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Chapter 2: What She Thinks She Knows

I could have stopped it at any point. The entire time, Katrina had given me shifty, anxious looks, and every time, I had responded with a smile that communicated far more confidence than I felt. I had believed — foolishly — that I could talk her out of the crazy idea, that all I had to do was buy it and she'd put it on instead.

This must be the garter belt.

I pulled it gently from the tissue-padded box, letting its satin straps dangle in front of me while I pinched it between my fingers. Katrina had explained it was for holding up stockings, and emphasized how important it was that it go under my panties, not over them.

My panties.

The store had been almost bursting with satin and lace and gossamer silks. The little bell above the door jingled cheerfully as we walked in, me trailing my new bride. I was still shocked by what she had said, and had agreed to go into the store, not fully realizing what that would mean. I stared around it in awe, and felt a pang of something almost painful in my chest.

Anger? Frustration? Disappointment? Confusion, certainly, but it was something different from that. Something I had felt before, but not many times since meeting Katrina. It swirled through me, making my palms sweat and my body feel numb and buzzy.

Idly, I brushed my fingers along the racks of gowns and nighties. They were gorgeous and silky, each trimmed in some fantastic combination of ruffles and lace. Sleeves dripped with ribbons tied in tiny bows, necklines cascaded with stunning, intricate lace, panties were stacked with lines of sheer ruffles. There were, to a one, stunning.

Katrina was speaking with the shopkeeper, too far away for me to hear. I glanced up from the lingerie to see her pointing towards me and my blood ran cold. The woman behind the counter looked at me and smiled widely, then turned back to my wife and nodded.

She told her? I screamed in silent horror. How could she?

Heart thundering, I turned my attention back to the clothes, pretending as if that little humiliation hadn't occurred. I hadn't even told Katrina I'd put the damn things on — and even if I had, it was private. Between a husband and his wife, not something to giddily share with an absolute stranger.

It wasn't until the pair of them swept passed me that I realized Katrina hadn't been pointed at me. I had been standing directly in front of the window display. She had been pointing at the mannequin. The fear melted out of me, and the strange, familiar-but-forgotten feeling came back. It wasn't until I pulled a short, satin nightie out of a rack that I realized what it was.

Jealousy. You're jealous.

But what could I have been jealous of?

"That's pretty," Katrina's voice was loud in my ear, enough to make me jump and cram the delicate item back into the rack of clothes as if I hadn't been looking at it.

"Katrina!" I yelped, whirling around to face her.

"Should we get it?" she asked with a knowing grin on her face. "Purple would be such a pretty color on you."

"I — No, I don't think — a pretty color on me? " I stammered.

"I thought we agreed I didn't need any more lingerie?"

"Did we agree on that?" My voice was high and strained.

"Everything we get while we're here will be for you to wear… for me," she said, putting heavy emphasis on the words "you" and "me," her lips forming beautifully suggestive shapes as she did. "You'll need quite a bit to keep up with me, after all."

"I don't want lingerie," I said flatly.

I thought that kind of thing was obvious.

"That's not what it looks like to me," she grinned, stepping up to me and resting her hand on the front of my pants.

I was hard in them! It was a shock to me — I had been so focused on the clothes that I hadn't even realized how I was responding to them.

"I, uh, I guess that's from thinking about them on you?"

"Oh, really?" she said, and her tone made it clear that she did not believe me. "Is that why you've been looking at these non-stop since we walked in here?"

"I mean, yes?" I said, feeling the absurdity of my words as I was saying them.

Why have_ you been so obsessed with all of this, anyway?_

"I don't think so, James," she said, and leaned her head forward, tilting her chin up and resting it against the front of my shoulder. "I don't think that's what it is at all."

"You think you know me better than I know myself?”

She was whispering now, every word sending a chill down my back. "I do. I think you're as turned on by these as I am."

"Well, of course I am, Katrina. What kind of a man wouldn't want to see his stunning bride in beautiful lingerie?"

"How many men do you think even know the word ‘_lingerie_?’”

"More than none. What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that I didn't pack three weeks' worth of lingerie just because I like wearing it, honey."

“You did it because you know I like seeing you in it.”

I knew she was grinning without needing to see her face.

"Because I know you have to see me in it. Because I know you're just as impressed with a scalloped lace hem as I am. Because I know that lingerie turns you on the same way it turns me on."

I was feeling uneasy now, the jealousy just under my skin.

"It makes you look sexy," I objected.

"And that's how you want to feel, too."

It was like being hit with lightning. I shut my eyes as the room became too bright for an instant. The pinks and blues and soft, delicate yellows were suddenly garish. The trims were overwhelming and trite. My chest felt tight.

Why would anyone want this?

"I need some air," I breathed, pushing her away rougher than I should have and stumbling towards the door.

The bell jingled as I wrenched the door open, toppling out onto the flagstones and trying to catch my breath. My vision had narrowed down to a flashlight in the dark. I whirled around frantically, searching for a place to sit before I fell over.

I do not want to wear lingerie.

The bench was a smudged outline. I collapsed onto it, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. My breathing was shallow, my heart racing.

I do not want to be sexy the way a girl is. The way Katrina is.

All of it was a farce. I didn't want to put on panties — I just thought my wife would look hot in the ones I saw! That was a completely normal thing for a husband to think and want and do.

I am a man. A man doesn't put on lingerie.

But none of it explained why I was still so hard, or why I couldn't stop thinking about how soft they'd feel when I wore them.