There are few words that turn me on as much as this one.
Growing up in a religious home and going to a religious school, I was required to wear skirts all the time. The skirts had to be of "modest length," meaning that the hem had to fall below the knee; if the skirt had a slit in it, the slit could not travel above the knee cap.
Not only was I required to wear a skirt, the fashion in my school back then was to wear specific GAP long denim skirts, ones which were extremely narrow. They fell almost to the ankles, and had no slits. We girls did not walk; we shuffled. Opening our legs more than a foot wide was almost impossible.
This curtailed our mobility, obviously. But I think that was part of the point. If you look throughout history, one popular way of controlling women is to take away our ability to move.
In fact, we were taught specific ways on how to move—modestly, of course. We were not supposed to draw attention to ourselves, or do anything that might cause the boys to look upon us for too long; that was immodest. We were not supposed to roll up our skirts, not even in the summer months; that was immodest. We were not supposed to sit with our legs spread apart; that was immodest.
I will never forget the day the principal of the school gave the girls a lesson on how to bend down to pick something up off the floor. The trick, he said, was to bend at the knees, not at the waist. That way you're not presenting an attraction toward any male walking by.
Any woman who's ever tried to stand up from a kneeling position this way wearing a tight skirt knows there's a certain art form to it. It takes practice, and a certain amount of grace. Doing it right will make a woman look downright elegant; doing it wrong will see her planted on her face.
As the framework of my life changed and I began to wear pants more often, it took a surprisingly long time for the wicked thrill to wear off. I was doing something naughty, wearing pants; I could open my legs.
Part of the pleasure was being able to just fucking walk.
But I still saw opening my legs too wide as something inappropriate and indecent. Girls just did not do that. They did not act that way. Not the good girls, at least.
I did not last as a good girl for very long.
Husband figured out very quickly what the word "open" does to me. He had to break down more than a few inhibitions first, of course. I was still very shy getting naked in front of a man.
I could take a dick down my throat, but parade around with no shirt on in front of a guy? Pfft. No way.
Once he got me naked before him, prone, vulnerable, and he would tell me to open my legs...then the sweet struggle would begin.
I used to refuse to open for him. My refusals were dealt with harshly back then. I was not punished so much as shown, time and again, that my refusals were futile. He would do what he wanted to do to me, and get me what he wanted me to do.
Full stop, the end.
But at the same time, he made me feel gorgeous when I overcame that struggle—even when he had to "help" me do it. He told me over and over again how beautiful I was, how attractive, how sexy, how womanly.
He made me feel comfortable with being proud of those parts of my body.
But the struggle has never really gone away. Neither has the delicious suffering—those moments of panic as I slowly ease my legs open for his stare, knowing I am revealing my most hidden parts, acting the perverse and wanton slut.
It is not just my body he finds attractive. It is the struggle he sees etched across my face, the inner fight waging behind my eyes.
It is a fight I am going to lose, and he is going to win.
With his triumph comes control.