Memes and Other Frivolities

Write Big Sexy Words: Where the Wild Thyme Blows

A/N: A hapless poacher is kidnapped in the night while foraging for mushrooms, spirited away in the orgiastic grasp of a wild hunt. Content/Warning: M/orgy, fantasy, dubious consent (intoxicants/magic), sexual exhaustion, light kidnapping

Deri straightened up from the brush in which he had been skulking. He’d already caught a brace of fine, fat pheasants on the duke’s land, and was now warily making his way towards the woods bordered by the crumbling stone wall that would mean he was home free. But what made him break his cautious stride was the telltale speckles of pale mushrooms in the dark grass. Wouldn’t some mushrooms go nicely with these pheasants? He’d already been poaching on the land, why not a little sneaky foraging to sweeten the pot? 

He’d found a broad ring of mushrooms not far from the edge of the woods and he scuttled from the stand of brush, drawing his little skinning knife as he went. Birds slung over his shoulder, he knelt down and began to slice the little stems, humming tunelessly in celebration of his good fortune. He gathered the mushrooms carefully into his hat, trying not to crush them over-much as he went and so intent was he on his work that he hadn’t noticed that a chill had come over the night until he noticed a puff of his own breath in what had moments before been heavy early summer air. Deri raised his head and looked around, filled with unease that outstripped his usual anxiety of poaching on the duke’s land. 

From somewhere high above there came first what sounded like a rumble of thunder, growing louder and louder and longer and longer until it became the sound of a hundred spectral hooves on steel or ice! And then came the terrible baying, a choir of discordant hounds drunk on the chase and out for blood. And out of the sudden clouds that had thrown themselves like a shroud across the great bright disc of the moon there came the hunt: a host of spectral riders and hellish hounds suddenly bursting into being.

The women were bare-breasted and whooping and howling with mad laughter, their bodies white as bone in the moonlight. The men were clad in spotted skin and wore crowns of rotting bronze. All carried long spears and rode horses who were but skin stretched over bone and shrieking. Down the ribbon of frost they came and he knew then that it was over for him. Because everybody knows that the wild hunt will kill any poor traveler they lay eyes upon, and at that moment, all their eyes were upon him.

Deri tried to run, but he couldn’t move. It was as if his legs were bound to the earth within the ring of mushrooms! He could do nothing as the hunt bore down on him, tracing the dark grass with silver frost, though the horse’s bloody hooves never seemed to touch it. The hapless poacher tried to find his voice to pray but it was as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth!

One of the fiends leaned down from its saddle and snatched Deri by the front of his tunic. There was a shriek of triumph, a flicker as of lighting, and then poor Deri was gone, leaving only the pheasants and the fairy ring mushrooms scattered like stars in the dark grass.

Deri was certain he was dead, for there was a sudden dark and terrible rushing and the laughter of the riders and the screaming of the horses all around him. But then he felt a gentle warmth and felt the hunt slow. He lifted his head and squinted around him.

He was laying like a felled deer across the broad shoulders of one of the horses, who were one by one slowing to a trot, muffled by thick moss. He could smell food and hear music. The hunt was welcomed with a hue and cry and when they stopped Deri could see they were in a green glade, lit by many bronze braziers and lamps, strewn about with cushions and rugs and exotic furs. It looked like a party!

The huntsman tipped him off the horse and trotted away, laughing as Deri skittered away from the horse’s hooves and picked himself upright, dusting the moss from his clothes. Nobody seemed to pay him much mind, though he caught a few of the women looking at him, whispering behind their hands. Well, he couldn’t quite figure how he was going to get back…or wake up, if this was actually just a dream (maybe the mushrooms had been a bit funny or maybe he’d been struck by lightning!), so he might as well enjoy himself.

Most of the people were wearing masks, or else had faces heavily painted or tattoos. It gave them all a sort of unsettling look, but surely if they meant to hurt him, they wouldn’t have brought him to their lovely party. Straightening his shirt and endeavoring to look important, Deri had a look around. 

