‘Look beneath the surface; let not the several quality of a thing nor its worth escape thee.’
– Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

I’ve always taken pride in my appearance. I’m not good at casual dressing and I feel more comfortable in dresses and heels than I do in my pyjamas, which is probably why almost no one sees them. I don’t have a complex hair-and-make-up routine, but it still needs to be done every day. I’ve had a semi-identity crisis recently when a new role at work demanded that I wear scrubs – how will anyone recognise me with my curly hair in a ponytail? How can I exert my authority without my clip-clop stride in my heels? I shave my legs even if no one will be touching them and I wear matching underwear even if no one will be seeing them. I like to be well put together and neat.

Superficially. I like to be superficially well put together and neat. Underneath my clothes, I prefer to be much dirtier…

I like knowing that my knickers are ruined, drenched in the cum that is leaking down my thighs. I want to feel the remnants of him when I walk; a tacky, stickiness that rubs against my cunt and never lets me forget that barely an hour ago his cock was deep inside me. I want to be fucked as soon as I’ve got out of the shower so that he will be on me all day. Our mingled sweat will soak into me and I will later smell him on me, sideswiped by intense greed as the fresh, clean scent of his cum takes me straight back to his bed. I touch myself to touch him, I slide through my wetness that is partially his, I taste him on my fingers long after he’s gone. I love when he comes all over my chest and stomach; the traces of him dry to crisp streaks that crack as I walk and pull tight against my skin. I can feel him and I want him. I want more.

Do the strangers around me suspect? Do they look past my plain dress and smell the cum all over my body as I sit innocently on the train home? Do they see a normal, smart girl with somewhat fly-away hair or do they recognise the smudged face and post-fucked hair for what it really is?

I want to secretly wear stockings to work or go out without knickers. I want to wear the dress he last fucked me in; the sight of which will turn on no one but me. And maybe him. I want to look like I’m holding it together when in fact I’m coming apart at the seams.

I don’t want to be clean, I don’t want to be good. I want to be dirty. But it’s so much more intoxicating to be filthy in plain sight, a secret hidden underneath my clothes…