Naughty

“Naughty” is such a young, gentle-sounding word, not a word I would use to describe myself.

I negotiated a treat with my Sir today.  Out of wine (my nightly treat for surviving the day as a mother), I requested the luxury of a sweet tea at lunch – lunch with one of my best friends, a woman who is a second mom to me.  Sir acquiesced with a condition.

“No panties at lunch.”

Gulp.  “Yes, Sir.”  Like I would have answered any other way.

For the record, I enjoy going commando.  I sleep in a shirt only to provide a modicum of modesty if a small child climbs into bed with me, but frequently go without panties.  I went grocery shopping this weekend, in a dress sans panties.

The idea of going to lunch with a mom-like figure with no panties felt well, naughty.  

I had my panties stashed in my purse which I surreptitiously checked because of a growing paranoia that I left them in the ladies room at work.   A continuous thought ran through my mind, “What if she found out? What if she knew? How would I explain that?”

Yes, I am well aware that short of dropping trou in the middle of the restaurant, she was never going to know. Between bites and chit-chat, I stayed aware of the seam of my pants rubbing against my pussy and pushing against my clit.  As we walked out of the restaurant, I felt the lack fabric normally pressed up against cunt.  I felt loose and free.  I felt naughty.