I used to have a perfectly sensible collection of knickers.

They filled a small drawer in my dresser. I owned about thirty pairs, which including running knickers which are always boy shorts, every day cotton knickers of which my absolute favourites have Joe Cool on them which are worn when horrid days was loom and try to ambush me.

Of course also there are invisible knickers (to be worn under dresses or skirts that are body hugging) and then date night knickers, lacy or sheer, or with ribbons or silk ruffles- you get the idea.

Then I met DJ and my modest collection grew.

He has an appreciation of bottoms and an awareness of their encasements that makes the wearing of knickers a much more entertaining affair than it has ever been before.

He has does not have strong views on underwear- but he does smile and sometimes look quite wolfish if I flick my skirt up to show him what I have chosen and sometimes, despite my protests, will investigate my chose without asking first.

When I dress I have no doubt that at some point during the day or night my underwear will be seen and noticed. For some reason that escapes me as I am so good I make angels weep, I seldom spend more than a couple of hours in his company before I get bent over and swatted.

It may be that I get bent over his bed (which I hate) or over his arm as I stand (which I really hate) or over his lap (which I like until he lifts his arm up and it descends in a manner that has far too much strictness about it for my liking). However it happens, I get spanked and he sees my knickers.

So when I get dressed I spend ages choosing just the right pair from my collection. I imagine his face and try to see if I can make it smile and this was much easier before my collection grew.

And grow it has.

I have schoolgirl knickers, white and not in the least tiny, some cotton, some clingy, some like little shorts as would be worn under a hockey skirt.

I have black pairs with ruffles, or bows, or ribbons on the bum, a detail to be picked out at a critical moment.

I have pinks silk ones with ribbons that trail down my thighs.

I have gingham in red and blue and green, innocent and pure as the girl that slips into them.

I have polka dots of every hue. They are cute and cheerful and never deserve any of the stern looks that their owner gets.

I have knickers that can be removed with one tug on a ribbon

I even have red sheer panties to be worn under red dresses; I never wore red before I

met him. Do you suppose he is corrupting me? I do not feel corrupted though, I feel as though I am better behaved than I have ever had to be before.

That is only a partial list of course; there are many, many more pairs. I have had to buy a new set of drawers and even they are fit to bursting with these flippant items.

I have a belief you see, a dream that one day when he tips me forward and he will see my chosen panties, peeping up at him, trying to make an impression. A slow smile of delight will tip toe across his face, he will halt his hand in mid air, his arm holding me down will soften its rigid, unnegotiating grip and slowly smooth its way to my bottom. His strong hand will stroke gentle, firm caresses before he lifts me and turns my body to face him. He will kiss me softly but with increasing force and welcome intrusion. His hands will work their way into the folds of my clothing, clothing that is rippled by my position, by the way I have been encircled in his embrace.

Of course, this dream of mine goes on, but maybe in another post.

In real life that is not how it happens at all. He upends me just as I said before, he lifts my skirt (or has removed my trousers before taking me over his lap) and it is true, he does notice my knickers. I often help him with this by squealing “Look at my knickers.” He confirms that he has seen them one millisecond before he starts to strike my bottom with his open palm, his stubborn, assertive, unremitting hand. At some point, this maybe before or after I give up being still and am trying in earnest to struggle free from his hold, he pauses and pulls down my knickers. They are sometimes left under my pink bottom around my thighs and sometimes pulled all the way down my legs where I have to bend my knees so that they may be removed totally. I have no more choice in this than I have in anything he does to me.

An age afterwards, when my bottom is swollen, sore and a hot, hot pink, he holds me and kisses me and very often does such rude things to me that I can scarcely look at him for blushing.

Do you know what he does then? He will not let me put my knickers until I ask him if I may. I hope that you have no idea how embarrassing that is, to ask if you are allowed to wear the most basic and intimate of garments. How awful it is to stutter out those words and to wait while he seems to be thinking about his decision.

Sometimes he lets me pull them back up or put them on again, but there are other times too.

I do not know if it is worse when he simply says “No” or the alternative. This is when he sweeps up my knickers and tucks them into his pocket, he then takes my hand and leads me out of the door and into the rest of our day as I hold down my skirt with my free hand, trying to gather a little modesty as I trot after him.