Chapter 7: Training Advances
The sun had barely begun to ascend the horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the meticulously manicured lawns of the Sissy Academy. The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers filled the air, a symphony of senses that was both soothing and invigorating. The mansion stood tall and proud, its imposing façade a testament to the power and authority that resided within its walls. The dormitory building, nestled discreetly at the rear, seemed to hum with an energy that was both tantalizing and intimidating.
Matt lay in his bed, his body still warm from the strange, hypnotic dream, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The mantra from the CD player seemed to echo within him, a persistent rhythm that set the tempo for his day. He sat up, the soft sheets sliding off his body, the cool air of the room brushing against his skin, making his nipples harden beneath the delicate fabric of the nightgown. He looked around the room, his eyes taking in the soft lighting, the pink lampshade casting a gentle glow over everything.
He stood up, the cool sheets sliding off his body, and immediately felt his penis harden in his diaper. The mantra from the CD player seemed to echo within him, a persistent rhythm that had taken effect, making every movement, every crinkle of the diaper turn him on as much as following orders. He blushed, his cheeks flushing with both embarrassment and arousal, as he realized that even the simple act of standing had become a source of pleasure.
He padded softly to the window, the cool tiles of the floor feeling good against the soles of his feet. He looked out at the academy's gardens, the sun beginning to rise over the horizon, casting a warm golden light over the carefully manicured landscape. He could see figures moving in the distance, other sissies going about their morning routine, and he felt a strange mix of excitement and apprehension stir within him.
Suddenly, there was a soft knock at the door, breaking his reverie. He spun around, his heart pounding in his chest, his diaper rustling with the movement. The knock came again, this time a little louder, more insistent. He smoothed down the front of his nightgown, his hands trembling slightly, and made his way to the door. As he approached, he could hear a soft voice calling out from the other side. "Matthew? Dear, are you awake?" It was Lana, her voice gentle yet firm, like a mother checking in on her child. He took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest, and opened the door a crack, his eyes peering out into the hallway. Lana stood there, her blonde ponytail swaying gently as she shifted her weight from one heel to the other.
Her blue eyes were warm and understanding, her gaze softening as she took in Matthew's flushed cheeks and disheveled appearance. "Good morning, dear," she said, her voice low and soothing. "I hope you slept well."
Matthew felt a flush of heat spread across his face, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Y-yes, ma'am," he stammered, his eyes darting to the side as he struggled to meet her gaze. "I did. Thank you."
Lana nodded, her smile softening as she took in his nervous demeanor. "I'm glad to hear that, dear," she said.
"You've made remarkable progress these past two weeks. Your eagerness to learn and your dedication to your training have not gone unnoticed. Now, today is a big day for you, Matthew." Lana's eyes sparkled with excitement, her smile widening as she nodded her head in emphasis. "Today, you'll be receiving your first official maid outfit. It's a special moment for every sissy, marking the start of their true transformation." She paused, her gaze softening as she took in Matthew's apprehensive expression. "Don't worry, dear, I promise you'll look stunning. Now, let's get you ready."
Matthew felt a surge of both excitement and anxiety at her words.
He knew that the maid outfit was a significant step in his journey, a symbol of his commitment and transformation. But Lana's next words brought him back to the present. "For now, dear, you're to report to the changing room to have your diaper changed. Breakfast will be served in the dining hall, and after that, I'll lead you to the room where you'll receive your new outfit."
Lana's words were firm yet gentle, her tone leaving no room for argument. Matthew nodded, albeit a little hesitantly, his heart pounding in his chest. "Yes, ma'am," he said softly, his cheeks still flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.
"Good girl," Lana replied, her eyes softening with a hint of approval. "Now, hurry along.
You know the way," Lana urged, a gentle push on his back guiding him out of the room. Matthew nodded, his cheeks still flushed with a mix of emotions, and stepped out into the hallway.
There, standing in a neat line along the polished wooden floor, were several other sissies, each dressed in their nightgowns, their diapers rustling softly as they shifted from one foot to the other. They cast shy glances at Matthew as he approached, their eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. He recognized a few of them from the past two weeks, their faces familiar yet strange in the soft lighting.
Matthew took his place at the end of the line, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for further instructions. The hallway stretched out before him, the early morning light filtering in through the tall, arched windows, casting a warm glow over the assembled sissies.
