this earlier one.)
I don't think we managed to get back to training for a few days, but when we did, we were careful to put ourselves again into our original positions, because we were both really happy with the scene.
"Your training uniform," he said, "as chosen by your husband, will be black stockings and a black lace garter-belt." He held out a slender box from La Perla.
He was used to my glugs by now, but there was something special in this one. Garter-belts, for me, are a man thing; they're not like thongs, for me. (Really, thongs are mostly a man thing, I suppose; my love for them has to do with the way they make my ass feel, an arousal-trigger that undoubtedly has something to do with toilet-training, which probably [you may want to cover your ears, if incest is high-ick for you] has to do with my father [you know, a man]; maybe I'll unpack that some time, maybe not, but anyway I'm one of those women who find thongs to be a turn on for them.)
In fact, although my lingerie collection at that point was truly extensive, I didn't own a single garter-belt. To be told by my "trainer" that I was now going to don--habitually don--a piece of lingerie that didn't really do it for me. . . well, you know me by now, reader, and the pathetic predictability of my arousal--that did it for me.
What was really wonderful was that our incipient training regime had unexpectedly found us new, fun ground in our play life. To that point, lingerie had been my thing. I could tell of course that Charles liked to see me in whatever I decided to put on to drive him wild, but as a progressive sub I had eschewed completely the "this is what he likes to see my ass and pussy wearing" dynamic. Lingerie was for me, despite the fact that in being "for me" it was always of course for "Him"--not Charles, specifically, but "Him," the master who was to come. The divergence lay in the way that I, in choosing my own lingerie, was constructing a "Him" beyond Charles. In fact, I had started collecting lingerie before I had even lost my virginity to that forgettable law student; when I wore it, I was submitting to an unreal dominant Him. To this point, I had in a sense just been lucky that the real Charles liked many of the same characteristics of lingerie that I had imagined "Him" as liking.
In fact, this was the first time Charles had ever bought me lingerie of any kind. Seeing that La Perla box wasn't romantic, exactly, I guess, but, yes, it got me very wet.
"Please don your uniform this minute, Miss Tilton." When he was on, he was on. I literally trembled, forced to remove the jeans and red lace to stand naked before him, then take the box, and open it to reveal the sexiest lace garter belt and stocking combination you can imagine. It even had corset-style laces.
"Charles," I said, unable to maintain the scene. "You are. . . Did you. . . ? When. . . ?"
"Miss Tilton," he said. "You forget yourself. Please do as I have requested. You may withdraw to your chamber to do so."
I think it must have been in fact the first time I wore a garter-belt, with the exception of the one under my wedding-gown, which Charles didn't even get to see (allow me to repeat my aforementioned policy: real weddings are fucking stressful--we just wanted to get to Maui). That seems odd, I suppose, coming from me, lingerie fetishist extraordinaire, but like I said, I had never been into them. Now, however, that my "trainer" had said it was my "uniform, as chosen by my husband". . . well perhaps I was all of a sudden getting into garter-belts, this one in particular.
One of the funny things about lingerie is that the donning of it is much less sexy than the wearing of it, or the removal of it (provided your Master likes removing your panties, or watching you do so). I withdrew to my chamber, and donned my uniform. Those laces were a new sensation, but the basic characteristic of the thing--the cincture of the belt--Yes, indeed--I was now into garter-belts in a way I had never expected. It was like bondage crystallized into a single strip of lace and laces.