Fancy Dress

I’ve come to fetishize business wear. I know the scene is all about latex and leather, but my idea of BDSM-appropriate clothing is silk and cotton and the only leather is in my shoes or my belt.

Well, not really fetishize, because that would imply any kind of business wear or formal wear did the job for me. No, I’m fetishizing business and formal-wear when my wife and I wear them.

I think it’s a side-effect of both of us being the kinds of people who didn’t really dress up before this year. My wife was married in a simple white dress she borrowed from a friend when we eloped, and when I worked in a business setting, I bought my dress clothes from whatever mass-market store sold them. For most of my life, I was quite content to wear jeans and tee-shirts. I never really cared about clothes. I never really cared about my appearance.

Now…I see getting dressed up in a suit and tie — in the right circumstances, certainly as not part of the everyday grind — to be an act of submission to my wife. I remember a few months ago, she told me how hot I looked wearing suits to work and to various functions down here, so when she flew in, I made sure I looked perfect when I picked her up: hair cut short, no facial hair, nails trimmed and shaped, and a nice suit, pressed and drycleaned, with a silk tie, expensive shirt, nice black leather shoes…

I dressed up because she liked it. I dressed up because it pleased her. I could have gotten out of bed, showered, shaved and popped into some shorts and a tee — it’s South Florida, it certainly would have been more comfortable — but I wanted to show my devotion. I wanted to spend time. Everything had to be wrinkle-free, everything had to shine and look impeccable. My face had to be smooth, my hair perfect. I had to smell fresh and clean and perfumed. I had to spend an hour and a half getting ready, because that’s how much time she deserved — she deserved perfection, and nothing less.

We went to a banquet a few weeks ago when she was down, and it was the same way. There was something ritualistic about it — showering, making sure everything was perfect. She wore a beautiful dress and put on her makeup and looked like a million bucks. How could I look any less? How could I let her down? She’s been transforming herself, through tasteful makeup and affordable dresses and sexy shoes, and even though she doesn’t look like a dominatrix in that business-wear, there’s something unspeakably sexy — the red of her lips, the black of her mascara, the way I’m afraid to kiss her for fear I’ll introduce some flaw into the understated blush of her cheeks. The way expensive dress wear clings to her instead of sags like her old clothes, the way she carries herself. Power. Self-assurance. Confidence. Oh…she’s got it all. It makes me dizzy.

I never used to get regular haircuts or wear product in my hair; I wore cheap cologne. I wore cheap clothes. I didn’t care about my skin care. Now…now, everything has to be perfect when I’m in her presence. I fantasize about being able to afford a bespoke suit. Cufflinks.

I buy issues of GQ and Esquire and fantasize about wearing those suits. Wearing them for her. Showing her my love through my attention to myself. By the way I care for her property.

Because there’s something about my suits — the nice ones I wear now, that I spend all that money to maintain — there’s something about the ritual about getting dressed, that makes me feel strong. Handsome. Powerful. People treat you differently in a good suit, and you hold yourself differently. There’s a way of carrying yourself. A way of moving. I feel like more of a man, more of a powerful, type-A-man, in my suits.

And so, when I’m in my suits, I feel like I’m falling that much further for her. I feel like I’m stronger, so my submission is truer. How could she ever want to dominate a weak man who didn’t care about himself? What’s the point? A man who doesn’t care about himself doesn’t care who controls him. But a strong man — a man who spends time on himself, who builds himself up — that’s a suitable subject for a dominant woman to control. A man who spends that much time on cultivating that image, his submission has value. His submission has worth. It’s deserving of effort, to break a man like that.

I dream of wearing my first bespoke suit. An expensive shirt, the collar so crisp it could cut skin. A marvelous silk tie I have my eye on. My hair, perfectly cut and waxed, my skin flawless and smooth and smelling like expensive cologne — but just the right amount, so that she gets its scent only when she moves in close, to whisper curses in my ear. And me on my knees, my tie in her hand, taut, my throat constricted as she pulls on it, and I look up at her in awe. Her opening it all up, peeling me out of it, hurting and cutting and stroking me, aware that it was all for her, aware of how much work I put into it, appreciative of my dedication.

All for her. Every inch of my clothes and my appearance a testimony to my love for her, every minute spent a minute — in its own way — of worshipping her. Of recreating myself into an object worthy of her attention and love and cruelty.