The Tale of Spider Silk Lingerie

For years, Mortimer had dreamed of wearing women's lingerie. Unfortunately, his wife Deirdre was less than supportive of the whole idea. Less than supportive was a bit of an understatement really, she was vigorously anti the idea of him owning anything remotely shiny or satiny or soft and she seemed to have a nose for any lingerie he would buy and secrete about the house.

But the call of lingerie was strong, and when Mortimer saw the latest offering from Elle MacPherson, a beautiful green camisole with thick white lace trim, he had to have it. Surreptitiously, he placed the order and had it sent to his office where Deirdre would be unaware of it. On the day it arrived, he transported it home in his lunch hour and carefully laid the soft garment, wrapped in light pink tissue paper into his new hiding spot, under a lose floorboard next to his desk in his little home office. With no time to wear it, he satisfied himself with running his fingers gently over the nylon, feeling it warm to his touch. So soft, so responsive. It was hard to tear himself away to go back to work, and once there he spent the rest of the day watching the clock, yearning to be home.

The after work drive home was a good deal faster than usual, but as Mortimer strode through the front door of his little semi detached urban dwelling, his heart sank. There was Deirdre, holding up his new camisole like yesterday's fish and chip wrappers.

“What is this?” She shrieked, her alabaster skin turned a deep shade of enraged red.

“It's a camisole dear, I bought it for you,” Mortimer lied uselessly. Deirdre was at least twice his size and couldn't hope to fit into the delicate camisole any more than a camel could pass through the eye of a needle.

The lie was not taken well. “What! You liar! This isn't in my size, you puny little weed!”

Truth be told, Mortimer was in no way a puny little weed, but Dierdre's love for cheese and chocolate had seen her balloon in recent years.

“Deirdre, please...” Mortimer began.

“Don't you please me,” Deride screeched, taking the corners of the camisole and ripping at them violently. Mortimer could only watch in horror as she attempted to destroy one of the most beautiful pieces of lingerie Mortimer had ever laid eyes on in his life.

A testament to the quality of the garment, the stitching held firm against her efforts and finally, with a cry of frustration she turned on one heel, marched into the lounge where the crackling fire burnt merrily in the grate, and tossed the garment to the flames.

A look of triumph established itself on her broad face as the flames took the nylon and devoured it eagerly. Mortimer could only stand in the doorway and watch as yet another lingerie dream went up in smoke.

It could have been the end of their relationship, but in spite of her somewhat controlling and vicious characteristics, Mortimer loved Deirdre. In addition, he had promised to stay married to her forever on their wedding day, and he intended to keep that promise. If he was not a man of his word, then he was nothing at all.

So, without another word to Deirdre, Mortimer went down to the basement and to his spider collection, the one hobby Deirdre begrudgingly allowed him to have. Satisfied that she had won yet another lingerie battle, Deirdre went and settled herself on the couch. Mortimer could hear her footsteps above and the creaking as she settled down into the crevasse her posterior had created for itself over the years.

Down in the basement, Mortimer smiled to himself winsomely and reached out to touch the last secret he had from Deirdre, a soft spider web spun by a unique little spider he had bred himself in the darkness of the basement. A brown web spinner, with a soft pink marking on the tail, it looked as innocuous a house spider as had ever crawled the earth. But it was special, very special indeed.

The silk that it produced was so soft, so fine that it was nigh transparent. When laid across the skin, it became effectively invisible. It had taken many months for his little spiders to weave enough of this silk to make anything beyond a handkerchief, but as their numbers grew through rampant reproduction, so did the production of Mortimer's precious silk.

Within weeks, Mortimer had enough spider silk to spin several rolls of thread. This he gathered up carefully, and sent away to a sympathetic seamstress and craftswoman.

One month later, Mortimer's spider silk lingerie arrived. He did not bother to send it to his office, instead it came flat packed in a large business envelope. Deirdre ignored it entirely. That was not how lingerie was delivered. Anything in a brown paper wrapper she would rip open with the eagerness of a child at Christmas, regardless of whether it was addressed to her or not.

In the little bathroom adjoining the bedroom, Mortimer unfurled the fruits of his labor, drawing in his breath as he beheld the beauty his seamstress and spiders had created.

So light that it swung slightly in the light bathroom breeze, the spider silk camisole glistened softly in the fluorescent light. He put his hand behind it and saw it as clearly as if there were nothing before it at all. He tugged gently at the fabric, it held firm. A wide grin came across his face, the sort of grin he had not enjoyed for years. Shedding his white button down shirt, Mortimer donned the spider silk camisole. He felt it fall across his chest and shoulders to his waist, delightfully soft, yet utterly invisible. There was, perhaps a slight sheen to his chest, but nothing that would seem suspicious to the casual observer.

Spider silk lingerie, wife safe, 100% invisible and undetectable to the human eye.

“What are you doing?” Deirdre voice cut across his triumphant thoughts. She was lurking outside the door, clearly her suspicions had been aroused. If she hadn't dedicated herself to watching Oprah at 2 pm every day, she would have made an excellent detective.

“Nothing, dear,” Mortimer replied, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Why are you hiding in there?” Deirdre demanded, opening the door and frowning at her shirtless husband.

“Why is your top off? Were you wearing that stuff again?” She demanded, her beady eyes hawk keen as she stepped into the room and began searching for lingerie. She went through the wash basket, knelt down to look under the sink and peered behind the toilet cistern. When none of these places revealed lingerie, she stood upon a stool and checked for loose ceiling tiles.

“I know that look, you have lingerie!” she accused as Mortimer calmly put his shirt back on.

“No dear,” he replied mildly, stepping out of the bathroom and into a new world of stealthy satisfaction.

Behind him, he could hear Deirdre begin to pull away wood paneling from the wall.

“I'll find it!” her vow drifted to him as he went downstairs and called a tradesman. By the way Deirdre was going, they were going to need an entirely new bathroom.

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