Chapter 01 A

Monday, rather ordinary, how most are. People get troubled about Monday blues, and I suffer from Monday blacks. I look bright, but they start dark.

I'm standing next to this sharp, straight-edged Philippe Starck Caadre Mirror, as glossy as any material could be, looking at myself, catching glimpses of me wearing nothing but bare necessities.

Yes, not just my underwear. I'm referring to the namesake brand. The recent spree has been for the sole reason they're called bare necessities, and something about it brings me comfort, making me feel more naked while being somewhat clothed.

Bodysuits, chemises, 3-piece with garters, if they make it, I at least own one and wear something daily to the office, yes, office.

It's been 3 months since I've been wearing lingerie to work from Mondays to Fridays. It's become an essential part of my personality. I'd wanted to dress up differently initially. It helped with the fact that only I knew how special I looked in front of the mirror that morning, that only I knew what was going on inside.

The wants have turned into a need now, I don't mean to sound in a crisis, distress, or missing the meaning of life but of late, these little things keep me away from the sorrow that creeps into my body.

I've never been so full of craving him, along with the state of being constantly saddened.

But, the reason I wear lingerie to work is not just this. I think it's either far too simple or complex. I'm not sure I want to comprehend or live with it.

The perverted eyes at me at work are prominent.

There are majorly two kinds one can split their attention into. One is blatantly creepy and way too clear at checking you out.

But the other kind thinks they have substance, maybe a personality, and are unique. They keep their looks at me subtle, ponder away when my eyes catch theirs. Although they maintain eye contact with me when I'm talking to them. They're also the first to check out my behind as I walk away from them.

The latter do put in an effort, remember facts about my life, and what preferences I have with food, beverages, and things like that. Sometimes, it's far too lazy, as If reading their minds and eyes I can tell, them talking to me, asking me about the last book I read would end up with them in my pants.

I'm unclear if they're stupid or pure evil. But it is the attention I've been dressing for. At least there's some complexity to live for.

As a woman, you don't always have to look to tell, you can feel an array of lust toward you.

The eyes have been proportional to the frequency of lingerie underneath my blouse and over my brown skin. Maybe I'm wrong, regarding only my knowledge of the lingerie I'm wearing to work.

Lately, the arrays have begun to validate the fact that they know. They know what's happening inside. It's as if they dressed me for the morning, dried me up holding my towel, hooked me up from behind, and tucked in my shirt.

They also managed to understand how the cup pushes my bosom from underneath, where my brassiere is the sheerest and how the hooks come off when they need to undress me.

What if they place bets? What could they guess about? My cup size? The colour of my underwear? When my nips are aroused?

Some of them wonder if I'm wearing a thong or if I could be going commando that day.

It is creepy, but I am desperate for this attention. Their attention.

I've seen undergrad interns to 45-year-old VPs eyeing me out of sheer lust, former has probably never really "been intimate" with a woman.

But thinks his big dick is "big" per se, and that's all he needs to pleasure a woman my age.

The latter is probably with a wife and two kids, deep down insecure of their manhood but still wanting to get me into the back seat of their new BMWs.

I'm guilty of sounding stereotypical, but to the people, I'm referring to, I don't think they'd disagree. Their wants from any other woman apart from the one they love are truly pathetic.

It's so troubling that their lustful and disgusting energy towards me is keeping me going every day, their eyes keeping me sane.

As much as I enjoy those lustful eyes, they're still men with nothing else for me. All they do is fantasize about me for my skin and flesh. Even with my flesh and fat, they're picky about it only being in the right places.

They compare me with their wives at home and quite possibly agonize over how lucky my husband would be.

Ponder over how he must involve himself in quickies with me while I dress up in these bare necessities before leaving for work, but, if only they could know the truth.

If only the world could know the reason I survive on wearing underwear to work and having men check me out is I have been missing any and all of this in my life.

They don't know I haven't been touched in over 6 months, and I cannot remember when was the last time the man I fell for looked at me with sexual intentions, just pure desire and want.

His love is incomparable, and he was never a natural romantic. But he's been the most expressive and the partner one could ever ask for.

But off late, I don't need that. All I think about is for him to take me from behind, get deep inside of me, make my legs shiver, and for my juices to be squeezed out by the breath.

Every breath.

Is it too much to ask for? I don't think so. I'm lacing up the garter belt as I see him approaching. A small part of me is hoping this will be the day. This will be the morning he glances at me, stares at my butt, holds on to me, and gently rests his big hands on my upper waist while he hits me to my core.

He's staring at my reflection in the mirror, his hands start to slide down, and his touch is so prominent, it's like every single groove and ridge of his fingers are sucking onto my skin as when he kisses me behind my neck, just the softest little peck and I run dripping of myself.

I can only wish that this is that morning.

Sometimes even for a woman of my age, who's arguably experienced it all, all I want is some cliche love-making.

Barely noticing his 30-something wife leaving for work in something she'd only wear for her anniversary night celebrations. As a matter of fact, not only my clothes, he has no time to notice anything about me. I could start crying now for having the water filled till my neck while he's been in a world of his own.

He tells me to not wait for him for dinner today. He's got meetings with new investors. I've gotten used to him being out and away for most meals by now.

Before being away for a good chunk of time or all of the day, he cannot even take a moment to tell me I look good, no attention, no reactions, and definitely no appreciation.

He was so different from this, he's never been this person all his life.

He lived, he lived and loved with me. He made love to me more times than I could take. He was responsive before anything, and in troubling times, he comforted me, kissed my forehead, and told me he loved me.

It was often only what I required.

For a man who's 33 and lost in his ambitions, he tells me he loves me before leaving. It's kind of a routine he unknowingly does, but what do I tell him, how hungry I've been to feel loved with his actions, if not love, being used, pleasured, and eaten out at the very least? That tongue!

We've only been married two years, and I feel he's only in a commitment to his work.

He doesn't give a fuck, something he's awfully good at. I am frustrated to the limits of my patience, and I can't hold it in, and I can't wait for him to come to his senses. I crave him every night, but he hasn't kissed me in over six months.

I should say it all out for once, but the worst part is, he's not going to feel anything of all this, and he'll look down upon me, find me weak, and see them as tantrums of a horny bitch.

He only responds to strength. Wouldn't retaliate to weakness.

He'll ask me to behave, probably ask me to stop being pushy, and stop asking him to fuck me.