My apologies – but another whimsy (blush).
The tenses are all messed up, and the paragraphing is a mess too. That’s because it’s a sort of diary, and folk don’t generally have The Chicago Manual of Style out when they’re writing one (blushes again). If it has any merit, use it as you will. Any faults are entirely mine. Over to y’all…
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DEAR DIARY
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I don’t keep a diary. But I think I want to keep this one. So I will.
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[Day One]
I always work Saturday. And it’s always Saturday you come to the store. Sometimes I wonder if you come because… but that’s silly. And it’s Saturday, so you’re here. You said you’d send me the recipe for garlic mushrooms, but you didn’t have me email address. I told you I couldn’t because Steve wouldn’t like it. He’d tell me off. I know I’m twenty, and Steve’s seventeen – but I wish… I wish he’d tell me off more often.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Eight]
I wondered if you’d be there. I wondered if you’d be able to tell I’d been crying. Of course, you could. So I told you. I wonder why I told you? Maybe it’s because you’re older. ‘Old enough to be my dad’, you say. Well, you could be that if you were only thirty five, guys being what they are. So maybe you’re not so old. I told you we’d broken up. Because I asked him the thing. So I got brave, or maybe stupid. I asked you. Told you I thought guys wanted to be in charge, so why did Steve dump me when I told him I was OK if he told me off? You said maybe he just wasn’t ready to understand. And you went.
I'm confused. What did you think he wasn’t ready for?
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Sixteen]
You tell me you’ve been thinking. I said we had some new sourdough in, if that was it. You said no. You said you’d been thinking about me. Me, and how Steve hadn’t understood. I think I blushed. I told you he wasn’t the only one – who didn’t understand. And we had this new sourdough in… You said it wasn’t sourdough. And you ask me if I want to try something. And I say ‘try what? And then you do it. You tell me to wear a pink shirt next week. And you leave. You don’t wait for me to tell you you’re out of your mind. You don’t even take the sourdough.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Twenty-Four]
I don’t even have any fucking pink shirts. And there was no fucking way I was going to wear one because someone old enough to be my fucking father, even if that did mean he was only maybe thirty five, told me to. And I didn’t go looking through every store in town, and it didn’t take nearly every night last week, and I just passed this store, like, by chance, and there was this real cute…
Oh, who the hell am I kidding. And you didn’t even notice. You just bought the bloody sourdough.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Thirty-Two]
So maybe I like pink. And anyway, I’d bought the bloody thing. So I wore it again today. And you said ‘Hey Sue.’ And I said ‘Hey, Steve.’ Steve. I said hey, fucking Steve. And you laughed, and reminded me it was Mike. So I pretended I hadn’t called you Steve, and you said maybe you misheard me. And you said ‘nice shirt.’
I think I blushed. I think I’m starting to like it.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Forty]
I bought a new shirt. It’s grey silk. Really too good for work. But I wore it today. And I didn’t wait, because I figured I’d chicken out if I waited. So I asked you if you wanted to go out some time. Like, a date. Because if you did, like, I wasn’t doing anything on… And you said hold on. You said you’d just been trying to help me work out what happened with Steve. Like, how I wanted him to tell me off. And how you figured it might be safe to start off with just telling me to wear something, and see how I felt. So I blushed, and told you it felt kind of nice. And how I was sorry about the date thing. And you reminded me you were old enough to be my father. And I wanted to ask you how old you actually were, but I chickened out. And you said maybe, if I wanted to, we could try something else next week. And I got a strange fluttery thing in my stomach, but I said ‘sure.’ And you said you liked my shirt. Said it was a nice shirt. But that you’d prefer me to wear the pink one next week.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Forty Eight]
How fucking long can a week be? I think they sneak extra days in sometimes. Especially this week. But it’s Saturday, and made sure I was wearing the damn pink shirt. Actually, it felt kind of nice putting it on. My nipples got really hard. I mean, it was the shirt, right? After all, you’re old enough to be my father. And you came in, like you always do. And you told me you liked my shirt. And I blushed. And you asked me how it felt, to be wearing it because I’d been told to. And I blushed even harder. And I hoped you couldn’t see the little lumps in the front of it from my fucking nipples. And you smiled, and you asked me if I wanted to try something else. And I said sure. And then you did it. You asked me if I was wearing a fucking bra! I mean, what the fuck? And I got mad, which at least covered over the blushing, and I told you you couldn’t ask me something like that, and I said I was going to get you banned from the store. And you just smiled, and you said ‘OK’. And you left. And you didn’t even take any sourdough!