There were great racks of meat upon a long, low table, ribs yawning, haunches glossy and crackled. Fruit– bright fruits such as Deri had never seen– piled high or else scattered like precious stones. Bread that smelled like honey. Casks whose contents Deri could not guess at.  Queer instruments filled the air with music he could not identify (not that Deri had heard much music in his life), but which filled him with a kind of jittery desire to move. He wasn’t sure he’d danced since his wedding feast and he was clumsy. Got tangled up in a cushion and fell into a pack of partygoers. Several of them leapt away like panthers with looks of annoyance, but Deri was delighted to find that the ones who stayed turned out to be a range of very pretty women (in the wild, unsettling way of the people at this party). Deri was about to apologize when one of the women seized him by the hair and kissed him! He could feel the hands of one of her companions on the inside of his thighs! Someone reached to strip him of his shirt. He was momentarily self conscious and then one of the huntresses kissed him again while another unfastened the flies of his trousers and slipped her delicate hand inside. Nerves sufficiently diverted, Deri tipped deliriously back into the cushions. There seemed to be more hands than the beautiful faces that leaned over him, stroking and nipping at his skin. A hot tongue dragged up the length of his cock, licking it to full hardness against his belly. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such lavish attentions but when he tried to voice this surprise, the women just giggled and shushed him. Finally, one of them held him down on the moss and shook her head. 

“If you cannot hold your tongue, I’ll give you something to do with it.” She said in a voice that was like the hum of the wind through reeds. She straddled his chest and he was momentarily treated to the novelty of the fact that her pubic hair was red as a sunset before she pounced astride his face and all his senses were consumed with the most intimate of pleasures. He lapped and sucked at her greedily, as if she were the finest thing he had ever tasted. The way she moaned somewhere above him made his cock twitch and leak, much to the delight of his other partners. Someone took his cock in her mouth, swallowing him to the root with a shocking, fluid grace, tongue writhing against his shaft as she bobbed her head along his length. 

Deri felt blindly, finding lips and tongues, curves of hips and bellies and breasts until at last they could dive between a pair of muscular thighs and he heard a loud moan as his fingers sank into wet heat. His other hand was seized and the digits thrust into a mouth to be worshipped by a huntress’s hot velvet tongue. He moaned at the overwhelming wave of sensation, feeling like everything was melting together.

He lost all sense of himself for a while. The hunt were like rutting beasts, shameless and desperate. Now and again he became aware that not all the hands on his body were the elegant, feminne hands of the huntresses and once he was certain he felt the scratch of a rough beard on the back of his neck along with the scrape of teeth. This should have bothered him, he thought, as he’d never considered himself especially interested in men but it seemed right somehow, in the orgiastic rush of the thing. To not know where anyone began or ended, regardless of sex. Briefly, he assumed he might have passed out, when he had lost track of how many times he had spent himself in eager fingers, greedy cunts, and laughing mouths. 

At some point he came back to himself, dragged up from stupor by the gentle, teasing drag of nails down his chest and the sound of low, contented laughter. When his eyes focused again, he found himself in the lap of a huntress he hadn’t thus far had the pleasure of meeting.

This huntress was pale as bone, with wild hair that seemed to have once been the color of straw, but now had some queer greenish cast to it, like moss. She wore the top half of a stag’s skull for a mask, brass beads jingling from the branching antlers as she straddled Deri’s thighs. He had been certain he was spent but just the skimming touch of the huntress’ unsettlingly delicate hands– how could such brittle and finely made hands be turned to the ferocious pursuits of the hunt?– was enough that he found himself aroused again. He was torn between being pleased with himself, that he would not have to decline this beautiful and fierce woman and that he apparently still possessed the virility of a younger man providing the company was better than his weary wife, and feeling exhausted, the stiffening of his cock almost an ache in the curl of her fingers. Her eyes glittered from the eye sockets of her mask and Deri thought they might be the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, a kind of pale and verdant color that arrested his attention and made the hair on the back of his neck bristle with some primordial wariness. But it’s hard to be wary when a beautiful woman is stroking one’s cock and when one has fucked more times in the last– well, how long had he been here anyway?– then he fancied he might have in the whole last year of his life! 

“Have you enough left for me?” The huntress asked, brushing her thumb over the crown of his cock, delighted by his moan as the motion brushed a pearlescent bead that welled from the slit as if at her bidding. 

“Yes–!” Deri breathed. “If only just.” 

The huntress smiled as if amused and reached for her pewter chalice. 

