Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

GEMMA’S TALE

About the disposal of a disposable dress

Until very recently, hanging in my wardrobe I had the most exquisite and outrageously decorative dress you could ever imagine. It was definitely a product of its age – a decade or three ago – when the fashion was for acres of ivory satin bedecked with multiple silk roses, embroidery, sequins and lace frills. And, of course, it was designed to be worn by a young woman for that once-in-a-lifetime ritual every girl is supposed to dream of… marrying the perfect man.

In my case, although I owned the dress, fate decreed I wouldn’t get to experience that particular ritual. And so there it hung… and hung….

I did think of passing it on to a more deserving person, but friends and family weren’t so keen. “Oh, Gemma, it’s so beautiful… keep it… you never know!” Until it went out of fashion and no self-respecting bride would want it anyway. And still it hung… and hung….

Of course, hanging there in the wardrobe I used to catch sight of it occasionally, and I would find myself thinking about it. One one such occasion it occurred to me that however breathtakingly beautiful a dress like that is, you can only wear it once. It’s so obviously a wedding dress you couldn’t possibly wear it for anything else. It’s definitely a single-use item. And there’s a name for single-use items isn’t there? They’re called disposable.

At first it seemed kind of sacrilegious to call such an exquisite item disposable – but the idea wouldn’t go away, and in the end I realised that’s exactly what it is. In spite of all the hype, a wedding dress is simply a rather expensive disposable. And once I’d reached that point – it was only a short step to begin thinking about suitable methods for its disposal.

One quiet evening at home I found a pack of coloured marker pens in the kitchen drawer, and it reminded me of teenagers on their last day of school, writing all over their school uniform. I went upstairs to the wardrobe, pulled the dress out and held it up… what would it look like with graffiti all over it?

I stood and stared at its perfect loveliness for a while… my heart was pounding in my chest… but some things, once they get in your head, won’t go away. I hung the dress over the wardrobe door and opened the bottom drawer where I’d stuffed all the fripperies I bought to go with it. A delicately embroidered basque, matching knickers, lace-top stockings, and the obligatory lace bridal garter. All about as out of fashion as the dress itself, but quite beautiful in a delicate and dated sort of way. I’d never worn any of this stuff, and most of it still had the shop tags on, but there’s no point in keeping things forever.

Dreamily I got undressed and began putting all these fripperies on. They’re not exactly everyday items, and it took me a few minutes, but I climbed into the whole outfit and looked at myself in the mirror. I suppose it’s meant to represent the essence of feminine virginity, all dainty and white, and it was certainly a big change from my usual jeans and sweatshirt.

I took a few steps one way and the other, and twirled around to watch how the dress moved. I stopped and looked in the mirror again. The figure who looked back at me was very different from the one I’m used to seeing. Was it really me? I wasn’t sure. As I stood and pondered, the marker pens came back into my head… and I picked up the front of the long skirts to swoosh downstairs and find them.

In the kitchen I picked up one of the pens… a blue one… bursa escort and sucked my cheeks in. What would be an appropriate thing to write? I uncapped the pen, took a deep breath, and wrote begone dull androgeny down the side of the bodice on the pristine satin. My heart skipped a beat, and before I knew it I picked up a red pen to write Yes – it’s Gemma in here! down the other side to even it up.

It’s surprisingly difficult to write on clothing whilst you’re wearing it. I’m right handed, and writing down the left side of the bodice was okay, but writing down the right hand side was far more difficult – my arm didn’t bend in the places I needed… but I got there in the end. And the words added some nice colour, so I carried on.

I felt where the garter was, mid way up my right thigh – and drew it on the outside of the dress in black with red ribbons. Then, for good measure, I wrote garter in here beside it. The tight bodice restricted my breathing, and I pictured people trying to get me out of it in an emergency if I fainted. So I drew a scissor symbol, and a dotted line, down the centre front of the bodice and wrote in emergency cut here.

