Short lace nightie
She gently closed the bedroom door behind her, like one would close a precious book, with a breath. The silence in the room was soft, comforting, barely disturbed by the light movements of the curtains swaying in the evening breeze. The last golden rays of the sun filtered through the half-open window, casting warm shadows on the wall. She moved forward, barefoot on the warm parquet floor, without a word, without a sound, as if each gesture had found its exact place in the calm of this end of the day. On the back of a chair, carefully placed, awaited her the room she had chosen that morning, with that discreet thrill one feels when faced with the promise of a moment one offers oneself. A short lace nightie , fine as a breath, delicate as a memory one never wants to crease. She grasped it with her fingertips, slowly, savoring the feel of the fabric against her skin. The lace slid through her hands like living water, like a fabric that breathed, that understood, that welcomed.
She took her time. Time to undo the buttons of her shirt, to lay her clothes on the chair, to free her body from all pressure, all constraints. The mirror in front of her didn't lie: it wasn't a frozen image, not an ideal projection. It was her. With her curves, her moods, her discreet scars, her stories in her eyes. She bent slightly to slip on the nightie, letting it hug her shoulders, flow down her chest, caress her stomach, and follow the soft shape of her hips. The lace, pure white or perhaps ivory depending on the light, rested flush against the skin. It hid nothing, or almost nothing. It emphasized. It revealed. It suggested. The fabric stopped just above her thighs, like a fragile boundary between modesty and abandonment. The thin straps, adjusted at just the right height, framed a V-neckline adorned with floral motifs, embroidered with almost sensual precision. She looked at herself. Not to judge. To see herself. To find herself again.
The sensation was incomparable. Neither clothed nor naked. Somewhere in between. Between the fabric and the skin, there was no barrier, only a silent conversation. Every movement made the lace dance, every breath made the fabric vibrate. She took a few steps, and the nightie followed, faithful, light, docile. She stopped by the window, reached out to open it a little wider, and the warm wind rushed into the room, making the lace shiver like a secret whispered in her ear. She felt her skin react, as if awakened by this unexpected caress. It was as if the fabric and the air composed an intimate choreography, a slow dance, music only she could hear.
She sat on the edge of the bed. The fabric rose slightly, revealing more of the base of her thighs. She didn't try to adjust the nightie. She let it live. She let it speak. There was no one else there. And yet, she felt watched. Not by someone outside, but by herself. By that inner woman who often fell silent, faded away in the tumult of everyday life. But tonight, she was there. Alive. Present. Whole. The white lace on her golden skin, the light outlining her contours, the silence amplifying her breathing… everything was in its place. Everything formed a perfect balance. She reached for the nightstand, grabbed a scented cream, and slowly applied it to her arms, her neck, her shoulders. The gesture was slow, almost ceremonial. She took care of herself not as a routine, but as a ritual. And lace, in this context, became more than a garment: it became a case, a mirror, a spare skin.
Night was beginning to fall outside. The sounds of the street had faded, as if muted by the warmth of the air. In this room, only gentleness was allowed. She stood up, walked slowly to the mirror, and observed herself again. But this time, it was no longer just a woman in front of the mirror. It was a presence. An energy. A force. She raised her arms, danced her fingers through her hair, and the lace slid across her chest like a wave. She saw in his eyes something she hadn't seen in a long time. No doubt. No judgment. Just… an immense calm. A silent love.
She then lay down on the cool sheets. The lace followed, adapting to every fold of her body. She felt the fabric on her stomach, on her thighs, on her chest, rising gently in time with her breathing. Nothing weighed down. Nothing bothered. The world could spin outside, the messages could wait, the screens could turn off. Here, in this little white cocoon, there was only what was essential. Her and her skin. Her and her breath. Her and this short nightie, so fine, so beautiful, so real. A garment she had chosen for herself. Not to seduce. Not to provoke. Just to exist. Just to feel good in its light.
And perhaps that's the true beauty of a lace nightie. It's not what it shows. It's not what it hides. It's what it makes you feel. It's that connection between body and soul, between skin and the moment. It doesn't need to be flashy to be unforgettable. It's there, light, alive, silent. And it reminds the wearer that she deserves to be loved. First, by herself.