“Poor thing. Are you thirsty, perhaps?” She asked, sitting back on his thighs. She looked down at him from beyond the skull and smiled her crooked smile as she tipped the chalice with almost agonizing slowness so that the contents dripped and then ran into the well of her collarbones, overflowed and began to run in dark rivulets between her breasts. Deri understood what she wanted (and he was terribly thirsty, what man wouldn’t be, having had the kind of night he was having?) and he leaned forward to lick the wine from her pale skin, chasing it as it ran over her breasts. Caught drops of it that dripped from her dark, high-set nipples before they had a chance to fall into their laps. It was of such richness and sweetness that Deri more than happily, greedily sucked it from her skin. 

The huntress laughed delightedly and continued to pour the wine so she could watch him chase the blood-dark streams with his eager mouth until his lips became stained with it and until his eyes were overcome with the dream-like unfocus of a drunkard. He felt light-hearted and light-headed, and the woman who sat astride him looked all the more beautiful, as if she glowed like an angel at the edges and the brass beads that adorned the antlers of her mask shimmered like stars. Deri collapsed back against the cool moss, hands resting on her muscular thighs. The huntress put her cup aside– it still seemed heavy, even though he was certain he must have drunk all the wine from it– and shifted herself up onto her knees so she could crawl up his body, the antlers of her mask glittering in the lantern light. She braced one hand on his chest, something rust-colored under her fingernails and rings of carved bone on her fingers and used the other hand to hold his cock steady so she could sink down onto it with a shivering moan.  As if she’d never had anything better. 

Her nails dug into his chest as she rode him, the sinewy whole of her rippling as moved above him. More taking her pleasure in his body than anything else. Deri found he didn’t mind. His body was tired but it was no less pleasurable, he thought, to lie here and watch a beautiful woman enjoying himself. Even if his body was toeing the line of indecent sensitivity and her movements made him see stars and feel sharp-cold sparks deep in his belly. All her jewelry jingled and shimmered and the air smelled like the heavy sweet wine and sweat and sex. 

It seemed impossible that she could wring another orgasm from his spent body. He didn’t even mind at this point, happy to simply be an instrument of pleasure for her or indeed any woman who might come after. But he could feel the telltale build of pressure in his belly, the tightening of his balls, the tremor in his thighs. He grabbed for her slim waist, and instead of a very manly roar of triumphant orgasm, poor Derry simply gasped as he came again.

The huntress laughed and her nails bit into his chest as she rocked forward, riding him like her own unruly steed through his orgasm as she chased her own, until she was tightening around him in a sensation that was half pleasure, half agony and then she wilted forward, panting, her hands braced on his shoulders. Her grin was feral, it unsettled him. But he hadn’t even the strength to push her off. 

“Surely the dawn must be coming soon.” Deri said, though the light in the wood hadn’t changed in the slightest. “Will you take me home? Or perhaps back to the field, as I seem to have dropped the birds I snared when you snatched me up. Assuming the duke’s men aren’t patrolling the edge of the woods, of course…” 

“No, dear heart, I’m sorry.” The huntress said, though her skull mask and her smiling mouth gave her a kind of double grin that wasn’t sorry at all. She ran a finger up the smear of black-red wine, dried to stickiness between her breasts. “Don’t you know that when you’re among the fae, you can neither drink the food nor taste the wine, lest you never be able to return to your home? You have feasted with the wild hunt, and so you belong to us. Forever.” The huntress leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, swallowing his screams. 

This story was begun for Write Big Sexy Words for the month of October 2020 (“forage”). It was finished for #WBSW October 2021 (“rutting”)


Dress Up || An Ada & Lori Story

  • A/N: Ada and Lori from “Avon Calling” return in this short little story about my favorite subtle kink: being dressed up like a little doll by a high-femme dominant partner who just wants me to look your best and feel special.
  • Content/Warning: F/F, lesbian, bisexual, non-monogamy, 1950s housewife, dressing up, gentle domination, femmedom, lingerie, predicament bondage (nail polish), dollplay (kind of).
  • Word Count: 1,671

Lori rifled through Ada’s closet, humming along with the record as she slid the dresses along on their hangers with sharp efficient little snaps. Ada was almost sure the other woman– in her tight, trim little suits– must be so embarrassed by her wardrobe, which felt at best girlish and at worst, unforgivably plain. Lori stood for a moment, tapping her barefoot on the beige carpet, her expression resolute. 

