She has started to dress me again, which means, of course, the opposite.
Since the mono diagnosis, I have lived in PJs. This has been a special dispensation from Amanda. Since I have slept about half of every daytime as well as at night, it has been senseless for Amanda to try to maintain her daily outfit selections for me, as I would simply be taking them off anyway for my frequent stints in bed.
There’s also been a need for me to be kept warm, which makes the general rule of no pants, skirts and dresses only, an invitation for chills. My usual nightwear of thin, short chemises wouldn’t do during mono time. Consequently, Amanda has allowed me to wear cotton PJs, actual cotton tops and pajama bottoms that cover my legs and other parts to keep me warm.
Traditional pajamas are such a novelty in my life that I actually don’t own any. So Amanda bought several sets for me, which have been cycled through the wash every few days.
She tried to find PJs that had a D/s or BDSM theme — and they exist — but she for some reason declined to buy them. Perhaps it was just hard for her to put her slave girl clinging to the edge of life into a pajama top that says, “Flip over to spank me.”
Readers will remember that I have written longingly for the feel of soft fabric in the form of a bra hugging my breasts and plush panties to cradle my pussy. My owners and keepers have not allowed this, and I have lived without bra or panties for a number of years.
PJs during this brief time are really different, soft and warm and protecting. But most of this time I haven’t had energy or lucidity to enjoy my cotton nirvana. In my condition it’s been lost on me. And, besides, PJs are not the same as a cozy bra.
Some readers, especially some men I’m aware of, will be relieved that during this time I still have not worn a bra or panties, that my “streak” of being so deprived has continued.
The “PJ era” seems to be over. I have been doing better, and we’re past the time of worrying about chills.
Amanda is dressing me again.
Today she has me in a burnt orange midi skirt and a simple white button-down blouse, sort of retro. It’s actually a little dressy, which is nice. I think Amanda thinks it’s time for me to feel better about myself.
I was standing, per ritual, with the coffee tray this morning, and as Amanda poured her mug, she looked at me approvingly. But she had me set the tray down and stand before her.
Amanda unbuttoned my blouse, leaving just two buttons at my waist. She opened the panels of my blouse and coaxed my breasts out.
“Now you’re dressed,” she said.