Ripped Lace

From the Hard Love erotica series

I’ve always loved lingerie. When I was young and my mother would take me to a department store, I’d find a reason to disappear into the lingerie section. My hands would seek out the feel of the fabrics, flowery landscapes that dangled from padded hangers in a fantasy of shapes, cuts, and colors.

As my body grew into a woman’s, I began to wear fine lingerie nearly every day. By making the first layer next to my bare skin the most feminine sheath I could find, I felt as if I was hiding a secret. Beneath the layers of heavy and opaque fabrics was a garden no one would know about unless I chose to undress in their presence. And because I was typically quite picky about whom I let into my bedroom, the knowledge of the lace I was hiding from my daily rejections of potential suitors only increased the thrill I received from the beautiful things I hid from the world.

Years ago I took a trip to Paris to visit B, a lover who both adored me and tortured me in equal measure. As we strolled the streets I wandered to the windows of the little lingerie shops that displayed some of the finest pieces I had ever seen. On my last day there, I asked him to bring me to the best shop he knew. I wanted him to pick out things that he would like to see me in and perhaps give him a reason to want me to return. Our affair was still fresh then, and I was in that magical time of wanting to learn everything I could about what turned him on. This is the dance of new lovers, one that makes every discovery like a bite of ripe summer fruit.