“This one.” She declared, pulling out a green dress with a fluffy gathered skirt and a little jacket that matched. Ada thought perhaps she had bought it for a friend’s wedding and hadn’t worn in since. Lori handed it to her and moved across the room to Ada’s dresser, with all the confidence of someone who had come to know the bedroom perfectly well in just the short amount of time that their Friday afternoons had become a little longer and lazier than a quick fumble in the kitchen or on the sofa. And sometimes, extended to days that weren’t the usual Friday of Lori’s Avon rounds at all, like today. And today was the first time they were all going to have dinner together: Ada, Lori, and Everett, who was to meet them at the restaurant when he got off work. So naturally, Lori had wanted to make sure Ada was dressed for a nice evening out, as if she knew without Ada telling her that she did not often dress up. Ada took the dress and laid it on the bed, smoothing the fabric, some kind of jacquard with a barely-there pattern of green ivy. It was a very nice dress, she probably could have worn it again some time other than that already half-forgotten wedding, but she was never sure when she had the occasion. She looked up and watched Lori open her top drawer and consider the contents with the same quick appraising movements as she had assessed the contents of the closet. 

Ada’s face burned, watching Lori go through her lingerie drawer, running her perfect, red-polished fingers over all the underwear and bras. She wondered why she didn’t stop the other woman going briskly through her most intimate things but instead, she turned away, flustered She couldn’t stop Lori but she also couldn’t stand the idea of seeing her affronted by the mostly utilitarian contents of the drawer. She twisted her fingers in her apron, eyes squeezed shut. The fact that Lori had seen her panties– usually right before they were removed from Ada’s person and tossed somewhere careless– plenty of times seemed to have escaped her in the moment. 

Continue reading “Dress Up || An Ada & Lori Story”

Fluent in Greek

  • A/N: A young poet’s indecent affair with a member of the varsity rowing team just got a little more exciting. Fluent in Greek comes from the variety of euphemisms used to refer to sex between men.
  • Content/Warning: M/M/M, gay sex, threesome/threeway, oral, anal, double penetration, blindfolds, late 19th-early 20th century, university romance
  • Word Count: 3181

This time of year was always bitter cold by the river and Jamie wrapped his extravagant purple scarf a little more snugly around his chin, his hands fidgeting with the leather strap of his satchel.

Below him, on the little docks, were the rowers coming in from their practice. Panting, shoving, shrugging into their sweaters as they trudged up the hill.

“Hullo, there’s Jamie.” Two of them broke off from the group, jogging up to the poet where he stood on the hill. One of them, tall and blond, bounded up to Jamie and playfully snatched his hat from his head. “Look at you, all snug in your coat and hat while we freeze in our uniforms!” He said, with mock affront, tossing the hat to the youth who had come with him– a little stockier and with a wave of dark hair– and taking Jamie’s arm. “Oh! And this is Alfred. I thought he could join in our tea, eh?”

“Oh…” Jamie looked back at Alfred, who had put his black, floppy hat on his head at a jaunty angle, making the peacock feather in the band stick out absurdly. The dark-haired rower winked as he trailed after them, hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Yes, alright. I’m sure we could stretch things a bit.”

A short, brisk walk found them back in Jamie’s rooms. Alfred took them in with a raised eyebrow, having never experienced them before. And Jamie’s rooms were an experience. The walls were packed with all kinds of prints: botanical drawings, postcards, old photographs of Europe. The old floor was covered with a haphazard patchwork of exotic rugs, with cushions and ottomans blooming across them like mushrooms. Into a heap of these, the blond rower threw himself bodily and rolled about like a contented dog.

“Charlie…” Jamie said, reproachfully, as he hung up his coat and scarf. Alfred obligingly handed him his hat before perching on the edge of a chartreuse ottoman. “I just tidied.” Charlie never could tell what Jamie meant by “tidied” as the room was always a wreck of papers and books further cluttered by plaster statuettes and blue china vases. But apparently, Jamie felt he had done some sort of cleaning-up beforehand, as he continued to frown at the rower. “And I suppose you’ll want me to serve you as well?”

