Anitas Wedding Dress

Anita tiptoed into her spare bedroom, opened the wardrobe and lifted the cotton sheet. She caressed the soft chiffon skirts of the dress. She ran her fingertips over the ruched satin bodice and the exquisitely embroidered netting around the décolletage.

The dress beckoned. Come on then, Anita.

She stilled. Her eyes widened.

You know you want to.

She stretched in and lifted the dress out, hooking its hanger over the top of the open wardrobe door. She gently shook and teased out the skirts to show off their fullness over the soft sewn-in petticoats and the satin lining.

The dress shimmered. Do you dare?

Her heart raced.

She turned to face the chest of drawers beside the bed. Bending to tug open the bottom drawer she unfolded the tissue paper and gazed at the unworn fripperies inside. She knelt on the carpet and reached in to caress those precious garments.

She made herself stop still. She took a long slow breath, opening her chest and drawing herself up tall as she did so. Then, resolute, she turned her head to nod at the dress, and reached into the drawer.

First out of the delicately wrapped package was the white lace basque. She pulled off the shop tag without looking at it, pulled the item around behind her and fastened the row of rear hooks down her front before swiveling it around her torso so the hooks lay in the right place down her spine. She tugged the bottom of the basque to pull it taut over her belly, and straightened the dangling suspender straps. She pulled each of the cups up and tucked her boobs in neatly, one to the left, the other to the right. The cleavage was impressive.

She reached back into the tissue paper package and pulled out white knickers. Embroidered silk at the front, overlaid with lace at the sides and rear, and with ribbons hanging at each hip. Hand made, and chosen to match the basque. She stood and stepped into them, pulling them up into place and smoothing them around her bum.

Finally, she reached for the sheer stockings. Before she opened the packet she took a dob of hand cream and rubbed it into her palms and fingers. Mustn't snag these - they're silk. She ruffled each stocking in turn, before stretching it up her leg and fastening the dangling suspender strap to the lace top.

She drew herself up to her full height and turned to face the dress. It was quite the most magnificent garment she had ever owned. Probably ever would own. Perhaps the most beautiful she had ever seen for real. Her heart pounded in her chest. She held the edge of the chest of drawers to steady herself, and closed her eyes. Controlled her breathing to slow it down. To reduce her heart rate.

She opened her eyes to gaze on the dress again. The low morning sunlight shone through the window and made it sparkle.

Are you really going to do this?

She picked the hanger off the wardrobe door and turned it round. In common with most wedding dresses, this was designed to be most spectacular from the back. A satin bow with long tails at the waist, elbow length sleeves with ruching to echo the bodice. A concealed zip up the back of the bodice, and a row of tiny satin covered buttons up into the nape of the neck to close the embroidered mesh.

She looked down at the familiar tall willowy shape of her body; now clothed in a very unfamiliar but rather spectacular fashion in white silk, ribbons and lace. She looked again at the dress and a dreamy calm descended.

She eased the dress off its hanger and stepped into it. It felt deliciously cool and softly sumptuous as she drew it up, slipped her arms into the sleeves and reached behind to ease the zip closed. She reached behind her neck to do up the top two satin buttons, but reaching the rest of them would be more of a challenge.

You're supposed to have a maid to do them up. You have heard the term 'bridesmaid' haven't you?

Undeterred, she unfastened the zip and pulled the dress up partly over her head. Now she could reach more of them ... and eventually, with a whole lot of stretching and reaching ... they were all fastened. She zipped up the bodice, triumphant.

Anita half closed her eyes and looked in the long mirror. The shop lady was right - the dress gave her a magnificent outline - small waist, curvy boobs and hips - the perfect hourglass. Not at all what she was accustomed to seeing in the mirror. She half turned to one side, and then the other. Watched and listened as the skirts swirled first one way then the other with a delicious swoosh. The soft satin lining caressed her silk-covered thighs as she moved.

She stilled, opened her eyes fully, and considered the reflection looking back at her. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach made a slow descent towards her stockinged feet.

You may feel like a princess. You may even, for a minute, look like a princess. But you're not a princess, are you? You won't ever be. Not even for a day. Not now. Not ever.

She half turned and looked at the reflection of her back. 'How am I going to get all those little buttons undone again?' She chewed her lip. Then, resolute once more, she shrugged, picked up the front of the skirts in her hands, and swooshed out the spare bedroom door.

In her own bedroom Anita stepped into a pair of white strappy sandals, before lightly dancing down the stairs with a song in her heart.

Once in the kitchen Anita's song made its way onto her lips ... "la l-la la." She opened and shut cupboards and made a little collection of items on the worktop - a bottle of tomato ketchup, a catering pack of mushroom soup. She frowned, "what else have I got?"

She wandered out through the big old conservatory porch into the small overgrown garden. She stood for a moment in the drizzle and turned her face up to watch the fine drops falling towards her. They felt cool and fresh.

