Short dresses and I don’t go together. Ever. Period. Enough said. Just like you don’t put two brownies together with whipped cream and cherries between them and sprinkle chocolate sauce on it unless you want it sinful, exactly like that you don’t put me in a short dress unless you want to see an awkward, sexy and shy slut standing in front of you, impossibly turning you on while making you pretty indecisive about whether you want to grab her and kiss her or just tear her apart Figuratively, of course!.
So, now that we have established that irrefutable fact, you gotta be curious about why I am in the short dress in the first place? And why it is so significant to be written about? Yes? Ah well, even if you’re not, I’m gonna tell ya, and since you’ve already read this far, you might as well read it all.
This is significant enough to be written about because this is me wearing a dress for the first time in my life. I am a 26 years old FAB (Female Assigned at Birth, and yes, fabulous too!), 5ft 3 inches of contradictions. My usual clothing choices consist of jeans/t-shirts, or formal trousers and shirts which are quite the opposites of feminine. I carry a men’s wallet too, to the puzzlement of many co-workers. Short black hair and twinkling naughty eyes complete the picture. Before I started my kinky journey, I used to identify as a butch lesbian. As I started exploring BDSM and explored myself, I realized I was more gender fluid than butch, and Queer, instead of lesbian, would be a better description of my sexuality.
What does all of that gotta do with a simple short black and white dress, you ask? Almost everything.
You see, I got in to this dress primarily because my Dominants, my Master and Mistress , wanted me in it. And like the nice little submissive boi I am, of course I wore it. I love pleasing my Dominants – they are two of the most adorably sweet people with just the tiniest hints of cruel streaks and I love to make them laugh. So when they decided to take me – their cute kitten shopping, I knew they would want to feminize me. I won’t lie, I was excited!
It was hard, too. They hunted for hours for that perfect dress. It didn’t help things that I absolutely refused to wear a dress or anything girly for that matter outside of a session. So at last they decided to get something slutty for me. And boy! Did they find it! As I tried on dresses one after the other, I didn’t even look at the mirror in the changing room. I didn’t have to. Each time the door of the changing room opened, I could see their expressions and I knew they loved what they saw. At that point, that’s all that mattered to me.
I may not see myself when I looked into the mirror, but I saw myself in their eyes that roamed over my body, I saw myself in their smiles. I was happy.
But when I looked back into the mirror, I saw something else. The way the dress hugged my body, the way it brought out all the curves and highlighted each feature, it was almost indecent. Almost. Yet it was strangely appealing too. That woman looked petit, girly, sexy – everything that I am not. I only needed to think what my mom would say if she saw me in it. She’d say I look like a slut, a nymphomaniac whore. It’s odd how I could actually hear her snide voice playing in my head. And even though it isn’t real, I squirmed. I could see the confidence leaking away from my posture.
I could almost feel the devouring eyes that I’m likely to encounter if I stepped out in public in this dress and that apprehension made me even more uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable with the way my slight paunch seems to strain against the fabric. No, I’m not happy with the way I look in this dress. I can’t hide myself in this. It puts me on display shamelessly, without restraints, it calls attention to me. I have learnt to crave for attention, yet stay away from attention – for such attention has mostly been negative in my experience.
I wonder what I feel so afraid of that I reject this part of mine. Would I not absolutely drool over another woman if she wore this? Hell yeah! The woman in that mirror, if she wasn’t me, I’d really get turned on. Trouble is, it seems when it’s me, it doesn’t seem ok to be wearing a dress! It doesn’t seem ok to be looking pretty or sexy. It seems to make me look vulnerable. I feel afraid that I won’t be taken seriously. I feel afraid that I’d be looked at as a sex object and that doesn’t sit well with me.
I, in a dress, go against everything that consists of my public image that I have created over the last few years – tough, authoritative, arrogant, proud, intellectual, cool, aloof, suave, appropriate. Appropriate? As soon as that thought pops up in my head, I am surprised. When did I become so conservative? Even in my regular clothes I am anything but appropriate.
But my regular clothes seem to make my presence more commanding. I wonder if I’d command the same level of respect and authority if my presentation was more feminine. I know I look beautiful when I am dressed more femininely, yet I look immature. I struggle with the conflict between how I see myself and how I feel others will perceive my feminine side.
I take a deep breath. This dress challenges me – my notion of how people see me, my insecurities, my fears. Yet it doesn’t challenge my sense of identity. No, I know whatever I wear, I am who I am. But what I wear, if it objectifies me, I feel uncomfortable.
When I look into the mirror, I see a cute and chubby slutty girl; to me she looks as sinful as a brownie sandwich. I breathe in deeply, sorting through all these conflicts in my head. I may not be able to step out in public in this dress or any dress for that matter, but I know I AM a slut in my heart. And even if I reject this side of me, feel uncomfortable about myself in this dress, I remember the way my Dominants had smiled at me. I remember the smirk on Master’s face as He had glanced at me standing awkwardly in the inner most corner of the changing room. In the conflict of long-held beliefs and submission, my need to submit to Master always wins out.
I take pride in being my Master’s slut.
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