You meet me outside the restaurant. I am here to be punished and I have dressed as you ordered. My dark wispy hair is pulled up in a bun. I am wearing my glasses with the black frames that contrast so strongly with the pallor of my face.
My dress is dark crimson. Sleeveless with a high neck. It buttons on the front. Small hidden buttons from the neck to the skirt just below my knees. You made it very clear that the dress must button up at the front. You had me edge myself, my clitoris beneath my fingertips as I repeated the instruction back to you over the phone.
I am wearing black opaque stockings and black ballet flats. You were very clear that I was not permitted underwear. You had me repeat that instruction too. Over and over until I was whimpering and asking you to let me stop.
The restaurant is at the city limits. Quite remote. A classy place where anniversaries might be celebrated and dates taken to impress.
I step from the car. Without a brassiere I am very aware of the movement of my breasts against the close fitting fabric of the dress. I am not the kind of woman who can go without a bra unnoticed.