Matthew's heart pounded in his chest as he took his place at the end of the line, his eyes scanning over the sea of nightgowns, each one a soft, delicate whisper of color against the gleaming wood floor. He recognized a few of the faces, their expressions a mix of nervousness and eager anticipation, their nightgowns rustling softly with their slight movements. In the distance, the sound of clattering dishes drifted from the dining hall, mingling with the hushed whispers of the sissies, creating an atmosphere that was both soothing and charged with expectation.
The line of nightgown-clad figures began to move, shuffling forward in unison, their footsteps soft against the polished floor. The procession turned a corner, passing a grand staircase that swept up to the first floor, its railings carved with intricate patterns that cast dancing shadows on the walls. As the line reached the top of the stairs, it separated into four distinct groups, each one heading towards a different changing room. Matthew found himself veering to the left, his heart pounding in his chest as he followed the line towards a door marked with a delicate pink ribbon.
As he entered the room, he was struck by the soft, feminine scent that filled the air, a mix of lavender and vanilla that seemed to envelop him in a gentle embrace.
The changing room was a large, well-lit space, filled with rows of narrow, padded tables, their surfaces gleaming with a soft, silvery sheen. Along the walls, shelves were lined with neatly folded fabrics, their smooth surfaces catching the light and shimmering like exotic feathers.
A sissy, dressed in a full satin maid outfit, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail, her eyes sparkling with a mix of warmth and authority, stepped up to Matthew. "Welcome, dear," she said, her voice soft yet firm, her hands gesturing towards an open table to the right. "Please, make yourself comfortable here. I'm Sylvia, and I'll be your attendant today."
Matthew nodded, his cheeks still flushed with a mix of nervousness and anticipation.
"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, his voice barely audible as he stepped towards the table. Sylvia smiled at him, her eyes warm and reassuring, as she reached out and gently gripped the hem of his nightgown. "Lift your arms for me, dear," she said softly, her voice soothing and calm. Matthew did as he was told, his arms rising slowly as Sylvia slid the nightgown up over his head, the cool fabric brushing against his skin for the last time. He stood there for a moment, his body clad only in the thick diaper, his chest heaving slightly with each breath. Sylvia smiled at him, her eyes taking in his naked form with a mix of professionalism and kindness. "There, that's better," she said, her voice soothing as she guided him to sit on the padded table.
She began to undo the tapes, her fingers gently brushing against his skin as she worked. "You must be nervous, dear, but everything will be fine. Remember, a sissy maid is always clean and fresh, ready to serve at any moment." Sylvia was quick and efficient, her touch gentle yet firm as she slipped the soiled diaper off and replaced it with a fresh one. Matthew could feel the cool, smooth fabric against his skin, the sensation both strange and strangely comforting.
"There, all done," Sylvia said, her voice warm and reassuring. She patted his thigh gently, her eyes soft as she looked at him.
"Now, up you go, dear. Remember, a sissy maid must always be poised and ready to serve." With that, she offered him her hand, her grip firm yet gentle as she helped him to his feet. Matthew stood, his body feeling both light and heavy at the same time, the cool fabric of the new diaper a subtle reminder of his new reality. He felt a blush spread across his cheeks as he looked at Sylvia, her eyes warm and encouraging as she saw his hesitation. "Steady now," she said, her voice soothing. "You're doing beautifully. Now, let's get you into your new outfit, shall we?" She stepped back, her eyes surveying him from head to toe, her expression thoughtful. "Your body is quite lovely, dear.
Sylvia's fingers brushed his bare shoulder, a fleeting warmth that made him shiver. "Your body is quite lovely, dear," she murmured, her gaze lingering appreciatively on his slender frame before turning towards the next sissy in line. "Well up you get, head to the dining hall." Matt needed no invitation. He stood and fell in line with two female sissies and a male sissy and they made their way through the mansion.
As they walked, Matt couldn't help but struggle a bit as his erection in his diaper never went away. But then he started to consider this normal. He was a sissy after all and sissies are always horny while wearing a diaper. The crinkling of the group also kept the two female sissies horny if their nipples were anything to go by and the other male sissy showed a similar hardness in the front of his diaper.
