Fashionista

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Author’s note: This one is a request from a Lit reader that’s become a friend. So: for Alice.

Tags/mini-spoilers:

BDSM, Domination, submission, non-consent, forced, humiliation, dollification, puppet, mind control.

Copyright © 2023. This is a copyrighted work. Unauthorised use is prohibited. All rights reserved by the author.

*

The address he’d given me turned out to be disappointing, falling rather short of what he’d made it out to be.

I cast my eye over the cracked asphalt and potholes, the dead-grass borders and the paint peeling off his door, partly obscured by wheelie-bins.

I wasn’t even sure I’d call it a house; it was more a warehouse. One street back from the main road – if this dingy alleyway suitable as a ‘street’. I think his house even backed onto shops.

Yeah… call me superficial, but when you’re about to entrust yourself to a man you’ve met only on the internet, little things like… well, trust… become a bit more essential.

But I guess I was here. I had my safe call set up, I had the time to kill, and I had a burning curiosity. And, ultimately, I had that tingle between my legs, driving me to walk to his door and knock.

Perhaps it was nicer inside.

My small fist rapped ineffectually against his thick, coarse door. In keeping with the rest of the immediate décor, this wasn’t a door that presented a welcoming façade, but more something you’d expect to discover exiting the back of a seedy nightclub. I wasn’t convinced he’d have heard my knock, but I wasn’t about to hit that thing any harder – it would hurt.

I was reaching for my phone to text him when I heard him moving within. Last chance, I wondered. Well, I supposed it wasn’t. I could still back out. I reminded myself I could back out at any time.

He opened the door while I was still dithering, and I’d missed my chance to walk away. I’d also missed my chance to present myself as I had planned. I guess the whole situation had wrong-footed me, and it was with a feeling of uncertainty that I turned to him now, trying to summon a convincing smile.

“Ahh, Alice!” he at least seemed genuinely pleased to see me, his eyes sparkling and his smile friendly. I’d seen pictures, of course, but the reality was all the time a little different. On the one hand, he was slightly older, slightly fatter and slightly shabbier than his pictures. This was to be expected, I supposed; which of us presents our true selves in the anonymity of the online world? Yet, it was a negative. A definite point against. But on the other hand, his face seemed more animated, his smile more… authentic, perhaps, than I had anticipated.

It was this that made me stay. At least a little longer, I wondered, again reminding myself that I could all the time leave whenever I wished.

“Hello, Michael,” I replied, my smile coming more naturally now, as I decided I liked his manner. And I did know him after all. Didn’t I? Surely, weeks of online chat counted for something.

He lifted one hand and waggled a finger at me, cocking his head to the side with a slightly jerky movement. “Nuh uh,” he admonished, “we should start like we mean to continue.” His tone was playful, his words kindly delivered, yet I couldn’t help but hear the steel that lay just below the surface. It made it easier to give him what he was asking for.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” I said, lowering my eyes.

“I’ll take that for now.” He stepped back from the door, holding it open wider, inviting me in. “But I expect you’ll be calling me ‘master’ before we’re done this weekend.” He chuckled to himself, as though there was some great joke only he was privy to. “In fact, I’m certain you will, my little Alice.”

I stepped in cautiously, looking about me, my earlier discomfort not having totally abated beneath Michael’s innocuous manner. He was a bit of a dichotomy, I reflected: inoffensive in appearance, puppy-like in his enthusiasm and energy. Yet it took little to imagine the switch flicking, for the unyielding force I’d occasionally seen him demonstrate in our various talks online to come to the fore, only this time, for real. A little scary, if I was honest, in person, for there was something about him that suggested he wasn’t as in control of himself as I’d originally perceived.

But it was too early to make such judgements. Perhaps I was just reflecting my own nervousness on him, which would be unfair. Besides – and more to the point – I hadn’t yet seen what I’d come to see.

The shabbiness of the exterior seemed to have leaked inside a little. The door opened into a small hallway: tired-looking, shoes untidily on a mat, a pile of junk mail and newspapers stacked messily to one side. But Michael took my coat like a gentleman, hanging it on a hook on the wall beside his, leaving me only in the yellow dress he’d selected for me to wear.