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[Day Fifty Six]
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Fuckingfuckfuckfuckity fuck. I’m gonna call in sick. Like, forever. And I don’t care if I never see - I mean, I don’t care if I lose the fucking job. And if I do, it will be all your fault. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Sixty Four]
I knew if I waited, I’d – actually, I had no idea what I’d do. So I saw you come in, and I didn’t wait for you to come over to Bread, in case you maybe didn’t. And I went over, and I said, not loud, but loud enough, and I said ‘Yes, I’m wearing a fucking bra.’ And you just smiled, and you said, was that so hard? And I didn’t tell you the only thing I knew from hard was my bloody nipples, and I just told you it wasn’t exactly a normal question to ask. And I said you’d asked, and I’d answered, so why did you ask? And then you did it again. You said you’d prefer I didn’t. And I played dumb, and I said ‘didn’t what?” And you said you’d prefer I didn’t wear a bra. So I said, like, next week when you came in? I wasn’t to wear a bra next week? And you said no – you were telling me I wasn’t allowed to wear a bra any more at all. And I stuttered, and I mumbled and I had no idea what to say. And you just raised one eyebrow, and you waited. And I couldn’t believe it when I said ‘OK. If that’s what you want. I won’t.’ But you didn’t let me off, and you said ‘Won’t what?’ And I blushed. And I said ‘I won’t wear a bra anymore.’
And I came home, and I went to my underwear drawer, and I took out all my bras, and I put them in the trash. Every. Fucking. One.
I think I’m going mad. Thing is – I think I like it.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Seventy Two]
Next time I get myself a pink shirt, it’s not going to be fucking cotton. My nipples are rubbing against the shirt. And that’s is the only damn reason they’re hard. No other reason. I’ll think of a way a cotton shirt can make my cunt wet later. But you come in, and I wait for you to come over, and you say ‘Hey Sue’, and I say ‘Hey, Mike’. At least I don’t call you Steve. And I blush a bit, but I whisper to you, and say ‘I’m not wearing a bra. I haven’t since last Saturday.’ And you say it. ‘Good girl’. I mean - good fucking girl! I’m twenty, dammit! You don’t tell a gorgeous twenty-year old chick she’s a good girl! And why was my fucking cunt turning into a fucking faucet? And you ignore me blushing, and you tell me you want me to do something for you. And I say what, and you say ‘ask me to check.’ And I think I must look like you’re suddenly speaking, like, Outer Mongolian, if Outer Mongolian’s a language. Because you smile, and you say it again. You say ‘Ask me to check you’re not wearing a bra.’ And there’s, like, no way I’m going to say that, not in the middle of the fucking store. So I square up, and I get ready to tell you you’re a bastard, and if you ever come into the store again I’m calling the cops. But I get the words a bit wrong. Because what I actually hear me saying is ‘Hadn’t you better check I’m not wearing a bra?’ And I don’t stammer or stutter once. And you smile again, and you say ‘Say please. Say please Sir, please check I’m not wearing a bra.’ And there’s no way on fucking earth I’m going to say Sir. So I tell you exactly what I think of you. Thing is, apparently what my mouth thinks I think of you is ‘Please Sir – please check I’m not wearing a bra.’ And you pretend to sort through the bread, and as you do, your hand ‘accidentally’ brushes over my left breast. And I feel like I’ve been hit by lightning, and your hand is the storm cloud. And your hand closes on my breast, and you pinch my nipple – though my nipple might as well be made of steel by now. And you say it again. ‘Good girl.’ And I think the ‘good girl’ should scare me even more than the nipple pinch, but the truth is neither does. And I just wait. And you say you suppose jeans are pretty much work uniform. And I say yes, because we climb ladders, and skirts would, well they’d be… and you just smile and said never mind. We can cheat. That’s when you tell me to wear stockings in future. Stockings, and a garter belt. And I’ve kind of given up on saying ‘what?’ and getting mad, so I wait. And you tell me I was to wear stockings and a garter belt all the time, whether I’m wearing jeans or a skirt or a dress. And I don’t tell you I never wear skirts, and I don’t say I never wear dresses. I just say ‘Yes, Sir. I’ll wear stockings, Sir. And a garter belt. All the time.’ And you don’t pretend this time. You cup my left breast, and you pinch my nipple really hard. And you say ‘Say thank you.’ And I do. I say ‘Thank you, Sir. Thank you for pinching my nipple.’ And on the way home, I go to five fucking stores.
