Practical rather than seductive.
I'll have to change that.
Get her better things that make her feel beautiful, that showcase her body properly.
"Good. Now the jeans."
"Please don't make me?—"
"Eden. Do you want me to do it for you? Because I will. But it will be easier, less invasive, if you do it yourself. Your choice."
She unfastens her jeans with fumbling fingers.
Pushes them down her hips with movements that are jerky and reluctant.
Steps out of them clumsily.
Standing there in just her underwear—white cotton bra and panties that match, modest and unrevealing—arms instinctively wrapping around herself again in that defensive posture.
"Arms down," I say firmly. "Don't hide from me. Don't cover what belongs to me."
She lowers her arms slowly, inch by painful inch. Forcing herself to be exposed to my gaze.
"Better. Now turn around. Slowly. Let me see all of you."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see you. Because you need to get comfortable being looked at, being studied, being evaluated. Because at the showcase, there will be men watching you, studying you, assessing what I own. And you need to be able to handle that scrutiny without falling apart, without breaking down."
She turns in a slow, awkward circle.
Her movements stiff and graceless.
Hating every second of this exposure.
"Good. Now face me again."
She does, and I can see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
Can see how much this costs her.
"You're beautiful," I say, and I mean it. "Every inch of you. Perfect. And you're going to learn to stand like this without shame. Without covering yourself. Without flinching when I look at you. When anyone looks at you."
"I don't want to."
"I know. But you're going to anyway. Because you agreed to train. Because you chose this path." I reach for her, pulling her closer by her hips. "Come here. Straddle my lap."
"What? No, I can't?—"
"Eden. This is training. This is what you agreed to. This is preparing you for what comes next. Straddle my lap. Now."
She climbs onto my lap with clumsy, reluctant movements that lack any grace. Ends up straddling me awkwardly, her knees on either side of my hips, her hands braced on my shoulders for balance.
Her nearly naked body pressed against my fully clothed one. The power dynamic crystal clear.
"Good girl," I murmur, sliding my hands up her sides. Feeling her shiver under my touch. "See? You can follow instructions when you choose to. When you stop fighting what's inevitable."
"I don't want to."