They entered the grand dining hall, the air rich with the scent of coffee, bacon, and toast. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off silverware. The high-backed chairs, upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, lined the long tables like thrones. The group moved silently to their designated table near the back. Without a word, each sissy grasped the heavy carved wood of their chair and smoothly pulled it out. They sat in near unison, backs straight but heads bowed at the precise, submissive angle they’d been drilled on, hands folded demurely in their laps. The crinkling subsided into muffled rustles as they settled, the high backs of the chairs partially shielding them.
House sissies, distinguished by slightly more elaborate aprons, moved with efficient grace between the tables. Porcelain clinked softly as plates were set down: scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, buttered toast, small pots of jam. Pitchers of juice and coffee steamed gently. The seated sissies waited, heads still bowed, until the servers had moved away. Only then did they pick up their utensils with quiet precision and begin to eat. The hall filled with the muted sounds of chewing and the delicate clink of cutlery on china, punctuated occasionally by the soft, unavoidable rustle of a diaper as someone shifted in their seat. Matt focused on maneuvering his fork, the satin tightening across his chest with each breath, acutely aware of the persistent, semi-hard state the walk had induced, concealed by the tablecloth but a constant presence beneath the feminine fabric.
Matt ate methodically, the food tasteless compared to the sensory overload of the diaper, the ambient sounds of submission. He watched the house sissies move, their movements fluid and practised, a level of proficiency he couldn’t yet imagine achieving. As the last bites were finished, utensils were laid down in unison. Hands returned to laps. Heads remained bowed. Silence descended again, thick with expectation. Breakfast was over. Now they waited.
Matt sat perfectly still in the high-backed chair, the satin cool against his skin where it touched the velvet upholstery. He focused on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth, on keeping his breathing even, on the faint scent of bacon grease and coffee lingering in the air. The subtle pressure in his diaper was a low hum of sensation. He knew the drill. They all did. They waited for Lana. She would come when Mistress Caitlin had no further need of her. Until then, stillness and patience were the only requirements. His mind drifted to the mantras, a quiet hum beneath the surface: Service is Pleasure. Obedience is Pleasure. The waiting itself was service.
The polished dining hall floor reflected the rigid lines of waiting figures. Minutes stretched, measured only by the soft sigh of fabric as someone shifted, the faint crinkle beneath satin a secret rhythm. Matt focused on the grain of the table, the lingering sweetness of jam on his tongue, the low hum of the mantra echoing in his skull: Service is Pleasure. Obedience is Pleasure. His muscles ached with stillness; the persistent, low thrum of arousal confined by the diaper felt like a demanding pulse. Then, movement.
A hush deeper than before fell. Heads bowed fractionally lower. Mistress Caitlin, a silhouette of impeccable severity against the bright window at the far end of the hall, gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. Lana, who had stood statue-still beside her mistress’s chair, instantly sank into a deep, graceful curtsy, her blonde ponytail brushing the floor. She held it for a precise three-count before rising smoothly, her eyes downcast until she turned. Her heels clicked with sudden authority on the marble as she walked the length of the hall, the assembled sissies a frozen tableau in her wake. She stopped before Matt’s table.
"Matthew," Lana said, her voice clear but soft, carrying effortlessly in the silence. "Attend me." No preamble. No explanation. Just the command.
Matt’s heart hammered against his ribs. He slid his chair back silently, the scrape barely audible, and stood, his legs trembling slightly. He kept his gaze lowered, focusing on the sharp points of Lana’s black patent heels. "Yes, Head Sissy," he murmured, the title feeling thick on his tongue. He fell into step beside her, matching her brisk pace as she led him out of the dining hall, the rustle of his own diaper the only sound in the echoing corridor beyond. The scent of breakfast faded, replaced by the faint, clean smell of lemon polish and something floral.
Lana didn't speak until they reached a heavy oak door, intricately carved with swirling patterns. She pushed it open, revealing a space that made Matt’s breath catch. It wasn't a room; it felt like a cathedral dedicated to transformation. Vast and airy, light streamed in from high windows, illuminating row upon row of gleaming chrome clothing racks. They groaned under the weight of color and texture – an overwhelming sea of sartorial possibility.