He took a small step back to better inspect me. “You look lovely, Alice,” and again his enthusiasm was reassuring.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Did you follow my instructions to the letter?”

He was, of course, referring to the matching set of blue lingerie I wore beneath. “Perhaps you’ll find out, Sir,” I offered, coyly.

He chuckled, “I look forward to doing so. A quick tour?”

“Yes, please,” I replied politely, not really all that interested.

He showed me around the numerous rooms; it didn’t take long, the house was small. Open-plan living and dining room, mostly clean beneath a reasonable layer of clutter; kitchen, small but functional. It was normal and somewhat comforting, and his manner as he showed me around was helping me to slowly relax. But it wasn’t what I’d come to see, and I felt my impatience building.

“Where are the wardrobes?” I asked, suddenly realising I’d interrupted him in mid-sentence. That was a little embarrassing.

He merely smiled. “Eager, are you?”

“Sorry, Sir,” I mumbled, looking down, not really that sorry. I was willing. Did he have what he’d said he had, or was that an embellishment too?

“Oh very well,” he said, feigning exasperation, but I could see he liked my excitement. “Follow me.”

He stepped off with a bounce that again reminded me of a puppy, and I saw then that he was as keen to show off his collection as I was to see it.

He led me back to the small hall and took a new door to the side, and suddenly the impression of the warehouse made sense – for that’s what it was. Or, at least, had been. He’d converted it, and now it was nothing short of magnificent.

I stepped into his workshop, seeing row upon row of wardrobes against the wall, tables in the centre of the room for sewing, cutting, crafting, designing. Boards upon the walls showing pictures and plans, swatches pinned against them. I walked further in, slowly, seeing the leather catsuit he’d told me about, draped un-finished across one of the tables.

The room was meticulous, everything exactly in its place, a direct contrast to the rest of his house despite the obvious fact that it was a living, breathing workshop.

“Wonderful, Sir,” I breathed, not trying to hide my enthusiasm.

He’d stopped in the doorway to watch me, but now he came forward with his funny, quick, jerky movements. Anyone else would’ve leant nonchalantly against the door jamb, but not Michael. He had too much energy for that. I found it endearing.

“What would you like to see first?” he asked. He crossed to a wardrobe a third of the way down one wall, opening it to show an oily-black collection on hangers. “Latex suits?” He left the doors open as he crossed the room, opening another large cupboard. “Marvel-themed fetish wear?” He turned back to me, smiling. “Ah! I know!” his steps were quick as he opened the closet closest to where I was standing, and a bountiful display of colour met my eyes. “Dolls, maids – dresses for all occasions!”

I took a step forward, running my hand over a dark-red dress, a skilful blend of pleated, dark-red leather and black silk, with a loose, swirling, red latex skirt. I traced the smooth finish, fingering the leather hem, the silky-black trim. “They’re beautiful, Sir.” And they were. I couldn’t even see how he’d affixed the fragile latex to the more rigid leather; it was consummately done. I realised I was in the presence of genius, and his quirkiness made a lot more sense. He really only cared about this room, his work here. Everything else was secondary.

He pulled the red dress out, and I saw that it had a built-in corset, artfully blending into the lines of the skirt. “Would you like to try it on?”

My eyes gleamed as I saw it in full. It was nothing short of a masterpiece. Oh, but I loved such things! Gorgeous clothes, kinky outfits, costumes designed to titillate and tease. To be on display, to exhibit, to personify art. This was the passion over which Michael and I had bonded, those few months previously. Yes, there’d been kink and D/s, some roleplay and some ‘truth or dare’. But it was the costumes that had led us to this point, at a speed which I had known was reckless. But nothing else would’ve brought me here – never before had I agreed to meet a man I’d met online. His wardrobes, his collection – that I could not withstand.

He offered the dress to me and I took the hangar, holding it out at arm’s length to better inspect it, noting further details of the quality of his work, stroking my fingers across the silk that lay between each leather pleat, caressing the sheen of the latex skirt. “It should be your size,” he murmured, watching me. “You know I only make the one size, so everything in here should be your size.” His tone dropped a little, “Assuming you didn’t lie to me about your measurements.”

