Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
They were the most modest panties I had ever worn. More modest than the polka dots. More modest than anything in my drawer at home. They covered everything—my entire bottom, my hips, the soft lower curve of my belly—in plain, unadorned white cotton that communicated nothing except propriety.
And yet they felt devastating.
I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my reflection and could not reconcile what I saw with what I felt. The girl in the mirror looked like she belonged in a Sunday school classroom. White cotton panties pulled up almost to her belly button. A white training bra that flattened rather than shaped, its halter straps crossing behind my neck with a utilitarian simplicity that erased any hint of seduction. Blonde hair in a ponytail. Green eyes wide with something that didn’t match the underwear at all.
The underwear looked modest. These… intimates (as the marketing materials called them) were the most modest ones I’d ever worn. And I couldn’t stop shaking.
I couldn’t reconcile the sheer, screaming contradiction between what the mirror showed me and what my body felt. The girl in the reflection looked like she’d been dressed by a protective mother for her first day at a faith-based summer camp. Beneath the white cotton, though, my skin burned.
My nipples pressed against the training bra’s flat, unyielding fabric, and every breath made the cotton shift against them in a way that sent tiny, maddening sparks down through my belly. The panties’ gusset sat flush against my center with a completeness that meant I felt the fabric with every micro-movement and the feeling wasn’t neutral.
If this was what the basic line felt like, I thought with a hard swallow, I felt immense empathy for the girls who had to wear the Awareness line. And yet… I had to bite my lip as I thought, a moment later, about how much I wanted to feel that, too.
I knew what would happen to a girl in those intimates, just as it would happen to me, on that set. And, when it came to the kind of need the underwear made me feel… and what that need would lead to, if I submitted the way my master had begun to train me to do… the more of it the better, as shameful as it seemed.
He would make me confess. He would make me stand in front of him in these plain white panties and tell him what I’d done with my hands in the dark. Then he would punish me. Then he would shave me bare.
The knowledge of all of it—the full sequence of my coming humiliation—transformed the modest cotton against my skin into something that felt even more obscene than the pink baby doll had felt yesterday. The baby doll had been designed to look sexy. These panties were designed to look innocent, and my body’s response to them was anything but.
Amy handed me the jeans and I slid into them. Mid-rise, slightly loose, the kind of jeans a girl wears when she’s not trying to impress anyone. Amy dropped a plain white T-shirt over my head and tucked it in at my waist. In the mirror, the outfit looked so ordinary, so unremarkable, that it made me look like I had nothing important to do. Which was, I realized, exactly the point. A girl waiting at home for her suitor to return from a business trip. A girl who had something to hide.
“You look great,” Amy said, and I almost laughed, because I looked like nothing. I looked like a girl in jeans and a T-shirt and plain white underwear, and I had never in my life felt more naked.
She led me back through the curtains and onto the bedroom set. The bed had been remade with fresh white sheets. Darlene was adjusting a light stand near the doorway of the set’s mock hallway, and Melissa stood by the monitors, her tablet in hand, her expression sharp with anticipation. Master Paul was nowhere in sight.
“He’s changing,” Melissa said, reading my searching gaze. “He’ll come through the hallway door when we start rolling. You’ll be sitting on the bed. You’ve been waiting for him.” She looked me over, her eyes traveling from my ponytail to my sneakers with the rapid, assessing scan of a woman who thought in images. “Perfect. The jeans are perfect. Defensive. Ordinary. She knows she’s in trouble and she’s tried to armor herself in normalcy.”
Melissa stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Anne. This is going to be intense. Paul told me the shape of it. Are you okay?”
I nodded. My throat felt too tight to speak.
“Good. Sit on the edge of the bed. Hands in your lap. You’ve been waiting for him to come home and you’re nervous. That’s all you have to play. The rest will happen.”