Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
I showered quickly, trying not to think about the cameras that might be watching even here. The bathroom supposedly had privacy mode, but Tyler from Human Resources had said it could be overridden. Was Scott watching me wash away the evidence of my shameful display? The possibility made my hands tremble as I soaped down there, my slit still sensitive from my desperate self-pleasure.
The pink baby doll hung in the closet like an invitation to immodesty. I held it up to the light, noting how the sheer fabric would hide nothing. The matching panties were equally revealing, just a wisp of pink lace that would barely cover the shaven cleft of my pussy. My brow furled hard as I put them on.
I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror and immediately looked away. The baby doll made me look like something from a soft-focus honeymoon ad, softly feminine and readily available. My nipples were clearly visible through the sheer pink fabric, and the panties sat low on my hips, emphasizing the curve of my bottom. I looked like exactly what I was becoming—not a Midwestern small-town girl, but a kept woman, dressed for a man’s pleasure even when alone in my monitored apartment.
The bed seemed enormous, the white sheets crisp and expensive. I slipped between them, hyperaware of how the nightgown rode up, how the delicate fabric felt against my skin. It was only 9:30, but Scott had said to be in bed by ten, and I didn’t dare disobey. Not after seeing what happened to Annabelle for touching herself without permission.
The early bedtime meant that when the alarm—which I hadn’t set—woke me at 6:30 I came awake immediately.
I lay there for a moment, blinking in the soft morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My body felt heavy, languid in a way that reminded me immediately of what I’d done last night. The memory made me squeeze my eyes shut, heat flooding my face.
The pink baby doll had ridden up during sleep, bunched around my waist, and the delicate panties felt damp against my skin. Had I been dreaming? I couldn’t remember, but my body seemed to have continued its betrayal even in unconsciousness.
I sat up slowly, acutely aware that cameras were recording my every movement. Did Scott review the overnight footage? The thought of him watching me sleep in this ridiculous nightgown, perhaps shifting restlessly as my body processed yesterday’s overwhelming events, made my belly lurch with that now-familiar mixture of shame and arousal.
I padded to the closet on bare feet, the baby doll swishing against my thighs. Inside, a new garment bag hung on the back of the door. My hands trembled slightly as I unzipped it.
A blue lingerie set, delicate as butterfly wings—a demi-cup bra that would barely contain me, matching panties with tiny bows at the hips, and a garter belt with nude stockings. Over this, a floral dress in soft pastels that looked innocent enough, but was clearly chosen to emphasize the contrast with what lay beneath. The dress was shorter than anything I would have chosen myself, hitting just above my knees, with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt that would move with every step.
I noticed immediately what was missing from my new wardrobe. No business suits like the ones Sharon wore, no professional blazers or sensible slacks. Everything was dresses—soft, feminine, subtly evoking my New Modesty origins. The message was clear: I wasn’t being groomed to be a corporate executive. I was being positioned as something else entirely.
The thought should have angered me. Instead, I felt that treacherous flutter in my insides as I began to dress.
The blue lingerie felt like sin against my skin. The bra pushed my breasts up and together, creating cleavage I’d never had in my modest cotton undergarments. The panties sat low on my hips, the delicate fabric doing nothing to contain the heat already building between my legs. The garter belt and stockings transformed my legs, making them look longer, more elegant. More available.
I pulled the floral dress over my head, smoothing it down over the lingerie. The contrast between the innocent exterior and what lay beneath made my cheeks burn. In the kitchen, my stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the carefully portioned dinner Scott had sent.
The refrigerator door’s display, a sleek digital interface, lit up as I approached. When I opened it, I found an array of prepared breakfast items—overnight oats with fresh berries, hard-boiled eggs, Greek yogurt parfaits, whole grain muffins. Everything was labeled with precise calorie counts.
As I reached for the yogurt parfait and a muffin, the display registered my selections with soft beeps. “387 calories selected,” it announced in a pleasant feminine voice. “Recommended daily intake for optimal BMI maintenance: 1,450 calories. Remaining: 1,063.”
My face flushed. Even my eating was being monitored, calculated, controlled. I took my breakfast to the small dining table, trying not to think about how the system must be tracking everything—not just what I ate, but when, how much, how often.