I am silk against newly generous curves, the embrace of lace around softened edges transforming the body, not just the mind. 

I am possibility. 

For too long, I lay forgotten in the shadowy corner of a drawer, buried beneath layers of practical cotton and stretchy fabrics that promised comfort but delivered only anonymity—purchased on a whim during a rare moment of self-indulgence. The delicate black lace had caught her eye in the window of Ms. Velvet’s, its intricate patterns promising elegance and allure. I remember the trembling fingers that once caressed my delicate trim, the sharp intake of breath at the sight of reflection transformed— but that was before. Before the numbers on the scale rose, before she whispered, “Someday, I’ll wear you again,” and the promise grew quiet.

Today, though. Today is different. 

She is hesitant as she lifts me from my exile, contemplating my scalloped edges and their ability to accentuate curves without constraining them. Sheer panels at the waist, an illusion of an hourglass silhouette. Her touch is gentle, almost reverential, as if she fears I might disintegrate in her hands. Does she remember the way we once danced together, a conspiracy of silk and skin? Or does she see only the gap between memory and reality?

The air is thick with anticipation and the faint scent of musk and amber. “Wicked Games” by Chris Isaak plays softly. Its lazy, sensual beat in sync with her heartbeat— or is it mine? 

She slips me on slowly, carefully, gossamer silk sliding over her breasts, down her chest, forming to her gentle curves with each new line and fold. Where I once might have been strained, I now celebrate. 

Lace whispering against skin silvered with stretch marks – battle scars of a life fully lived, I think, hearing her exhale slowly as she turns to face the mirror. For a moment, there is silence. Then, oh then,  a smile blooms across her face. Tentative at first, then radiant.

“Well, hello there,” she murmurs, and I thrill at the notes of wonder and rediscovery in her voice.

“You look stunning,” the photographer says when she arrive, and I silently agree. The woman has kind eyes, and a reassuring smile. 

My wearer blushes, her face turning pink, the spreading down her neck and across her chest. I’d wrap that blush in black lace, a striking match.

As the camera clicks, I feel my wearer’s tension melting away. She moves with growing confidence, exploring angles and poses with each shot, rediscover a part of herself that has long been forgotten. She lowers and sprawls across satin sheets, laughing while tossing her hair; kneels with her back curved, and head tilted up in joy. Her hands are at her sides, a queen ruling her world, and I am her coconspirator. I am her armor, her second skin. Where she softens, I provide structure. Where she curves, I accentuate. Together, we are a work of art. In one perfect moment, she catches her reflection in the mirror. Our union. The wearer and the worn. Shadows of doubt fleeing with one gaze before a dawn of self-love.

“Beautiful,” the photographer murmurs, but she isn’t looking at me.

The door closes,  and a new energy fills the room. The camera may have stopped clicking, but the magic lingers, electric and intoxicating. My wearer turns to the mirror once more, but this time her gaze is different. Gone is the hesitation, the shy smile of rediscovery. In its place is something darker, more primal as her fingers being tracing the edge of my lace, the curve of her hip, then the swell of her breast.

“Beautiful,” my wearer whispers, echoing the photographer’s words. But this time, she’s not just seeing – she’s feeling. Believing.

Reaching for her phone, her fingers tap across the screen. A moment later, “Pony” by Ginuwine fills the room with a deep, pulsing beat, coercing her quickening heartbeat… Or is it mine? 

She moves to the beat with a slow, sinuous dance for an audience of one. Her hips swaying and hands roaming, exploring the landscape of her body through me. I cling to every curve, every soft valley, glorying in the heat of her skin as her eyes darken with desire – not for another, but for herself. She runs her tongue along her lower lip, leaving it glistening in the soft light of the dim room. One strap slips off her shoulder, revealing more of her beautiful, dark skin. She doesn’t bother fixing it. Instead, her fingers trail down, down again to toy with the edge of my lace. A small gasp escapes her lips, and I feel a thrill run through us both. This is power. This is sensuality. This is self-love in primal form.

She reaches for her phone again, this time opening the camera. Her smile is wicked, confident. “Just for me,” she murmurs as she starts to pose again. Each shot more daring than the last, celebrating every inch of her body. We are a siren song made of flesh and lace.

The impromptu photoshoot ends. She falls back onto the bed, breathless and laughing. Her skin is flushed, but her eyes are bright with excitement. Her newfound countenance? Intoxicating. She doesn’t take me off immediately. Instead, she fingers the idle patterns along my edges, occasionally dipping beneath them to caress the— her— soft skin below. She is in no hurry, just deep in the need to languidly explore at ease in her own skin.

“Well,” she resolves to her reflection. Her voice husky, and playful, “Aren’t we full of surprises?”

I couldn’t agree more. I am the catalyst for self-discovery, the spark that ignites the flame of self-desire. 

I am silk, and lace. The silent witness of a woman’s transformation from self-doubt to self-love,  from hesitation to hunger. 

Her fingers reach for my clasps, and I know this is just the beginning of our adventures together.

For now, the night is young, and we have so much more to explore.

---

About the Author

Melisa Khan is a professional currently pursuing an MFA at SCAD in Luxury Brand Management. With a strong background in branding and a passion for fashion, she aspires to make her mark in the world of fashion magazines. Her creative insight and strategic thinking drive her to innovate in the realm of fashion media.