20 January 2006
Originally posted on greenfairydotcom
This morning, a text message from an unidentified number:
Are you wearing my knickers, bitch?
As sure as I could possibly be that it was underwear of my lone possession I had put on this morning, still I took a few seconds to check that I was indeed wearing my very own black boyshorts with pink polka dots and not anybody else's yellow thong with diamante spelling the word 'tease' or sagging Calvin Klein clones from the market.
This established then, I turned my attention to the appropriateness of having recieved this communication. Clearly I was wearing my own pants, therefore the sender was either mistaken in their accusation or in my identity. As with the knicker-checking, I was almost 100% sure of my innocence in the matter, but nevertheless gave the consideration of whose underwear I could possibly, at a stretch, have been wearing had I been and came to the (somewhat reluctant, all things considered) conclusion, nobody's.
Just as well. They seem rather cross about it.
A wrong number, therefore. But I find myself unaccountably interested in it's origin. What have I stumbled into here? A infuriated Mistress having caught her errant sissy maid making off with her panties? A secret code instructing Boris to bring the briefcase to the bench by the duckpond in St James' park by noon?