A curriculum with learning objectives.
A syllabus of my own degradation mapped out in careful detail.
I suppose it is.
The black thing turns out to be lingerie.
Not the practical cotton underwear I've been wearing since I arrived here.
This is something else entirely.
Something expensive and delicate and designed for a purpose I understand all too well.
A black lace bra that's somehow both covering and revealing at the same time.
Matching panties that are more lace than fabric, more suggestion than coverage.
Thigh-high stockings with wide lace bands at the top.
A garter belt with delicate clasps I don't even know how to attach.
I stare at it all laid out on the bathroom counter, my stomach churning with something that feels uncomfortably close to anticipation beneath the dread.
This is what he wants me to wear.
What he's going to make me model for him during today's session.
What I'll be wearing while he touches me, commands me, trains me.
What I might be wearing at the showcase in front of all those men.
The thought makes me want to vomit.
But I pick up the bra anyway.
Because what choice do I have at this point?
What power do I possess to refuse him anymore when my body betrays me at every turn?
The bra fits perfectly.
Of course it does.
He knows my size down to the millimeter.
Knows my body better than I do at this point—has studied every inch, mapped every response, catalogued every reaction.
The black lace against my pale skin looks?—
I don't want to think about how it looks.
The panties are barely there.
Just strategic lace and delicate string and the illusion of coverage without any actual modesty.
They make me feel exposed even though I'm technically covered.
The stockings—I've never worn stockings before in my life.