"Welcome to the Atelier, Matthew," Lana announced, stepping inside, her posture relaxing minutely. "This is where you become." She gestured expansively. "Peruse. Observe. Let the possibilities speak to you."
Matt stepped forward, feeling dwarfed. The air hummed with silence and the faint scent of new fabric and leather. Racks stretched endlessly. He saw sleek, high-necked Victorian gowns in severe black satin next to flounced, frilly confections in eye-watering pink chiffon. There were crisp pinafores, skin-tight PVC corsets with ruffled skirts, outfits dripping with lace, others starkly minimalist in stark white cotton. The sheer volume was staggering. He drifted down an aisle, his fingers trailing over cool satin, catching on rough lace, recoiling slightly from the slick, cold kiss of latex. He paused before a particularly elaborate creation: layers of tulle over a boned bodice, tiny pearl buttons marching up the back. It looked impossibly complicated, suffocating.
A knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach. He turned, searching for Lana. She stood near the entrance, watching him with an unreadable expression. "Ma'am?" His voice sounded small in the cavernous space. "I... I don't know. What... what would Rebecca want?" The question felt crucial, grounding his whirlwind thoughts in his devotion.
Lana’s lips curved into a genuine, approving smile. "An excellent question, Matthew. Truly thoughtful." She walked towards him, her heels echoing softly. "I spoke with Mistress Caitlin. Rebecca conveyed she has no specific preference. She trusts the Academy and," Lana’s gaze met his, holding it, "she trusts your journey. Your choice should reflect your embrace of this path, for her."
Relief warred with renewed pressure. Rebecca trusted him to choose? He resumed his slow walk, looking with fresh eyes. The intricate gowns seemed less intimidating, more... performative. The stark PVC felt too harsh, too alien. He passed simple black dresses, then stopped. There it was. Hanging slightly apart, almost modest amidst the extravagance. A knee-length maid’s dress in soft pink cotton, piped with crisp white trim along the collar, cuffs, and hem of the full skirt. It had a neat, white peter pan collar and delicate puff sleeves. It looked... achievable. Sweet. Serviceable. Yet undeniably feminine. He touched the fabric; it was cool and breathable.
He lifted it carefully off the rack. The hanger felt substantial in his hand. He carried it towards the center of the room where a single, empty chrome rack stood under the brightest light. He hesitated only a moment before hooking the hanger onto the central bar. The pink fabric seemed to glow softly.
Lana approached, circling the simple dress slowly. "A considered choice, Matthew," she observed. Her eyes scanned him, head to toe, then returned to the dress. "It suits your frame. Practical. Classic." She paused, tilting her head. "And wise. I've noticed you flush easily, dear. Latex in this environment... it becomes a personal sauna rather quickly. This cotton will breathe. Much more comfortable for the tasks ahead." Her approval was palpable, warming him more than the sunbeams. "A sissy who considers both aesthetics and practicality is a valuable asset. Well done."
Matt felt a blush rise, but this time it was laced with pride, not just embarrassment. He looked at the pink and white dress hanging in the spotlight. It wasn't just fabric; it was the first real shape of his new skin. Lana’s smile deepened, a silent promise hanging in the air between them. The real work began now.
The pink cotton dress hung alone on the chrome rack, seeming smaller now under Lana's appraising gaze. Matt hovered beside it, the initial flush of pride cooling into a fresh wave of uncertainty. The sheer scope of the Atelier pressed in, the racks of unfamiliar components looming like an exam he hadn't studied for. Lana turned to him, her expression calm, expectant. "Excellent foundation, Matthew. Now, we build." Her gesture encompassed the surrounding aisles. "The dress is the canvas. The underthings, the accessories... they create the silhouette. The posture. The feeling. Let's begin with the architecture."
She led him towards a section dominated by rigid structures. Corsets. Rows of them. Some were sleek, modern encasements in black satin or gleaming patent leather, others lace-covered confections resembling antique armor. The sheer variety was dizzying. Leather, satin, brocade, even stiff white coutil. "This," Lana said, tapping a finger against her own cinched waist, visible beneath her latex dress, "is where the discipline begins. It shapes you, supports you, reminds you." She watched him scan the intimidating array. "Don't be overwhelmed. Feel the fabrics. Consider support versus flexibility. You'll be bending, reaching... serving."
