The shirt was worse. It had clearly been made for a child, probably sized for an eight-year-old. The fabric stretched obscenely across my breasts, the hem barely reaching my navel. Every breath made it ride up higher, made the cartoon character on the front distort.
The shorts were torture. I had to jump to get them up over my thighs, and when they finally settled, they cut into my waist and crotch simultaneously. The fabric pressed against my clit with every movement, a constant pressure that was neither pleasant nor ignorable.
"The socks," he said, handing me the final pieces.
I had to sit to pull them on, and the movement made the shorts dig deeper, made me gasp at the sensation. The knee socks were the least uncomfortable part, but the ruffles at the top made me feel ridiculous, infantilized in a way that burned with humiliation.
"Stand," he commanded when I was dressed. "Let me see."
I stood, hyperaware of every place the clothes touched. The shirt had ridden up to just below my breasts. The shorts created a camel toe that would be visible from space. The panties had worked their way so far between my ass cheeks they were basically a thong.
"Perfect," he said, and there was something dark in his voice. "Now, corner."
He guided me to the corner by the bookshelf, the one that faced away from the windows, away from the TV, away from anything interesting. Just white walls meeting at a ninety-degree angle.
"Nose to the corner," he instructed, hands on my hips positioning me exactly where he wanted me. "Hands behind your back. You'll stand here while I'm gone and think about why following Daddy's rules matters."
"How long?" I asked, already hating the blankness of the corner.
"Until I get back." He stepped away, and I heard him gathering his things. "Probably half an hour, maybe an hour. Depends on traffic and how long Alexei needs."
"An hour?" I spun around, incredulous. "I can't stand in a corner for an hour!"
His expression went cold. "Turn around. Now."
I turned back to the corner, shaking with frustration.
"That outburst just added an extra element," he said, voice dangerous. "When I get back, if you've moved from this corner, if you've touched yourself, if you've done anything except stand here and think about your behavior, the punishment will be worse. Much worse."
"What could be worse than this?" I muttered into the corner.
"Would you like to find out?" The threat in his voice made me shake my head quickly. "I didn't think so. Be a good girl, Eva. Stand in your corner, wear your uncomfortable clothes, and think about why Daddy's rules exist."
I heard him moving around, getting ready to leave. Bear's collar jingled as Dmitry probably gave him attention and instructions. Keys jangled. The alarm system beeped as he set it.
"I'm proud of you for telling me the truth," he said from near the door. "This punishment is because you need to learn control, not because I'm angry. When I get back, if you've been good, we'll talk about rewards."
The door closed with a decisive click. The lock engaged. The alarm chirped its final activation.
And I was alone, nose pressed to a corner, wearing clothes that made every movement torture, with nothing to do but think about how wet this humiliation was making me despite—or because of—everything.
Thefirsttenminuteswere pure humiliation. Standing nose-to-corner like a punished child, wearing clothes that would shame a stripper, knowing Dmitry was probably watching on his phone through whatever security system he had. The shorts cut into me with every breath, the panties so far wedged between my ass cheeks they'd probably need surgical removal. The shirt kept riding up, and with my hands behind my back, I couldn't pull it down.
Bear had settled somewhere behind me—I could hear his gentle snoring—completely unaware that his human was being tortured by cotton and shame.
By minute twenty, something shifted.
The constant pressure of the shorts against my clit had evolved from uncomfortable to . . . something else. Every tiny movement—breathing, shifting my weight, even just existing—created friction. The too-small panties that had been torture were now silk against sensitive skin, moving with each breath in a way that made my thighs clench.
I tried to stand perfectly still, but that was worse. The stillness made me hyperaware of every point of contact. The way the shirt stretched across my nipples, keeping them constantly stimulated. The way the shorts pressed and released with each heartbeat. The way standing with my legs together made the panties slide against wetness that had started gathering despite my best intentions.
Thirty minutes in, I was panting.
The corner had become my entire world. White walls, the faint scent of paint, the sound of my own breathing getting rougher. I shifted my weight to my other foot, and the movement made the shorts ride up further, pressing directly against my swollen clit.
"Fuck," I whispered to the corner, then remembered cursing was against the rules too. Another infraction to add to my growing list.
But what did it matter now? I'd already failed at not touching myself last night. I was probably going to fail again today, judging by the way my body was responding to what should be punishment. Maybe I was just built wrong, wired to find pleasure in humiliation, to get wet from shame.