The word cut gave me another idea. I opened the kitchen drawer and got out my favourite chef knife. I keep the knife properly sharp, and anticipated I’d be able to make a cut in the dress really easily, but the satin turned out to be much tougher than I expected. I had to pull the skirt taut with my left hand before I could make a cut at mid-thigh level to show off the garter.

I rather liked the idea of slots in the dress to show off what was underneath, but where? I toyed with the idea of showing off my lace stocking tops, but I’d already made an opening for the garter. I chewed my lip. I could make a flap at the groin to show off my embroidered knickers… but what sort of girl shows that off in such a brazen fashion? Even though I was on my own I felt heat in my cheeks.

As I stood there pondering I suddenly noticed I had my hands on my hips, so I took up the marker pens again and drew round my hands in colour – the left hand in red for port, and the right in green for starboard.

The pristine virginal look had well and truly gone and the dress was looking nicely badass, but somehow that wasn’t enough. I chewed my lip. I needed a proper disposal. Something that ended with complete destruction of the dress, not just changing its style. As I stood there, with these thoughts all turning round in my head, an idea came to me. There would be a once-in-a-lifetime ritual after all… just not the one the dress designer envisaged.

Two days later I unpacked a shopping bag onto the kitchen counter and stood the contents in a row.

● One box of six eggs

● One large fresh-cream black forest gateau

● Two black cherry cheesecakes

● Two large catering tins of tomato soup

● Two large catering tins of custard

As I folded up my shopping bag, and stood to consider the items, I felt a flutter in my chest. The time for the disposal ritual had arrived.

I got dressed carefully – savouring each garment one by one. First, that exquisitely embroidered satin basque with its long row of hooks down the back. It was a real struggle to get them all done up, and once it was done I paused, with the dangling suspenders tickling my thighs front and back, to feel the hug such a tight-fitting intimate garment gave. Quite unlike anything else I’ve ever worn.

Next, I rolled the delicate lace-top stockings up my legs and fastened them to the bursa eskort dangling suspenders, then slid the garter up my right thigh into position below the stocking top. Finally I picked up the itsy-bitsy embroidered satin knickers. Very feminine, and very different from any other pair I owned. I slipped them delicately into position with the pretty central bow on the front under my belly button and turned to look at the completed ensemble in my long mirror. A sigh escaped to take me by surprise.

I’ve never thought of myself as delicate, or particularly feminine – but there I was apparently the very epitome of all such things. I half closed my eyes and tried to believe the apparition in the mirror was really me… but the notion wouldn’t stick. It’s no wonder I never got to wear all this stuff for real… I’m just not that person. A shame really, but there it is – we can’t run away from our true nature can we?

I took the dress off its hanger and held it up. After yesterday’s escapades with pens and knife it was no longer the pristine and virginal vision of beauty it was intended to be, and that seemed entirely appropriate somehow. I turned it round, stepped in, hoisted it onto my shoulders and pulled up the zipper. It dawned on me this zipper would never again be undone, and a little shiver ran down my spine. Time to begin.

After a final glance in the long mirror I gathered up the skirts and swooshed downstairs into the kitchen. Without stopping to think too much more I opened the egg box, took out four eggs and tucked two into the top of each stocking – one at the side and one at the back. Surprisingly, they stayed intact and in place as I bustled about… fetching a ground sheet and two buckets from the garden shed, opening the catering tins of soup and custard, and tipping their contents out into the buckets, and taking the cheesecakes and gateau out of their boxes.

With all the preparations complete, I stopped to consider all my special ingredients lined up along the kitchen worktop. The time had come to begin the final act.

Leaning against the worktop edge for support I gathered up the skirts at the front of the dress. I pulled my knickers part way down my thighs, and crouching a little, carefully laid the gateau in the crotch before slowly pulling them up again. Not too tight – I wanted the gateau held there, not all spilling out! I let the skirts tumble back to their usual position and experimentally stood up straight.

The knickers held the gateau, well – most of it anyway. One or two blobs of cream dropped on the floor as I began to move, but mostly it just worked its way around my fanny and bum and dribbled down my legs as I carried everything up to the bathroom.

