Y is for Yes

Dear diary,

Before I go back and finish the Red and Wolf story, I will throw in a shorter one, dedicated to two words that start with Y, yellow and yes.

Aldous and I were travelling in Spain. First year of our marriage, way before all the kink started, and I was still skinny but started to put on weight from the endless supply of paella, sangria, and that amazing almond pastry I forgot the name of. I only mention it because it's important to the story.

I don't remember where we spent the night, but we were heading to Cordoba. In early fall the weather is weird, too chilly in the morning and crazy hot during the day. We left the hotel right after early breakfast to spend most of the day in Cordoba. I had that summer dress on, sleeveless, of course, because I knew that it's always hot in Cordoba in the afternoon. The dress had a fitted top, black with embroidered flowers, dainty small flowers in yellow and orange, and a long flared yellow skirt, way below my knees. I still have it somewhere. Weird, I gave away and donated so many clothes throughout the years, but never got rid of this dress, though there is no way in the world that I would ever be able to fit in it. Again, it was a chilly morning, so I added a few layers.

First, panties were not as tiny back then, as they are now. High waisted, tight elastic band biting into my skin, or maybe I already needed one size bigger panties. Topped with pantyhose, because it was chilly, and that's another elastic band, even tighter, because those fucking pantyhose supposed to make you look slimmer, and they fucking do, at the expense of comfort, that is. Try to eat in those or climb inside a low sports car and spend a couple of hours on the road after a hearty breakfast. All that plus a short tweed jacket, I was feeling nauseous in no time. For a few good days after that I was giddy and happy, I thought that I got pregnant. Fortunately, I didn't say anything to Aldous, because I was not. But that morning I just felt woozy and about to throw up all over that skanky red convertible, roof closed, because remember, it was cold when we left the hotel. 

We stopped on the side of the road. I climbed out of the car, ripped the jacket off, panting for some fresh air. Grey olive trees on the endless hills, clear blue skies, yada yada yada.

“What's wrong, Elizabeth?” Aldous asked.

“The fucking elastic!” I even slid my hand through the dress and under the waistband, to reduce the pressure.

Aldous bit his lip but didn't comment on the cuss word. “Take them off.”

“Pantyhose?”

“And panties. Both.”

“Are you nuts?” I couldn't believe my ears. My strictly by-the-rules  husband was ordering me to walk around pantiless.

“Watch your mouth.” Aldous pointed his long finger at me. “Either you're taking them off, or I will take them off for you.”

“But we're driving into the city.” I mumbled, while pulling down both garments.

Aldous turned me around against the sun and looked judgmentally between my legs. “Can't see anything. Next time I expect to hear, yes sir!” He smacked my ass to drive the message home.

When we drove into Cordoba, the heat was at 35 degrees Celsius, or 95 Fahrenheit. I was grateful not to have anything on but my bright yellow summer dress, smooth cotton rubbing against my bare ass, summer breeze not meeting any barrier between my legs. It turned me on so much, my secret pantiless state of undress and the sudden smack from before, I was afraid that my wetness would stain the dress for everyone to see. I sneaked into every restroom I could to check on my dress.

We did a tour of Mezquita first, and I took a thousand obligatory pictures of striped arches and columns. We saw Romani women on the streets, selling red carnations. I don't know how, but from some deep childhood memory from a thousand miles away, I did recognize them by the traditional clothes. We had an ice-cold gazpacho for lunch and a seafood paella, yellow from a generous amount of Spanish saffron, washed it down with a classic sangria made out of local wine and oranges. Life was good.

Aldous was always on the mission to plump me up. Either as a security that I would never go back to dancing, or even then he already had something else in mind, certain long-term plans for my rounding ass. I didn't think about any of it on that day. 

Life was good and careless

In the yellow dress

Breeze between my legs

Saying yes sir yes

Picture of the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba (Mezquita) from Wikipedia.