“It was such a long practice, darling Jamie.” Charlie pouted dramatically. “Mine and Alfred’s arms are like limp noodles.” He looked at Alfred for backup.

“Yes, can’t do a damn thing with them I’m afraid.” Alfred agrees, leaning back on his elbow.

“Honestly.” But Jamie served them anyway, setting things on tarnished silver trays he set on the rug between the three of them, settling beside Charlie on a cushion. Alfred wasn’t sure what Jamie had meant by “stretching”, as the poet had more than enough, even taking into account the voracious appetites of the two rowers. The spread tended towards sweet things, which Alfred supposed fit with the fey young man he’d just been introduced to.

The young men lolled about amongst the cushions for some time, talking about various and sundry and sometimes talking of nothing at all. Jamie found a box of slim factory rolled cigarettes and lit one. Alfred declined and Charlie declined as well, though he kept stealing Jamie’s from between his fingers now and again. When the food had at least been exhausted and the pot had gone cold, Jamie got up to tidy the tea things. Unlike some of the other students, Jamie would rather have his paintings and his books and his Greek bronzes than have a scout and he lived very near the kitchens anyway, so he’d just bring the tea things over there to be washed once his company had gone. Charlie unfolded himself from amongst the cushions and trailed after the poet.

“Don’t tidy up on my account.” He said, bounding energetically across the room to seize Jamie by the hips as the young man bent to stack the tea things on a low lacquer table by the door.

“Oh, and here I thought you were tired.” Jamie said, lightly plucking Charlie’s hands from his hips, his face flushed a bright pink. He admonished his companion but laughed in a knowing if somewhat nervous way.

“Your teas are always so restorative!” Charlie proclaimed, catching Jamie again, this time looping his arms about his waist. “Surely you know that by now.

“Charlie–” The little poet squeaked. “We have company.”

“I told you, I invited Alfred to tea. Do stay, won’t you, old sport?”

“Is he…you know?” Jamie asked, glancing nervously at Alfred.

“Is he what?” Charlie asked, winking conspiratorially at Alfred over Jamie’s shoulder.

“You know…fluent in Greek?” Jamie said, sheepishly, his voice pitched with embarrassment.

“Do I like boys, are you asking?” Alfred said, crossing his arms, one eyebrow raised. He grinned, reaching out to grab Jamie’s chin in his hands, and kissed him. Swallowing the poet’s startled cry before he released him. “Guess I am, then.” The dark-haired boy herded the poet into Charlie’s chest so that Jamie was caged between them.

Continue reading “Fluent in Greek”
Memes and Other Frivolities

Meme || Lingerie is for Everyone + #SinfulSunday

I was inspired by fetish erotica from Weimar-era Berlin. I made the dress and pasties (are you really surprised by now?) There’s a fetish maid apron and hat to match but I wasn’t going for that vibe in this instance. Maybe someday I’ll show you.

I wore this outfit for a Zoom cabaret gig: I absolutely put on this outfit to show myself from the collarbones up for about 10 seconds before I launched into a slideshow… meaning next to nobody saw me and I was wearing my glasses . Ah well, at least you all get to enjoy it.

Sinful Sunday
Blog Days of Summer, Memes and Other Frivolities

Meme || Lingerie is For Everyone

Sadly I had to break my streak of handmades this round because I’ve been chasing an absinthe dream for my other writing gig (it’s a dream full of weird Decadent art nouveau cocks). So here I am in my favorite thrift-store find working on a faux 1920’s step-in that I’ll be able to show you next round! I got this beautiful, silky soft vintage robe at one of those delightful “textiles by the pound” thrift places. It’s the perfect weight for wearing alone or layered with pajamas in the winter.

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Blog Days of Summer, Memes and Other Frivolities

Meme || Lingerie is For Everyone

This round of Lingerie is for Everyone is yet another handmade piece of mine (how long can I maintain the streak of handmade lingerie? guess you’ll find out!) but a much more simple bit of loungewear: a caftan made of velvet burnout that’s just sheer enough to be sexy, but still has a beautiful design on it (its softness also invites the caress of careful hands), tied and trimmed with real silk velvet that shed all over my house for months after I cut it. It ties under the bust but the sides can be (and often are) left completely open, exposing the long line of my well-turned legs, the rolling curves of my decadently soft figure. It falls to the floor with a long and fluttering train.