I really like stockings. I wonder why I never wore them before.
******** [PAUSE] ********
[Day Eighty]
‘Hey Sue.’ You always say that. So I said ‘Hey, Mike.’ And I figured I’d better whisper, so I whispered ‘I mean, Sir.’ You smiled. And you said ‘Well?’ And I said ‘Sir, I haven’t worn a bra since you told me to stop, and I’m wearing stockings and a garter belt. Please check I’m not wearing a bra, Sir.’ But you didn’t check my tit. You told me to pull down the zip of my jeans. So I figured nobody would notice, and I pulled down my zip. And you told me to reach into my zipper, and pull out my garter belt, so you could see. So I reached in my jeans, and I grabbed a strap, and worked up to the belt, and I tugged the belt down so you could see the stretch of band and black lace wrapped round my finger. And you said ‘Good girl.’ And I blushed, but somehow I didn’t feel scared, I felt warm – and even kind of safe. And you said you wanted me to do something for you. And I said ‘yes, Sir.’ And you asked me if I was wearing panties. And it didn’t make me mad any more, you asking things like that, and I said ‘yes, Sir. I’m wearing panties.’ And you said you told me to go to the washroom, and to take my jeans off – all the way off. Then I was to take my panties off, and to stuff them in my mouth. Then I was to sit on the toilet seat, and take my shirt off, and spread my legs as wide apart as I could. And then – then you told me to masturbate. To use my fingers in my cunt, and make myself come. You told me to play with my nipples, and my tits, and my cunt in all the ways I like to play, but you told me I was supposed to try really, really hard not to come, and to hold it back as long as I could. And you told me holding it back would make me whimper and moan, and that you wished you could be there to hear me, but that was why I had to stuff my panties in my mouth, to gag me. And you told me to keep playing with my cunt and my clit and my nipples, and to keep holding it back – and when I couldn’t hold it back any more, you told me to come harder and longer than I’d ever come in my life. And that when I’d finished coming, I was to take my panties out of my mouth, and stuff them into my soaking wet cunt. And I was to sit there for a while, and let them soak me up. And then I was to take my panties out of my cunt, and stuff them in my mouth again. And I was to sit there, and taste myself, and let my come coat my whole mouth. And then I was to take my panties out of my mouth, and get dressed, and come find you, and give you my come soaked panties, and thank you for my orgasm, because you’d made it happen, and you’d given me permission to come.
And I do it. I go to the washroom, and I strip naked apart from my stockings and garter, and I gag myself with my panties – and I slide my fingers into my cunt. And. It. Is. Amazing. And I come out, and I can't see you, so I walk round the store with my soaking wet panties clenched in my hand. And I find you in an empty aisle. And I go to you, and I say ‘Sir, here are my come-soaked panties.’ And I give them to you. And you wait. And I say ‘Thank you for giving me permission to come, Sir. Thank you for my orgasm.’ And you smile, and you say ‘Was it a good come?’ And I say ‘Oh, yes Sir. It was wonderful. I wish you could have heard me, Sir.’ And you say we’ll have to see about that, and you take my panties. And you tell me I'm not allowed to wear panties any more – and I almost come all over again. And you tell me to go home after my shift, and to get changed. And to put on the grey silk blouse I’d worn before, but not to wear a bra. And you tell me to wear high heels, at least three inches, and to wear my stockings and garter belt. And I to wear a skirt, but a really short one, because you’ll have to check I'm wearing panties any more. And you tell me a bar to go to, and that you’ll be there – and that we’ll talk. And I say ‘about what?’, and you say all the things I never knew I wanted to talk about. And I go home, and on the way I buy some new four inch heels, and I buy a new skirt.
And now I’m standing here outside the bar. My nipples are trying really hard to pretend my grey silk blouse isn’t there at all, and if the silk isn’t sheer enough to show my bare tits, it’s having a really good try. My skirt isn’t quite short enough to be an arrestable offence, but it’s got definite ambitions in the direction of up. I’m kind of hoping you’re going to help it fulfill them. And the breeze is getting under my skirt and playing tag with my pussy hair – and I love it.
And I know if I go through the door, I’ll likely never be the same again – or maybe I’ll just be a same I never knew I really was. And I know I can turn round, and you’ll be fine – but next week will just be sourdough.
But what I know most of all is, right now my cunt’s so wet it wants to flood the panties I’m not wearing. And I push open the door.