The Morning After

6:31 am

Everything's wrong. First of all, your alarm is going off; it's been years since you slept that late. Second of all, you're lying curled up nude in your bed; the nude part is normal these days, but curled-up-not-tied-up isn't. Third of all, you can smell bacon cooking; Mom never gets up this early on a Saturday. Okay, three impossible things isn't everything, but don't you need to believe six before breakfast?

You lay back and stretch, feeling the soft glide of the bare sheets caressing your skin as your body moves against them. Okay, number four: your sheets are clean, and so is your bedroom carpet and your bedstead and your whole room for that matter. Even the clothes that usually litter your floor are nowhere to be seen. Number five, there's a white tee shirt that you don't remember buying, even though you would have if you'd seen it in the store; it's one of your usuals, with the caption "Keep Calm and Go Shopping" on it. Pinned to the shirt is a note with spidery male handwriting 'This 1 is appropriate for 2-day - q'

Which reminds you; you feel a bit sore and a bit relaxed, like you had sex maybe a thousand times but in a restful and gentle way (if that's even possible). There's no knot in your shoulders or neck; in fact you feel totally relaxed. That's what really brings last night back. You feel so calm and peaceful that you don't even need to tease yourself this morning. You'd roll over and go back to sleep if it weren't for the bacon smell.

You get up and toss on the tee, which comes to about a half an inch below your crotch, then head to the panty drawer. You're going to take advantage of the fact that you're not bound up and on a timer to actually dress for breakfast today. You open your underwear drawer.

Which is empty. No bras (not that you were going to wear one), no panties, no pantyhose, not even a bathing suit. You open the other drawer and your socks are there, along with some garters from that phase you went through last year. You head for the closet and open it.

It looks like somebody sorted through your clothes with a cheese grater. Everything is ripped and cut and torn to pieces, and not in a good way. The only things untouched are a dozen belly shirts and the Other Costume. Not on a dare, and especially not when Tricky Trixie is out there.

With a sense of slight surreality you pull on some white socks with pink bows around each individual toe and use a pair of garters to hold them up. You're either barely decent or barely indecent, one of the two, when you head down for breakfast.

Okay, six. Mom is fully dressed in a working blouse and miniskirt. She's even wearing panties!

"Mom?"

"Oh, good morning Maya. Did you sleep all right?"

"Mom, what the heck?"

"Oh, I have to work today; I'll be helping Mr. Moore go through his briefs so he'll be ready for court on Monday."

Dressed like that, he'll be going through her briefs too. "Mom, what happened to my underwear?"

"Oh, that nice math tutor took them away; he said you wouldn't want to wear them after what that Trixie person did."

"And the rest of my clothes?"

"He said she was left alone in your closet too long. You're going to have to replace a lot of items - you should go shopping with Grandma's inheritance card."

"Thanks, Mom." Grandma's inheritance - several hundred thousand - wasn't really needed so Mom decided it would be a great rainy day fund. Replacing your entire wardrobe because a psycho-bitch went scissor-happy on it apparently counts as a rainy day. The only problem is you have no pants or skirts or anything until you can actually get out and buy something. It's not like you can really borrow anything of Mom's: she's twenty years and a kid different in size from you. It's not that she's out of shape, she's just not your shape. Even her skirts are fitted (very tightly) to show of the bit of bubble in the butt that she has and you don't.

You nearly **** when your mom suggests something. "Have you considered painting your crotch, dear? I read an article where a model wandered around New York all day wearing body-painted jeans and nobody noticed."

"I, uh, don't think that's for me, Mom. I'm, uh, not that good with a paintbrush."

"I am. Never tried one with paint on it, though."

"Mom! I am not going to let you do that to my cunny. Firstly, you know I'm way ticklish, and second you don't have time. You have to get into Mr. Moore's briefs."

"I guess you're right, Sweetie. See you later!" She grabs her purse and heads out; a moment later you hear the car starting. On weekends the traffic and parking allow her to drive to work.

7:17 am

With breakfast and dishes done you head out, counting on your power for concealment. You keep it near minimum, and some people are looking at the girl with the tee-shirt that almost covers her bare crotch, but not too many. You hear a few whispers, but nothing intolerable or too lewd. At one point a sudden wind comes up and your shirt lifts to your waist; there's a quick pinch on your bum and a green blur with bare legs takes off down the street.

7:34 am

Delicia's is your favourite lingerie shop; it caters to normal and kinky, it's open 24 hours, and it's located in a strip mall about half a mile from the house. That's enough of a walk for exercise, but not so much as to make you tired. Jen is on duty when you come in.

"Hey Maya, that look suits you; I hope we haven't lost you as a customer."

"No, I spilled something nasty in my underwear drawer; nothing salvageable. I need a total replace."

"Ooh, that's harsh."

Since nobody (well, practically nobody) goes shopping for undies at 7:30 in the morning, she has time to help you pick out a new under-wardrobe. You're standing there in nothing but socks and high-tops while Jen tests to see if your bra-fit is the same when the door-chime rings. A conservatively-dressed woman from your Mom's generation gasps when she sees you.

"You too? You poor girl!"

"Huh?"

"That nasty super-hero didn't 'do anything' to you, did she?" You can tell from the gleam in her eye that she's hoping (a) whoever it was did do something, and (b) you'd be willing to share the naughty secret.

Which would all be fine if you had any clue what she was talking about.

"What do you mean? What nasty super-hero?"

"Nudge. It's all over the news feeds this morning. Seven innocent girls so far, tied up and naked and left for the police, accused of being a super-villain. It's a good thing you got away from her."

You take out your phone with more than a little trepidation. Seven - no, eight - girls were stripped and restrained in public by someone wearing your costume and an obvious wig. Each was displayed in a very public place, and had a note taped to her navel claiming that she was the supervillain Tricky Trixie. You refuse to open the one whose headline mentions 'an ASPIC spokeswoman' despite also showing a particularly lewd photo of the victim.

You glance at the pictures; they're all redheads, about Trixie's height and weight, and they all have freckles on their face and chest. You don't bother with the obvious expository exclamation that you're being set up. In fact, you don't say anything because you're not stupid enough to blow your secret identity.

The woman buys two pairs of panties, one crotchless, and then leaves. She kept half an appraising eye on you the whole time she was in the store.

You buy a half-dozen bras in various shades of racy, a dozen pairs of utility panties and a half-dozen naughty ones, and a bikini that you put on. The bikini's got serious camel-toe, but at least it's black so the wet spot between your legs isn't so visible. Jen cuts a hundred off the total price tag for several photos from the bra fitting, especially the part where you tease your nipples to firmness so you can see if they show through the fabric (they do). She also invites you to go swimming tomorrow at seven a.m., which you tentatively accept.

At 8:25 you leave the store; by the time you get downtown several of the clothing stores will be open.