She opened the creaking door of the tumbledown shed and looked around at the dusty contents left by the previous tenant. A small plastic bottle on a shelf caught her eye. "Two stroke oil," she said, reading the label, "ideal for chainsaws." Some of the contents of the bottle seemed to be spilled down the side. It was a pretty blue colour and had sawdust congealed in it. She picked the bottle up, turning it round in her fingers. She rocked onto one hip, and looked down at the gleaming white skirt. She looked back at the dirty oily bottle, and slowly wiped it clean on the snowy chiffon. It left a delicious stain on her right hip. A warmth tingled in her groin and rose upwards, pushing a smile onto her face.

She skipped out of the shed back into the drizzle and looked around. Two buckets stood empty beside the porch door, and a half empty bag of potting compost rested on the shelf just inside. She stepped into the porch and reached over her bicycle to fetch the compost. As she did so, the front of the dress brushed the bicycle chain. She glanced down to see a thin black grease mark.

She stepped back outside the porch and stood on the step to scoop several handfuls of the potting compost into one of the empty buckets. She looked at her filthy hands covered in compost, and wet from the drizzling rain. She felt a surge of adrenalin. Taking a deep breath she rubbed her hands up and down her front. She looked down at the resulting blackened bodice, and her groin clenched involuntarily.

Hastening now, she gathered up the second bucket, strode into the kitchen and grabbed a big pan from the rack. The catering pack contained enough powder for almost a gallon of soup, but it was a boring grey colour. Anita scratched her chin, "Hmm." She tugged open her top cupboard and rummaged amongst the sundry herb and spice jars. "Yes!" She pulled out a tiny bottle of red food colouring and stirred the contents into the soup. "That's better!" She tipped the soup into the empty bucket, carried it out onto the back doorstep and set it to cool down beside the bucket of potting compost.

Back in the kitchen Anita turned her attention to the fridge. She was overdue a shopping trip, and there wasn't much in there; but there was a solitary egg. She hoisted up the skirts of the dress to push the egg into her knickers, where it nestled cold and hard between her thighs. She moved experimentally a few steps one way and the other. The egg felt like an unexploded bomb, but it didn't crack or fall out of place. Emboldened, she started to collect her trophies together.

First she rummaged in the understair cupboard to find a plastic sheet saved from the delivery of a new mattress last year. She carried it upstairs and spread it over the bathroom carpet. Then, one by one, she assembled her armoury in a row. The ketchup bottle, the bucket of compost, the bucket of red soup, a black bin bag, and finally her kitchen scissors - which she put on the window ledge out of the way. Having set the scene, she stood still to consider her position.

Are you REALLY going to do this?

She took a long breath. The exertion of carrying everything upstairs whilst clad in a basque and tight fitting bodice had made her warm. Sweat trickled down her back, and she smiled at the thought of it soaking through to soil the pristine outfit from the inside. She looked down. Already the dress had blue oil on the right hip, black grease on the front, and dark composty mud smeared over her chest. There could be absolutely no going back now.

She picked up the skirts, kicked off her sandals, and stepped gingerly into the bath. She knelt down, tucking the skirts under her bum and around her knees. Then, in a brisk movement, she sat heavily on her heels, smashing the egg in her knickers. She paused to savour the slimy feeling of it oozing through the layers of silk, satin and netting as it soaked through her knickers into the petticoats and skirt from the inside.

She pulled the skirts out from under her knees and hoisted them up around her waist. Reaching for the ketchup bottle, she squirted the contents all over the silk knickers and stockings, and then pulling the skirts down again massaged the sauce through the layers until they were completely sodden and stained red.

Now on a roll, she reached out of the bath for handfuls of the potting compost, rubbing them vigorously into the sleeves, bodice and skirt until the whole dress resembled nothing more than a muddy rag.

Finally, taking hold firmly of the embroidered netting at her neck in both hands, she tore it down the middle. Reaching for the bucket of soup, she poured it steadily down her cleavage. It was still quite hot, but bearable; and as it glooped between her boobs, running down inside and soaking the basque she felt the heat all around her chest and sides. Until eventually it ran out over her hips and between her knees soaking the entire outfit from the inside.

Anita gently laid the bucket down on the plastic sheet and closed her eyes. The shimmering dress and its silk accoutrements had been reduced to bedraggled rags. She was warm and slippery all over. But the best part was the warmth she felt inside.

Some day, somehow, she might be a princess for a day. But never again would she be mocked by this haughty and perfect dress shimmering in the wardrobe to remind her of what hadn't happened.

Anita opened her eyes and reached for her big kitchen scissors from the window ledge. She chomped down through the front of the muddy bodice and the slimy basque, to peel them away each side of her. She squelched through the warm goo to snip through the sides of the knickers and the suspender straps. She cut the top of the once-perfect stockings and watched them ladder apart as she pulled.

Finally she drew her legs out of the pile of slimy rags she'd created, and holding the edges of the bath she crouched to empty her bladder over the mess. The final act complete, she stilled with bowed head in her slimy nakedness. She closed her eyes, and listened.

There was no voice from the dress now.

She relaxed her grip on the edges of the bath and flopped down onto her bottom to sit atop the rags. A peaceful warmth spread through her and pushed a hint of a smile onto her face.

Now perhaps she could get on with her life.