I glanced up at him in surprise. “I didn’t, Sir.” He’d been so specific about this, time and time again as we’d talked these past weeks he’d had me confirm that my body shape was what it was. I was the size he modelled against – just lucky, I guess.

He smiled at me again, and his words were much lighter. “I didn’t think you had. I can tell just by looking at you. Yet, one can never be quite sure, until you try it on.” He gestured again at the dress, “Why don’t you?”

I looked around, “Do you have a changing room?”

He just watched me, his smile not changing.

“No, I suppose not,” I answered myself. I hooked the hangar over the handle of the wardrobe door, unable to withstand running my fingers over the dress once more.

I placed my purse on the table beside me, freeing my hands. He watched, of course, as I reached behind my neck to undo the button at the top of my dress, before slipping it from one shoulder and then the other. His eyes lit up as my lacy, powder-blue bra straps were revealed. I wriggled, pulling the dress down and over my hips, letting it pool on the clean floor of his workshop before stepping from it, clad now only in bra and panties and my Mary Janes.

I didn’t mind his eyes on me. It felt right to have a man watch me so, to see the hunger in his gaze. I liked it; it fed my exhibitionistic streak.

“It has built-in support, and it’s off the shoulder,” he commented, and I glanced at the red dress again, seeing that he was, of course, correct. So transfixed had I been by his workmanship that I hadn’t given that much wondered.

My cheeks heated a little as I reached behind to unclasp my bra. Which was odd; this was hardly the first time I’d undressed before a man. Yes, I liked his eyes on me, and though I hadn’t expected to be showing quite so much so soon, it usually took quite a lot to make me blush. I thought what it was about Michael that made me feel some misplaced, undeserved innocence. Perhaps it was because he’d made no move toward me, simply watching me. Keeping his distance with a level of professional interest, almost as if the encounter was, in some regards, entirely asexual. And now I was stripping before his eyes, as I removed my bra and draped it over my purse on the table near me.

His eyes flicked across my breasts, no doubt noticing the hardness of my nipples, before returning to my face.

“You have the perfect figure, Alice,” he murmured, and for the first time I heard arousal in his voice.

“Thank you, Sir.”

I reached for the dress but he stepped quickly to it, gently brushing apart my hand and picking up the hanger himself. “I will put it on you.”

It was to be expected, I supposed, but I suddenly felt uneasy in a way I hadn’t for some time. Michael seemed to put me at ease one moment and make me nervous the next. Yet the lure of the costumes remained, and, after all, they were his creations.

He removed the dress from the hanger and held it low for me, and I placed my hand on his shoulder to support myself as I stepped carefully in through the open bodice, down through the latex skirt, being sure not to catch the material with my shoes. I didn’t want to consider how Michael would react, were I to carelessly damage one of his works. Yes, that was a discomforting wondered; a scenario to ensure was avoided.

His shoulder felt firm beneath my hand, suggesting a hidden strength greater than I would have expected given his age and slightly protruding paunch. There was definitely muscle beneath my fingers, and it was not unpleasant.

He pulled the dress up my legs slowly, seating it around my hips, the leather bodice cool against my bare skin, contrasting deliciously with the smoothness of the silk. The corset was untied, laces loose against my back, and he placed his hands on my bare shoulders, gently pushing and pulling, a silent instruction to turn. I obediently faced away from him, giving him the access he needed, for I would never have managed to tie it without his help.

I bit my lip as his hand brushed over my shoulder, sliding down my chest to grasp my breast, seating it in the cup of the corset. It was a necessity, I supposed, though of course I could have done it myself. I suddenly thought if Michael found that touch sexual, or simply a clinical aspect of dressing me in his work. I really wasn’t sure.

His touch was firm but gentle, his hand squeezing my breast a little as he positioned it accordingly. Satisfied, he switched hands to seat my other breast, and this time, as he withdrew his hand, his fingers brushed lingeringly across my nipple before a fingertip flicked once, twice across. My breath caught at the touch, but he wasn’t done; his hand returned, and this time he took my nipple between finger and thumb, pulling and tweaking.

So, that answers that question, I wondered, his touch eliciting an involuntary gasp from me, definitely sexual.

I stood still as he tied the laces firmly against my back, the two halves of the corset slowly bound together. I felt my stomach squeezed slightly, the narrowness of my waist emphasised, and my breasts seemed accentuated with the shaping of the corset.

