wednesday

Today was a “free” day for me, not that I am ever unowned, unenslaved, but it was a day without particular slave duties or expectations to be in available for use, of whichever kind that might be.

Originally, it was to be my day at the spa, as Mistress had so generously arranged me a morning there. Alas, there was a scheduling mixup, and though they would try to take me in anyway, two of their staff called in sick, and it was clearly becoming a stressor for them, so I said it was OK and simply rescheduled. They apologized profusely and promised to give me, on Amanda’s tab, a reduced rate for next week.

That left me with time of my own, and I found myself at the old cafe downtown in a corner booth with a coffee and a biscotti and reading my book. Casey, the owner, remembered me, of course, from my many times with Amanda, and he was happy to see me, although I think he missed seeing Amanda and me together, the special cocktail of lesbian dominance and submission and kissing we are so very good at. He talked with me for too long, but eventually left me alone to my reading. This was lovely.

I think I went to the cafe to see if the place was reminiscent of the bar in my dream, but no. It’s old and dusty and wooden, yes, but not the same place. I think the bar in my dream is an old country saloon back in the Springs.

I left around lunchtime but, not wanting to eat anything, took a stroll down by the river. It was a cool day but sunny, and I wore a sweater, so it was comfortable doing the riverwalk. After a while, I found a bench and did some more reading.

There is a boutique downtown with some surprisingly beautiful women’s clothes. Surprising for an out-of-the-way clothing store in an old western town. Artsy yet elegant, colorful tunic tops. Amanda had encouraged me to buy something that I liked, and I did — two tops that I think look good on me. We’ll see what Amanda thinks.

They also had some pajamas and a small assortment of bras and panties. The PJs were kind of tacky, I thought, but I found myself looking longingly at the bras. This has been true of late, for some reason. I am not allowed to wear bras or panties, of course, and haven’t done so almost ever in the past two years plus. There’s exposure in that, which I’ve never gotten fully used to, but also freedom, of course. So it’s always been this yin-yang of exposure fear and freedom joy.

But alongside that, just of late, has been the yearning for the sensuality of wearing a fine bra, feeling the softness of its fabric cupping my breasts. Now, I know as well that the luxurious sensation of wearing a bra becomes later in the day an agony of straps and underwire cutting into flesh. I remember my days selling real estate, coming home around seven and walking in my door with my blouse already half off just so I could get out of my bra.

But now, and today, I have a kind of nostalgic fetish for a bra, and I found myself looking at bras and panties and holding them in my hands with a bit of a sigh. But I didn’t try on any, as that would be a violation. Even on my free day, I am mindful of rules.

It got to be close to four and I headed back to the car. On the way out of town, I stopped at the Dairy Queen and got a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. It was purely an indulgence paid to my years as a girl growing up in Pennsylvania always looking forward to the occasional DQ outing and treat — always a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate.

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