The Dress Code

It's after seven when I finally slip my key into the front door and feel the weight of the day start to slide off my shoulders. Almost. My heels still click against the hardwood floor as I step inside, bag over my shoulder, phone still buzzing in my hand. I don't answer it. Not yet.

The house is dim, but warm. There's a soft glow in the hallway and a faint smell of roasted garlic from the kitchen. I close the door behind me with a quiet sigh and lean against it for a beat longer than I should.

Then I see it.

Hanging on the peg beside the coat rack.

A thin pink satin shift. Shimmering in the light. Mine.

The one I'm supposed to change into when I get home. That's the plan, the suggestion, the implication. Not an agreement on paper, or even in words. Just a promise in my soul.

No bras. No pantsuits. No control. Sometimes, when I put it on I feel the need to lose my panties too. Not because of anything specific, but because they spoil the lines of the satin.

I stare at it for a moment. Like everyday, I wonder if I should. Am I giving up too much of myself for her?

It's not a command--she never commands. It's just a suggestion. A cue. A whisper of what this space is meant to be. Not a battleground. Not a boardroom. A sanctuary. For both of us.

I kick off my heels and feel the ground properly for the first time all day. The hum of the fridge is louder than I expect. I drop my phone into the bowl by the door. No calls. No clients. Not now.

I shrug off my blazer and hang it on the coat rack. I slip out of the pencil skirt, just past the knee. That I fold carefully and lay over the banister of the staircase. I look down, seeing the curve of my chest. My breasts are not large, but they are undeniable. Not so obvious under my blazer, but in my blouse they are a barrier from seeing the rest of me. I take off the blouse. Pale blue today. I fold that neatly and lay it over my skirt, even as I feel the first brush of cool air in the house. My wife runs hotter than I do.

I unclasp the bra I stopped noticing hours ago. I remember how I used to struggle with the hooks behind my back, but now they are second nature. When the bra is gone, it is just me in skintone pantyhose and a tired body.

I sit on the bench beside the coatrack. I roll the pantyhose down my legs. I enjoy the release from the constriction of the tight waistband, designed to stop them sliding down. Now, it is just me, a pair of pink seamless panties and that slip. The question? I am not sure today.

I pull the slip on. I breath. I think for a moment then decide. I lift the shift, drop the panties to my ankles in an instant, then stand. I don't know why, I always feel a bit scandalous taking them off. Like I'm giving in to my sluttier self. But it is done now, and a few more breaths gives me back some equilibrium. Maybe I'll keep them on tomorrow.

When I finally wear the slip and strech my bare toes on bare tiles, it's like being touched--not by her hands yet, but by her will.

I feel that breeze again. My nipples point. There goes my sluttier self again. Can't help herself, that one.

From the kitchen, I hear the clink of a glass being set down.

"Long day?" she calls, without turning around.

"Longest," I say.

"Well," she says, "you're home now. Come here. I missed you."

And just like that, I'm hers again.

I walk to the kitchen. There she is, completely herself. Her silver hair speaks of experience, but oddly makes her look younger than her years. Like a platinum blonde, shifted two steps to the right.

She looks at me. I feel self-conscious of my nipples and the lack of pantylines. She says nothing, but I feel the need to twirl. Silly girl.

When I stop, standing straight towards her again, I walk forward and hug her. When her arms surround me, my mind wishes she would drop her hands to my bottom, but she doesn't. When my arms surround her waist, I breath again. My mind thinks about dropping to my knees and pressing my face to her belly while she strokes my hair. But no. I can't. I am a confident, powerful, professional woman. I can't be on my knees in front of my wife in the kitchen.

I will get my chance later. I hope.