“Done,” he said, his voice husky. I felt him step away slightly. “Turn around, let me see you.”

Slowly, I obeyed, feeling the slick material of the latex skirt brush lightly against my thighs.

“Mmm, perfect,” he said, looking me slowly up and down, lust clear in his eyes. It was if his whole demeanour had changed. He stood taller, his back straighter. His expression had taken on a slightly possessive character. I was sure he was seeing me differently, now, dressed as I was in one of his costumes.

It made me nervous again.

“I should call my friend,” I said, reminding him that others knew I was here, of the safety precautions we had agreed when we’d planned this visit.

“Hmm?” he said, seemingly distracted, his eyes still running over my body. “Oh, yes. Your friend. Yes, you should. In fact, I will leave you to it. Drinks, yes? I shall fetch some.”

I watched him leave, noting that even his gait was different – more deliberate, more confident, lacking in the nervous energy he’d shown before. It was like he was two people, very Jekyll-and-Hyde, brought out by the opportunity to place his clothing upon me. Interesting. Slightly creepy, yes, but interesting, too. I might even prefer the new ‘him’, I wondered, as I pulled my phone from my purse.

He was back within five minutes, carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, the golden liquid bubbling within. “I thought this called for something special,” he said, placing the tray on the table. “Did you make your call?”

“I did, thank you,” I replied. The champagne was a thoughtful touch.

He handed me a glass and raised his, toasting me. “To… your stay here,” he said, clinking his glass against mine.

I smiled and sipped, and he watched me over the rim of his glass.

“You look delightful, my dear, and I expect you’d like a mirror?” I recalled I had been about to ask him for just that, before the champagne had distracted me.

“Yes please, Sir.”

“We will get to that. But first,” he pulled a raised chair from under the workbench, “sit here for me. We need you properly looking the part.”

I hopped up onto the chair while he busied himself at a desk in the far end of the workshop, eventually returning with a make-up box. This he laid on the bench beside me, and, telling me to hold still, spent some minutes applying it to my face with a proficient touch.

He worked in silence, pausing to allow me to take an occasional sip of champagne, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. From time to time, he would glance at his watch, as if conscious of time – a nervous habit, perhaps, though his nervousness from earlier seemed entirely absent. I sat patiently and waited for him to finish.

“There,” he said at last, standing back and admiring his work. And me, I supposed – but, I felt, mostly his work. “That’ll do. Your hair… will suffice, I like braided pigtails. Ready for a mirror?”

“Yes, Sir,” I agreed, keen to see how the dress looked and what he had chosen for makeup.

“It’s in the shop.” He gestured towards the far end of the workroom, and a door I hadn’t seen before. So, this building ran through to the shop fronts I’d known were there. And it made perfect sense, of course – he’d need somewhere to display his works. “After you.” I made to set the glass down on the table, but he forestalled me, “No, you can bring the drink. Letting champagne get warm is heresy.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I replied, taking another sip. His manner had definitely changed. He was in control, now, and it felt natural to call him ‘sir’. This was the side of him that had attracted me during our talks online, the dominance I had felt from him, the confidence he had shown. At complete odds to the quirky man he had been when he’d opened his door to me just a short while ago, and there was no doubt which I preferred.

He let me open the door he’d indicated, and I’d expected to walk into his shop, but instead it was a small room that looked more like a chemistry lab. A long table lay against the wall, set with glass vials of numerous shapes and sizes that I didn’t know the names of, a Bunsen burner sitting unlit beneath one round-bottomed flask, a transparent liquid within.

“The shop is through the opposite door,” he murmured from behind me.

“What is this for?” I asked, waving at the complicated-looking array of vials and flasks.

“Oh, just a hobby. I like to combine various medicinal drugs, as needed for my purposes.” He smiled at me, watching my expression. “I discovered I can combine succinylcholine and vecuronium, which are both neuromuscular blocking agents, with sodium oxalate, which is a stimulant.”

I frowned, not understanding a word.

He smiled again, enjoying my confusion. “Have you heard of ‘accidental awareness during general anaesthesia’? It’s a medical term.”

“No,” I admitted, my sense of uneasiness returning rapidly.