Ultimate panties, ultimate power

You are at peace.

You feel yourself united with the cosmos as the power of Zora's panties courses through your body, attuning your spirit to the very fabric of creation. You know all the secrets of the world. You see every drop of dew, every grain of sand, every bird and bug and beetle, every petal on every flower on every tree in every forest.

And, of course, every woman.

A thought occurs to you. The merest whim. With less effort than it takes to draw a breath, your desire is law.

You see every woman in the universe. A merchant selling fruit in the market, wrapped in veils, her eyes decorated with kohl. A milkmaid bringing her wares to town, her hair in neat blonde braids, her linen skirt free around her feet. A princess in finest silks, dispensing justice to her people. A warrior in leather, squabbling with her comrades in a tavern. Wenches and adventurers, pirates and librarians and soldiers and housewives and thieves, more than you could ever possibly hope to count in a lifetime. And all of them, in their own separate ways, quite beautiful.

In the smallest possible fraction of a second, you have them all nude.

The merchant squealing and hiding behind a tray of bananas from the curious gaze of the waterseller in the stall next door. The milkmaid tripping over her own feet, and spilling cream across her breasts in her hurry to get away. The princess frozen in shock before the eyes of two peasants, who only a moment ago had been arguing over a cow. The warrior shrieking and ducking under a table, her scarlet face giving the lie to her previous bravado.

Every detail, no matter how small, is yours to savour. You see every red face, every knock-kneed crouch and fumbling attempt to preserve modesty. You see every beautiful breast, every lovely bottom and, of course, every last pussy in the universe. Womankind has, quite literally, no secrets left from you.

The collective embarrassment is so intense that you feel the very fibres of creation resonate with shame. A single humiliated squeal that's so loud it reverberates through the cosmos. And, to accompany the deepest blush in history, the enormous amusement of the male gender, as every man in the world gets an eyeful of the bare beauty on display.

You give the girls a few moment to squirm before you make your decree. It's not so much spoken as it is simply projected into the subconscious mind of every sapient being. They're no more likely to contravene your will than they are to defy the law of gravity.

A new supreme being sits on the Throne of Heaven. A supreme being with very particular tastes. And to celebrate his ascension, he has declared a holiday.

For the men, that is.

For the women, it's something a little different.

Today is a male day of rest. No man will lift a finger. All the work will be done by women. And, to remind them that they were ultimately created for the amusement of men, and no other reason, they will do it naked.

Today is Raider's Day. On Raider's Day, no woman can wear a single scrap of clothing. And no woman is permitted to hide inside her bedroom, waiting for tomorrow. She must go about her daily business, exactly as she would on any other day. Except she has to do it in the nude.

And she will likely have extra work to do, since she is bound to follow any order given to her by a man. She must wait at men's tables, run their errands, fetch their drinks and till their fields. She must dance in the streets, kiss her friends, confess her deepest secrets and even allow them to bend her over their laps, all for their entertainment.

And her own pride will be turned against her. She will suffer a thousand petty insults to her dignity, knowing herself to be the victim of a cosmic practical joke, yet unable to lift a finger in ****. She will burn with shame at every moment, naked in the streets for all the world to see, knowing that the universe is amusing itself at her expense.

Until the next day comes, and she is finally allowed to put on clothes again.

Raider's Day, you decide, ought to come only once a year. Best not to overdo it.