Today I wake up early in less than marginally cold conditions. I find myself all curled up on my bed, cold and stiff. With some difficulty I get out of bed and walk straight into the shower. I stay there for the longest time. You know how long it takes to get actually get warm once you have become cold through and through and how much courage is required to turn off the wonderful flow of warmth.

I towel myself dry vigorously and then what? Yes, I could turn on the heater. I would if it were colder. I am not prepared to die for my 'principles'. As it is, I will attempt to sustain myself. I eat breakfast pacing about in the kitchen.

Later on I make the mistake of sitting down in an easy chair, all curled up, that is, with legs crossed. I punish myself by going outside and running around the house once. There is a breeze and it is overcast, hence it is very cold. I run fast, the 100 or so yards, with my loose appendages wobbling merrily. Awkward too, with bare feet on a gravel path. Who could see me, meanwhile, during the minute or so I spend outside? The house is secluded, but what if the mailman comes by? He does not, in the event. I cannot think of the excuses I would have made.

Getting through this cold day is hard work. All the meals I eat are hot. To sit at ease and read a book is for any length of time is out of the question. I sprint about intermittently and jump up and down. When I sit, I curl up, legs uncrossed, clutching them and rocking slightly. I spend half my day in a hot bath, the obvious solution and the only solution for reading a book.

A good part of the evening after dinner, some two hours, I spend dancing. A great idea. I start off slowly with easy music, gradually raising the tempo during the last hour. My imaginary voyeur sees this: "Her legs, her arms, her head, her hair, her whole body participates in the dance. Her long legs smooth, endless and shiny... Her arms, thin, with hands and fingers the last word in grace. Her shoulder length hair sailing through the air. Her body, arching, stretching; her proud breasts showing the way.

When hardcore disco music is accompanying her, she is an animal. ... Sweat pours off her brow. Her whole body is glistening. She dances (in front of the mirror) with her mirror image now, as if in a contest, challenging the other half, seeing which one falls down in exhaustion first. I look straight into her eyes as she looks into her own. I am so close to her. Her hands pass her every part of her body, kneading her breasts, tossing about her hair, slapping her buttocks. Her hands moving along the inside of her thighs. She squats down, legs wide open, unaware of anything but her own body. She leans back and is now supported on all fours. She faces the ceiling. Her opening is in full view as she bobs up and down. Up and down, up and down, until exhaustion has drained the last drop of energy from her. She makes it to the bed and is gone."

When I do go to bed, I sin by allowing myself a sheet and be all curled up. I have survived a cold day with difficulty. Again, is it for cold or for shame that man started dressing? Cold, I'd say.

My husband will return tomorrow. The thought fills me with joy, considering everything, but I dread the moment when I will have to get dressed - for him. The thought is truly repulsive, as if I face strangling. Tight fitting panties, bra straps, stockings, shoes... I cannot face them. I need therapy.

I remember this favourite passage of mine in 'O', where she sorts out her clothes, to which I climaxed a few days ago. I like it because she undresses for the first time 'alone, her own sole spectator. And yet never had she felt more totally committed to a will which was not her own, more totally a slave, and more content to be so.' (Oh, could I follow in her footsteps...)

Remembering this passage, I decide to follow in her footsteps and create my own therapy. I will immerse myself in my wardrobe. I will be 'O' and sift through my clothes, putting the ones that prohibit 'access' to one side and the ones that allow it to the other.

Unlike her I am already nude when I look in the full-length mirror. Why, in the past, during that period which seem so long ago now, I always used this mirror to check my image after dressing. Now, to see how I wear my bareness. I see an utterly natural and relaxed woman.

'When she bent down to open a drawer, she saw her breasts stir gently.' I do indeed and I like them that way, my free and easy lobes of mammal tissue, with their pointy nipples and their areolas.

The chore of going through my entire wardrobe is immense. I have fifteen, twenty dresses, most of which are tight-fitting and with a zipper at the back. René would allow me three, one with buttons at the front and two shoulderless, strapless numbers, which although tight could be drawn up or down quickly by a pair of strong hands. Five of the others I will not ever wear again anyway and these I drop on the floor, ready for charity. Then I have some evening dresses, some of which would be shed as a result of a mere shrug of the shoulders. These I keep. When coming to skirts, my preference is evidently moderately tight ones, which would go, but I have a few wide (including a gorgeous green satin one) or pleated ones (which even my husband finds old-fashioned.) The latter will stay. My suits, which I love so dearly, all have tight-fitting skirts. They will have to go. The jackets would be alright, but what is a suit jacket without the skirt? On the stack labeled 'unsuitable!' Some of them I could and will retain on their own and then I own a few jackets separate from a suit. The masses of jumpers I have... 'René ... would also decide about the jumpers, which all went on over the head and are closed tightly at the neck, therefore could not be opened. But they could be pulled up from the waist and thus release the breasts.' The blouses I keep without exception. Simple. The panties, away with them all! I am playing, unlike O, so I make two piles, one with elastic bands all around, the other with merely waistbands. Girdles, of which I have two... away. The brassières, likewise, away with them all! Here also, I make two piles, one with sheer, light, revealing items and the other with the more utilitarian ones. Trousers... I do not like to wear them and I have only a few, for out of door, sporty activities etc. No mention of trousers in 'O', but I have no doubt that a modern day René would give them no further thought: away! Good riddance from me. Slips and chemises... away. Very little of my clothes would remain. No wonder O was concerned about the cold in winter and how she would be protected. ('She was sensitive to the cold, and she suddenly wondered how in the world she would stand the cold in winter when she was dressed so lightly?' Did O succeed in getting her dressmaker to make detachable linings in the allowed dresses?) Pantyhoses... away. Stockings and garter belts can stay. Belts, away!

