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Wardrobe, Please.

June 8th, 2008

There’s been a new development in my state of dress here in the Master and Rayne house. For almost as long as we’ve been together I’ve been required to be naked in the house unless we had company or the shades were open. When we have company, so far, I’m required to be fully dressed. We don’t have much company, of the [[BDSM]] variety or otherwise. I’m a little frightened to think what my state of dress will be if/when we do have company of the [[BDSM]] variety. My body image sucks.

The other night, Master wanted to keep the shades open but He did not want me dressed. Unfortunately, the small town we live in, being mostly made up of old people and rich Catholics, would have a collective heart attack should someone drive by and see a naked fat woman wandering passed a window or two. They’d probably also have a heart attack if they drove by and saw a naked child, naked thin and beautiful woman, naked man of any shape or size, naked dog… you get the picture.

Out of, what I felt was, nowhere He barks, “Go find an extremely revealing shirt and something to cover your cunt that makes you accessible to me if I want to touch you. I’m tired of you walking around here fully dressed. No bra or underwear.”

At first I was extremely embarrassed. It was almost physically painful to go looking for these clothes and I came close to crying. I was angry that He’d make me parade around this way. And then my hand closed on a shirt that I love but can ‘t wear in public because it’s see-through and I’m fat. I thought, “Hey! This won’t be so bad after all.” I knew exactly the shorts to wear. They’re about mid-thigh and the legs are flowy and open. If takes almost no effort to brush them aside and if I’m sitting or bending right one doesn’t have to.

As I repeated, “He is Master, I am slave.” over and over in my head, I tore off the clothes I was wearing and slipped into the ones I’d chosen. I walked to the kitchen and paraded before Him with almost no to-do and watched His eyes nearly bug out of His head.

“Yes, that’ll do nicely.” and I grinned as His hand reached down the low collar and pulled out first one tit to fondle, bite and slap, then the other.

My cheeks burned bright red with shame at the thoughts I’d managed not to express to Him. I tucked them away and thought, with contentment and happiness, “He is Master, I am slave.”

I feel feminine in this shirt. I feel sexy and appealing. I feel desirable and sensuous.

Master says I need a skirt. Nothing fancy. Just short and easy to shove up over my ass. To wear around the house.

I agree.

He is Master. I am slave.

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