Matt tentatively touched a black satin corset, the fabric cool and smooth. Then a stiffer white one with bone-colored lacing. He recoiled slightly from a particularly severe-looking leather number adorned with metal rings. He finally settled on a mid-length underbust corset in a deep rose satin. It felt substantial but not brutal, the satin soft against his fingertips. "This one, Ma'am?" he asked, holding it up. The color echoed his dress.
Lana took it, testing the busk closure at the front, the strength of the steel bones. "A good choice, Matthew," she nodded. "Rose complements the pink. Satin is forgiving for a beginner, less likely to bite than leather. And the underbust style allows for..." she paused, a knowing glint in her eye, "...room for development up top. Sensible." She placed the corset on the rack beside the dress. "Now, foundations need foundations. Stockings. What speaks to you? Sheer allure? Practical opacity? Classic white?"
He moved to a display of hosiery. Fishnets felt too bold, opaque black too severe against the soft pink. His fingers brushed a pair of sheer, barely-there nude stockings, then settled on a delicate white pair with a subtle lace top band. "These?" They felt light, feminine, but clean. "White feels... correct. For a maid."
"Traditional," Lana approved. "And practical – shows less dust than nude. A classic choice. Now," she steered him towards another stand overflowing with intricate straps and satin bands, "the garter belt. This secures your stockings, keeps the lines clean. It must be sturdy but comfortable." He picked a simple white satin belt with six clasps. Lana inspected the metal fixtures. "Solid. Good. Simplicity often serves best." It joined the growing collection.
The shoe aisle was a forest of vertiginous heights. Stilettos, platforms, Mary Janes, ankle straps, all gleaming under the lights. Matt felt a wave of panic. Walking in heels was an abstract terror. He pointed hesitantly towards a pair of modest black patent Mary Janes with a chunky two-inch heel. "Perhaps... something lower? For starting?"
Lana shook her head, a gentle but firm correction. "Matthew, posture is paramount. A true maid's heel provides elevation, alters your center of gravity, forces an elegant carriage. Too low, and the effect is lost. You risk slouching." She scanned the shelves, then plucked a pair herself: classic black patent pumps with a pointed toe and a slender, but manageable, two-inch heel. "These. The point elongates the leg. The height is sufficient for poise, not punishment. You'll learn." She placed them decisively next to the white stockings. "Gloves next. Over the elbow, for formal service."
He found a pair of pristine white satin gloves reaching well past the elbow. They felt cool and impossibly smooth. Lana nodded assent. "Perfect. Crisp, traditional." Then came the headband. He chose a simple, thin white satin one, avoiding anything frilly or floral. Lana added it without comment. The rack was filling up: corset, stockings, garter belt, heels, gloves, headband, dress. Only one element was missing. Lana turned to him, her gaze direct. "The silhouette, Matthew. The feminine form. We need to address the bust."
Matt froze, his cheeks burning. He stared at the floor, the cool chrome suddenly fascinating. "Ma'am, I... I don't... I've never..." The words tangled in his throat. "Fake breasts. I wouldn't know where to start. Or how... or even what..." His voice trailed off, thick with embarrassment and inexperience.
Lana’s expression softened, devoid of mockery. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Breathe, dear. This isn't a failing. It's simply a new skill. We all start somewhere. Consider it an essential part of your education today." She gestured towards her own ample, corseted bust. "My Cs suit my frame. Yours is similar – slender, narrow shoulders. Starting with a C-cup is usually manageable. They provide shape without overwhelming you." She led him to a discreet section lined with drawers.
Opening one, she revealed neat rows of silicone forms in various sizes and shades. She selected a pair of C-cup forms in a soft beige tone. They were cool and surprisingly heavy in her hands. "Silicone," she explained, "feels more natural, moves better than foam. The weight reminds you it's there." She then moved to a rack of bras, selecting a simple, full-coverage white bra with wide straps and firm support. "This will hold them securely. It won't compare to the real thing, naturally," she added pragmatically, "but it’s a necessary step. You need to learn how they feel, how they move with you, how they look beneath the dress. It’s part of presenting the complete image. For Rebecca."
Matt swallowed hard, looking at the lifelike forms and the sturdy bra. The reality was daunting, visceral. But Lana's matter-of-factness, her framing of it as necessary learning for Rebecca, pierced his panic. "Okay," he whispered, the word barely audible. "Alright."