Like O, I am left wih precious few articles, very much less than half of my wardrobe. I look at the piles of unsuitable clothes and the smaller collections of what would be allowed. Three dresses, a few skirts, a few jackets, some evening dresses, jackets, stockings, no underwear... The thought delights me somewhat, unlike O. For all I care, I'd been left with nothing at all. It is play for me, however, whilst it was serious to her. I close the session by storing everything back in the wardrobes and drawers, minus the clothes I will seriously pass to charity, a gain for them and also for me! The separate categories of panties and bras I keep that way. I may decide to throw out the disagreeable panties and the utilitarian bras. I resolve not to replace any pantihoses, once the times of the present ones are up.

And then I rest.

'Thus she waited for him, curled up in a big easy chair, the tea tray beside her, waited for him to come home, but this time she waited, the way he had ordered her to, naked.'

The frivolous Mrs. V meets the honorable Mrs. V.

"Tonight, the frivolous Mrs. V comes to an end. An end to her nude fortnight. On the occasion of her honorable husband's return, the frivolous Mrs. V transforms to the honorable Mrs. V once more. She is a realistic person and there will therefore face the ordeal with a brave face. For the first time in almost two weeks, she will open the drawers of her chest of drawers and select panties, bra and stockings (as it is cold day). Before putting on her panties, she will look at her mound of Venus, which will hence be covered in the usual growth, as nature intended. Having donned the underwear, she will select a dress and shoes, perhaps a jacket. Finally, she will be gloriously touched up with jewelry and make-up. And so, her body will once more been trapped in that harness intended to support, protect and remove from the public eye. As to the question whether this period of freedom was worth it, now that it will be taken away again, the levelheaded Mrs. V errs on the affirmative. 'I would do it again, given the chance, and I would recommend the experience to every sensitive woman and man. I have been in intensive contact with my body, was very conscious of what that body is and implies. Others saw me, which helped the consciousness. And, above all, I felt beautifully free and weightless.' "

The last few hours. I am spending the remaining hours reading in my conservatory. I am thinking of putting on a dress and shoes (and nothing else) and going into town and buying the nicest and/or most expensive soft underwear that I can find, something both extravagant and traditional, i.e. according to my husband's tastes.

My husband returned. He is asleep now. I look at his body in the bed next to me, entirely satisfied.

I did go out to shop, as intended, and found a tasteful sea green underwear ensemble. Embroidered and sheer. The panties are what are known as 'boxer briefs', i.e. slack at the thighs. Mightily expensive, a revenge for having to wear them in the first place.

I covered my underwear under a deep purple dress, semi-short, square cut neck, sleeveless. No stockings and 2" heels. My tan had been greatly enhanced and we looked ravishing, my dress and me. I heard his car coming up the drive and my heart jumped.

Ravishing, that is what he thought me too. He smiled from ear to ear, very glad to see me. And, do not get the wrong impression, I was very glad too, so much so that when I threw myself in his arms I silently shed a pair of tears.

And we did go to bed immediately, thankfully, neglecting the spread of wine and snacks I had set out, in case we had to get reacquainted.

Did he notice the exquisite new set of underwear? I am not sure. Did he notice my now shaven mound? He must have done. Did he comment, negatively, as I feared, positively, as I hoped? He did not. Did he secretly like me this way? Well, he liked me. As if he had not been satisfied (satisfied himself I hope!) during the entire fortnight. His behaviour, and mine, was the ideal combination of gentleness and frenzy. The fact that he could muster up the gentleness and stretch the event beyond seconds, minutes even ... - I love him for it. No verbal comment on the state of the world, other than the raw expression of his love for me.

I have kept shaven. Did I tell you that? My husband has, entirely tacitly, accepted.

I have also thrown out all of my restricting, tight panties and have only kept the nice and/or expensive and/or loose ones. I burned one, for the fun, hanging on a clothesline. Funny sight, to see it reduced to elastic bands in seconds, which then fall and smolder. The demise of a panty.

I have taken to wearing panties by exception. No, I have not gone the route of O. I do not hitch up my skirt and sit with my sex in contact with the cold leather or the prickly fabric. I continue to wear tight clothes. (I have once done the selection that a René would require. If my husband would suddenly turn up with a stainless steel ring, banded with gold inside, I'd be ready quickly. Oh, do I really desire O's fate?)

As to the question whether the period of 'freedom' was worth it, now that it has been taken away again, I am adamant. 'I would do it again!'

What went before