The design was inspired by the aesthetic and decadent poets of the late Victorian era and the early 20th century, for whom the sunflower was a prominent symbol and common artistic motif. It invites lounging with a book or lying on a heap of cushions listening to discourses on love and beauty, poetry and pain. It begs for absinthe and poppy-tainted cigarettes. It was made for the madness of kissing, for secret affairs. Sapphic poetry hidden under pillows.

Or perhaps simply taking a nap on one’s velvet sofa in a patch of late summer sunlight because at the end of the day being an overwrought and ardent worshiper of beauty is exhausting.

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Blog Days of Summer, Stories


  • A/N: A scene of frivolous indulgence in which a French ladies maid is very unprofessional. 
  • Content/Warnings: F/solo, lingerie, historical erotica, maid
  • Word Count: 1096

Estelle had found the nightgown while she was putting away a pair of Mademoiselle’s stockings she had been mending. It was such a pretty, fragile thing, made of delicate batiste and peach-colored ribbons, trimmed with yards and yards of Belgian lace. Estelle could not imagine how much such a thing would cost, but it was finer than anything she would ever wear. She ran her fingers through the lace, her other hand running over the plain black wool of her uniform.

A mischievous thought struck her (she had so many mischievous thoughts lately) and she gingerly removed the nightgown from the drawer, holding it up so that the light filtered through the fabric.

The family was gone: Mademoiselle had gone out riding with her father and brothers. It was not uncommon for Estelle to be away from the other servants and in her mistress’ rooms alone. She would think of some excuse for her absence, and it would only be for a moment anyway.

Continue reading “Lace”
Blog Days of Summer

Blog Days of Summer 2020 Kickoff!

It’s been a weird summer, obviously. On top of the general…everything of the present time I moved and in doing so lost my job. So I’m trying to do something semi-constructive with my time in between moping through online job boards discovering that most “work from home jobs” are actually massive scams and painting my horrible taupe living room (taupe! is there a worse color?!). I have some long-term plans including a foray into erotic comics and some things I’ve written for my vanilla authorial situation but I’m having trouble staying on top of things, finishing things, staying motivated.

So I decided on a whim this morning to hop on Love Violet’s Blog Days of Summer daily content bandwagon, to see if I can actually keep up the momentum). I’ve already laid out my pile of unfinished WIPS to see if I can knock those out over the next week or so and then I’ll– oh no!– have to come up with some new content all by myself! I’ve decided to add some pictures and personal essay topics to my list as well, just to give myself a few simple options.

Let’s see where this goes!

Memes and Other Frivolities

Meme || Lingerie is For Everyone

At B50/W43/H55 I’m a big girl; I’ve described myself as a “full-fat cheesecake”. Which is all well and good, most days it doesn’t trouble me, but it certainly makes finding cute lingerie a chore. I went on a date with a very femme lady that included a trip to a high-end lingerie store. I was shocked to find bras in my size but then found myself wandered despondently around the store trying to find panties to match my fancy new bras.

Nothing in my size or shape, even in the ubiquitously bland black or beige. Ah well, I thought, and resigned myself to never really matching tops and bottoms.

I got back into sewing in 2015 or so and it occurred to me after making several dresses that I could just…make underwear that suited me. I had recently “adopted” two huge bags of lingerie fabric from my 9-5 boss and figured if I had materials to spare, I might as well take the risk and learn something new! So I drafted a pattern from a pair of Secrets in Lace high waisted panties that were too small and after some trial-and-errors, a lot of British murder mysteries, and some tears, I wound up with these gorgeous, completely sheer, peach-colored panties, trimmed with the softest stretch lace and matching bows from my stash. The perfect compliment to this bra I bought on that date I mentioned and some of my peachy 1950’s lingerie!

They’re soft, perfectly high-waisted for my marshmallowy shape (which means they fit over my garter belts!) and have a beautiful keyhole back with a particularly extravagant ribbon because I only wear very voluminous skirts with petticoats so I can indulge a very silly butt-ribbon whenever I like without spoiling the lines.

I have other pairs I’ve made or will finish soon from the same pattern. Perhaps in winter you’ll get to see the luxurious velvet version I wear with heavy stockings under my wool skirts to keep off the chill of the Midwestern winters.

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