"Good," Lana said briskly, placing the forms and the bra on the rack. The ensemble was complete. "Now. It's time to become her." She gestured to three large, full-length mirrors arranged in a corner, flanked by privacy screens. "Behind the screen. Start with the diaper check – ensure it’s smooth, secure. Then, piece by piece. I'll guide you."
Matt gathered the items, his arms full of his new identity, and stepped behind the screen. The familiar crinkle of his diaper was the first sound. He smoothed it down, the routine action a small anchor. Then, the unfamiliar: the cool weight of the silicone forms, the complex clasp of the bra at his back – fumbling fingers finally securing it. The unfamiliar swell against his chest was startling, alien. Next, the stockings, rolling them carefully up his legs, the sheer fabric whispering against his skin. The garter belt followed, its clasps snapping onto the stocking tops with decisive clicks. Then the corset. He struggled with the laces, pulling it tight around his ribs and waist, the pressure immediate and constricting, forcing his back straight. Breath came shallower. He stepped into the heels, wobbling precariously for a moment before finding a shaky balance, his calves already protesting. The over-the-elbow gloves were next, the satin slithering up his arms, transforming his hands into elegant, anonymous tools. The simple headband settled onto his hair. Finally, he lifted the soft pink dress over his head, the cotton whispering down over the corset, the stockings, the unfamiliar curves, settling into place. He smoothed the skirt, the white trim crisp against his gloved hands.
He took a trembling breath, the corset limiting the expansion of his chest, the heels tilting his pelvis forward, the weight on his chest a constant reminder. He stepped out from behind the screen.
Lana stood waiting, her eyes critical but not unkind. She didn’t speak immediately, just walked a slow circle around him. Matt remained perfectly still, staring straight ahead at his reflection in the triptych of mirrors. The figure staring back was a stranger. The pink dress was sweet, demure. The corset sculpted an unnaturally narrow waist beneath the soft swell of the silicone breasts. The white stockings gleamed, held taut by the garter straps just visible beneath the hem. The black heels added inches and an unsteady elegance. The gloves reached past his elbows, the headband holding back his messy hair, revealing the vulnerable line of his neck. The blush on his cheeks was the only familiar thing. He looked like a life-sized doll. An anxious, wide-eyed doll in its first outfit.
"Posture," Lana murmured, coming to stand beside him, facing the mirrors. Her hand tapped gently between his shoulder blades. "Shoulders back and down. Head high. That corset is your support, not just restraint. Use it." She adjusted the angle of his chin slightly. "Better." She knelt, checking the alignment of his stockings, the tension of the garter straps. "Smooth lines are essential. Wrinkles imply carelessness." She rose, her eyes scanning him head to toe. She reached out and subtly adjusted the sit of the bra strap beneath the dress shoulder seam. "The forms need to sit naturally. See?" She guided his gloved hand briefly to feel the position. "High enough, centered." Her touch was professional, efficient.
Finally, she stepped back. "Kneel, Matthew."
The command was quiet, absolute. Matt obeyed instantly, sinking down onto his knees on the polished floor. The heels forced his feet into an awkward angle, the corset restricted his descent, and the padded bulk of the diaper shifted beneath him. He arranged his gloved hands neatly on his thighs, the satin skirt pooling around him. He kept his gaze lowered, but in the mirror, he saw the full picture: the kneeling maid, pink and white and black, waiting.
Lana circled him once more, slower this time. Her gaze was meticulous, tracing every seam, every strap, the fall of the fabric, the line of the stockings. She paused behind him, adjusting the hang of the dress skirt. She checked the security of the headband. She leaned close, her breath warm near his ear. "Deep breath in. Hold it." He obeyed, the corset biting. "Release slowly." As he exhaled, she gave a final, almost invisible tug on the corset laces at his back, cinching it fractionally tighter. A soft gasp escaped him. "There," she said, satisfaction in her tone. "The silhouette is correct. The presentation... acceptable for a first attempt." She stepped in front of him again, looking down. Her ocean-blue eyes held his reflection. "Remember this feeling, Matthew. This posture. This... containment. It’s the uniform of your devotion. Breathe it in. Now, we teach you how to move in it."