Chapter 24 #2
I reached down and undid the front first.
“Slowly,” he said. “I want you to think about what you’re doing.”
My cheeks burned as I obeyed. One clip, then the other. Then the back, which was harder. He made me work for it, not helping, simply standing there and watching while I fumbled behind myself with shaking fingers.
When the last strap came free, he said, “Now take your panties off.”
They were already half out of place. Pulling them down over my thighs should have been a simple thing. Instead it felt mortifyingly ceremonial. Final. I dropped them, stepped out of them, and stared at the little wet scrap of white lace on the marble floor.
“Pick them up,” he said. “Put them on the counter.”
I bent to obey, acutely aware of how naked that left me beneath the garter belt and stockings. When I straightened, he lifted one of the loose straps with two fingers.
“Now refasten the suspenders properly.”
My trembling fingers managed the delicate task at last, though part of me felt certain Porter would spank me for taking so long.
By the time I had finished, my pulse was beating very fast. I couldn’t stop thinking about how the belt, the suspenders, and the stockings framed my bare, punished pussy and my no-longer-virgin bottom: yet another way my sponsor wanted those most private parts presented for his enjoyment.
“Good,” he said. “Now you may use the toilet.”
The permission itself made me chew the inside of my cheek. I sat with my face burning and my white-stockinged knees parted, with him standing there in front of me. I looked at the floor and tried to pretend there was some remaining scrap of modesty in the situation.
“Look at me,” Porter commanded.
“Oh, God,” I whispered as at the same time I raised my eyes to his and my bladder let go, the humiliating rushing sound filling the air as I gazed into my sponsor’s too-gorgeous face and saw his eyes narrow in evident satisfaction.
I had never in my life felt more reduced, more looked after, more controlled.
When I was done, he handed me toilet paper before I reached for it. Then he had me stand and flush and wash my hands while he remained there. Every tiny ordinary act felt transformed by his instructions, and his presence, into part of the same structure.
Then he turned me toward the big mirror over the vanity.
“Look.”
I did, and a little sound escaped me before I could stop it.
The white bra still framed the breasts of the red-haired girl with the dark, handsome man standing behind her.
Her little peaches looked very sweet, really.
The garter belt and stockings made everything look deliberate, decorative, chosen.
But below that there was nothing. No little triangle of lace.
No pretense. The cleft of the girl’s hairless sex looked lewdly bare between the straps.
He turned me, wordlessly. I knew I had to keep my eyes on the mirror, and looked back over my shoulder to see what my sponsor wanted me to see: my bottom just as exposed, just as vulnerable, just as available.
I looked exactly as he had intended. Not naked, which might somehow have felt simpler. Beautifully dressed for submission.
His hands came to rest on my hips.
“Do you see,” he asked quietly, “how pretty you are when you’re properly dressed?”
My throat tightened. “Yes, sir.”
“How submissive.”
The word sent a shiver through me. I stared at my own reflection, at the flush on my face, at my loosened red hair, at the white lace and the bare smoothness beneath it, and knew that denial would be absurd.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
He slid one hand lower, not touching my sex, only tracing the line of my hip and the top of my thigh, guiding my eye to what the mirror already showed me.
“No panties,” he said softly. “Cunt bare. Bottom bare. Ready for a man who knows how to take you in hand and use you properly.”
I shut my eyes for one second. Heat crashed through me in one merciless wave.
“Open them.”
I did.
“Look at yourself while I tell you the truth,” he said. “This is how you should look for a man who understands. Not hidden away. Not pretending. Open and available.”
I could hardly breathe.
His hand spread over my lower belly and held me still. “And because you dressed wrongly and had to be corrected, you’ll stay this way.”
All night. And tomorrow. He didn’t need to say it. I heard it anyway.
I watched my own face in the mirror as the understanding settled in me.
I would walk through my apartment like this.
Sit, stand, move, bend, with nothing between the white straps and the bare, waxed places he had claimed.
Tomorrow, at work at the café, even under my skirt, every step would remind me.
Every glance would make me think maybe someone had noticed that I had no panties on.
Worst of all, I knew he meant that reminder to work on me, to deepen the lesson until I felt my own availability as something almost natural.
He leaned close enough that I felt his breath near my ear.
“What do you say?”
The answer came automatically now, though not lightly. “Thank you, sir.”
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “That’s better. We’ll see whether having your panties taken away makes you any more obedient when I bend you over for the next round.”
My knees weakened again.