Finally, with the groundsheet spread on the bathroom floor, everything was ready and I sat on the edge of the bath to contemplate. The creamy gateau had oozed and squelched itself all around inside my knickers, which were completely sodden. But the eggs were still intact, like unexploded grenades, in my stocking tops. I looked at the egg box sitting on the top of the closed toilet… two left. I lifted the skirts of the dress enough to feel round and find the top of my slimy knickers at the back. I tucked the last two eggs in and prodded them down my bum crack inside where one settled right in the mouth of my pussy, the other one close behind.

Carefully laying the skirts of the dress back down, I clambered gingerly into the bath and knelt down, before sitting on my heels, squeezing the eggs and the creamy mess in my knickers. I wriggled about to smash the eggs, and paused to savour their slime as it dribbled through the gusset of the knickers and into the petticoats of the dress. I patted my thighs to smash the eggs in my stocking tops too… and let their messiness find its way round my thighs into the dress too.

I picked up one of the black cherry cheesecakes and held it flat on my hand. I looked down at my boobs, nestled inside the satin, sequins and lace frills of the bodice. Then I smashed the cheesecake right into the centre and massaged it to pieces, saturating all the fussy details. The second cheesecake followed very quickly.

I had meant to savour each part of this exercise, but a frenzy took hold of me at this point. Reaching down I grabbed the cut I had made in the skirts beside the marking garter in here. Grabbing the edges of the cut I tugged hard, ripping the fabric back to expose the garter itself. Then I scraped the smashed remains of the cheesecake off my chest and massaged it into the garter – changing its colour from white and blue to a deep black-cherry red.

Then moving onwards – rather quicker than I planned. I picked up the first bucket and poured the lovely bright tomato soup bit-by-bit down my front. It was quite cold, but beautifully gloopy. I watched it running through the sequins and embroidery as well as disappearing down my cleavage inside the dress. I felt its cool progress between my boobs, oozing between me and the basque, to trickle out between my thighs.

Hot on the heels of the tomato soup I poured the second bucket, of custard. Again splashing it down my front where I could watch its progress, but this time I spread it over my shoulders too – making sure it ran over the silk flowers and down the arms of the dress. All too soon, of course, I’d run out of food to pour over myself – and it was time to remove the messy sodden rag from my body.

I sat in the bath, encased in slimy and messy satin which clung to me all over, and looked down at the words written on my bodice – in emergency cut here. Rather than reach for my kitchen knife I thought I’d try to rip it instead.

The satin was tougher than I imagined, but I did manage to pull the bodice apart down to my waist.

RR-R-R-R–I–P!

What a fantastic sound that was!

Released from the dress, I pushed the soggy sleeves off my shoulders, and with my kitchen knife turned outwards away from me I pushed it down inside the once beautiful basque to slice it apart and peel away the mess.

I knelt up, and pushed the sodden wreckage of dress, basque, knickers and stockings down over my hips, before standing up out of it all and putting on the over-bath shower.

I spent several minutes washing all the gooey mess off myself, at the same time trampling on the ragged remains of what I had been wearing. When I finished, I looked down at what lay around my feet – tattered and ruined, the ragged remains of dress, underwear, and garter floating in scummy orange-coloured water. As I began to scoop it all into a bin bag I caught sight of the mass of silk flowers on the sleeves, coupled with the giant bow on the back of the dress, and I conceived a final act.

I dried myself, pulled on shorts and a vest top, and with my kitchen knife cut out that most decorative part of the dress – the back and sleeves. Out in the garden I kindled a fire in my fireplace, and laid the soggy dress-back beside it to warm whilst I made hot chocolate in a little pan over the flames.

Once I’d finished my drink, when the fire and the remains of the dress had both become hot, I brought the two together. I watched as the cleansing flames consumed the satin, the silk flowers, the big bow, and the sequins… until the whole was gone.

The disposal was complete.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32