’ve bought her some, and she wants more. [This wasn’t quite the cheap Shein shite I’ve bought in the past.] “It’s a sexy little number,” she wrote. “You have good taste.” I don’t want to imagine that this is the explanation. I want to imagine that taking the photos, sending them to me, imagining what they might do (they did do) to my cock made her cunt at least twitch a little, maybe ache, maybe throb. Maybe moisten. Or if not quite so bodily a response, that the process at least excited her in her mind.
Persephone told me, recently, of a dream she had in which she confessed to herself a certain capability for manipulation. I want to imagine she and I are far from that.
Regardless. Soon enough, I’ll see her in that “sexy little number.” And shorts. And a bra. For now.
That’s ok. I’ve seen her in it without, and I’m pretty fucking happy.
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