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The door locked behind you with a heavy click. You were alone with them now—no distractions, no onlookers, no illusions of escape. Just four women, and you, trembling in lace. Camryn took your chin between her gloved fingers and tilted your head up to meet her gaze. “Poor Lina,” she cooed. “You still blush like you’re new to this. But you’re not. Are you?” Her thumb traced the outline of your lips—painted a bruised plum shade that matched your eyeshadow. “We’ve been at this for weeks. You’ve cried in this mirror. You’ve begged in these heels. And still you pretend you’re not ours.” You tried not to shake. You failed. Lulu stepped forward, circling you like a predator. “Do you remember what you said that first night? That this was ‘sick’?” Her hand yanked open a drawer beneath the vanity. Out came a photo—you, before. Short hair. Hard jaw. A stiff, prideful glare. “This man,” she said, tapping the image, “thought he was above us.” Marybelle knelt beside your boots. She slowly unbuckled one, not to free you—but to slip it off and cradle your foot in her lap. “He didn’t wear polish,” she said, tilting your toes toward the light. “Now? She gasps when I use the buffer.” “You cried over your first pedicure,” Evie added with a smile, flicking her fan shut with a snap. “You tried to hide your tears behind the blush. But I saw. We all did.” Camryn slid her hands down your arms, feeling the satin sleeves, the soft pads sewn beneath your blouse to round your shoulders just right. “We’ve ruined you for anything normal, haven’t we?” “Yes…” you whispered, your voice so soft, so different from the one that once shouted orders in a boardroom. Lulu brought out your old wallet. Tucked inside was your former driver’s license. The text printed there mocked you: Male. A face that didn’t recognize what it would become. “You’re not male,” Lulu said. “He’s gone. Lina’s all that’s left. Say it.” Your throat burned, but you obeyed. “I’m Lina.” Marybelle looked up from painting a fresh coat of polish onto your toes—this one a sharp, glittering wine red. “Tell us what that means.” You hesitated. Evie’s fan tapped your thigh—hard. “Tell us.” “I’m… I’m yours. I’m what you made. I wear what you choose. I move how you taught me. I don’t get to decide.” Camryn kissed your cheek with theatrical pity. “No, you don’t.” Then she leaned close and whispered, “And we’re not done.”Camryn unzipped the armoire with a slow, dramatic flourish. Inside wasn’t just clothing—it was a shrine. Silks, mesh, lace, leather, delicate straps and boning, all in shades that ranged from innocent blush to sinful black. Rows of padded bras, garter belts, satin corsets, high-cut thongs, lace bodysuits, and sheer nightgowns hung like trophies. “You’ve earned a new phase,” she said, her tone almost maternal. “No more just sitting still while we dress you. Now you learn how to wear it.” “Lingerie,” Lulu whispered behind you, her breath warm against your ear. “The final undoing.” Marybelle returned with a velvet tray—each piece carefully arranged: a jet-black balconette bra with gold threading, matching garter belt, sheer mesh panties, and glossy thigh-highs. “These,” she said, holding the panties aloft by one delicate strap, “are not just for wearing. They’re for being seen in. Poseable. Perishable. Performable.” Evie sat you down, began removing your blouse and skirt with slow, meticulous movements, like peeling layers of pretense from you. “Say it before we continue,” she said. “I’m… ready for lingerie training,” you whispered, humiliated beyond words. “Good girl,” Marybelle beamed. “Stand. Arms up.” They worked together—strapping you into the corseted bra, cinching your waist tighter than ever, smoothing the sheer mesh up your thighs. Every inch of you was exposed yet controlled. The garters clicked into place with an unforgiving snap. Then came the shoes—pointed stilettos with thin gold heels, designed less for walking and more for worship. “Now,” Lulu said, setting down a small handheld mirror, “you’re going to learn how to pose. On command. No hiding.” Camryn guided your arm into place, pushing your elbow back to arch your spine. “This,” she said, “is how you offer. Chest forward. Chin down. Eyes soft. You’re not seducing. You’re displaying.” Evie adjusted your hips with a firm grip, then opened her fan and tapped it once on your thigh. “No wobbling. Stand like lingerie belongs on you.” “Say it,” Marybelle sang. “Say you belong in lingerie.” “I…” You flushed so deep it nearly matched your lipstick. “I belong in lingerie.” “Louder.” “I belong in lingerie.” “And who taught you?” “You did.” “And who owns you?” “You do.” The four of them smiled. Camryn reached for a phone and held it up. “Now… let’s take some practice photos. For us. And only us. Smile for your mistresses, lingerie doll.”

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