Chapter 4: The Sissy's Wardrobe
The black leather band had lived on him for a week. I saw its influence in the slight hesitation before he stood, in the way he’d sometimes shift in his chair at dinner, a faint, preoccupied look in his eyes. It was a whisper only he could hear, and it was making him wonderfully pliant.
Saturday afternoon found us in the car, headed not to his usual tailor but to a boutique in a part of town he never frequented. The windows were filled with lace and silks in shades that defied the muted taupe of his corporate world.
“What is this place?” he asked, his voice tight as I parallel parked.
“A lingerie shop,” I said, killing the engine. “They have the most beautiful things. I need a new robe.”
This was true, technically. I did need a new robe. But need is such a flexible concept.
The air inside was warm and smelled of vanilla and expensive fabric. A discreet bell chimed. Racks of delicate items glimmered under soft lighting. Julian stood just inside the door, a bull in a china shop, his shoulders nearly blocking the entrance. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Evelyn, this is…”
“Relax, darling. No one knows you here.” I drifted toward a rack of nightwear, my fingers gliding over cool satin and chiffon. “In fact, why don’t you help me pick? You have such a good eye for quality.”
I pulled out a gown. It was a pale, luminous pink, the color of a sugared almond. Satin, with thin spaghetti straps and a hem that would fall mid-thigh. I held it up against myself. “Too frilly?”
He shook his head, mute, his eyes darting to a young woman folding camisoles at the counter.
“Hmm.” I put it back, then selected another. This one was simpler. A sheath of the same pink satin, cut on the bias. I turned to him, holding it out. “Feel that.”
Hesitantly, he reached out and pinched the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “Soft,” he mumbled.
“It’s washable silk. Practical.” I smiled. “But I think the color washes me out. It would look better on someone with… different coloring.” I let the gown drape over my arm and continued browsing. I selected a matching pair of briefs, a simple cut in the same satin. “These are lovely, though. I’ll take them.”
I added the items to the counter. The saleswoman, efficient and uninterested, rang them up. “Will that be all?”
“Just one more thing.” I turned to Julian, my expression open, helpful. “You know, your skin has been so irritated lately from those boxers. All that cotton blend. Dr. Schiffman said natural fibers, next to the skin, are crucial for reducing systemic inflammation. It’s all connected to the stress metrics.”
His eyes locked on mine. He knew what was happening. The lawyer in him saw the argument being constructed, clause by damning clause. The collar was precedent. His health was the jurisdiction.
I turned back to the rack and plucked a second satin gown, identical to the pink one in my hands. “This should fit you. The material breathes.” I placed it on the counter next to the other. “And these.” I added a second pair of the satin briefs.
The total was a shocking number. I handed over my card without a blink. Julian’s face was pale, a muscle working in his jaw.
“Evelyn, I can’t—”
“You promised to trust me with your health, Julian,” I said softly, tucking my card back into my wallet. “This is part of the regimen. It’s just clothing. It’s just fabric.”
The drive home was silent. The shopping bag sat on the backseat like a passenger.
In our bedroom, the evening light was long and slanted. I laid the pink garments on the bed, the satin catching the sun like water.
“Go on,” I said, nodding toward the bathroom. “Shower first. You want to be clean for natural fibers.”
He stood, a statue of resistance. “This is insane.”
“Is it?” I walked to him, until we were almost touching. I could see the pulse in his throat. “The monitor seemed insane last week. Now it’s just a fact. This is just another fact, Julian. A soft, simple fact.” I placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. “Do you feel that? Your stress is spiking. The monitor will show it. This is exactly what we need to mitigate.”
It was the perfect loop. The threat of the device reporting his disobedience, justifying the very measures taken to prevent it.
He looked from my calm eyes to the pink spill on our bed. His shoulders slumped, not in defeat, but in a profound, weary capitulation. He took the garments from the bed without another word and disappeared into the bathroom.
I waited. The shower ran. I poured a glass of wine, the ruby liquid catching the last of the sun.
When he emerged, the door opening on a cloud of steam, he was transformed. The pink satin gown clung to his damp frame, the straps looking impossibly delicate on his broad shoulders. The hem hit him higher than it would on me, exposing the long, taut muscles of his thighs, now softened by the sheen of the fabric. The briefs were hidden, but I knew they were there. He kept his eyes on the floor, his arms held stiffly at his sides.
“Come here,” I said, my voice gentle. I took his hand and led him to the full-length mirror on the closet door. “Look.”
He resisted, turning his head away.
“Julian. Look.”
Slowly, he raised his eyes. The man in the mirror was a stranger. A powerful, masculine body draped in a confection of feminine silk. The contrast was grotesque. It was beautiful. His breath hitched.
“See?” I whispered, standing behind him, my chin near his shoulder. Our reflection was a portrait of control. “The color is perfect for your skin tone. It brings out the rose. And your legs… you have such slender ankles. I never noticed.”
A deep, mortified blush spread from his chest up his neck. But his eyes were locked on the image. I saw the flicker in them, the confused spark that was not entirely revulsion. The brain seeks to rationalize, to find pleasure in necessity. It’s a survival mechanism.
“This is who you are when you’re with me,” I said, my words falling into his ear like stones into a deep well. “Unguarded. Cared for. Soft. My Juliet.”
The name hung in the air. It was an atom bomb wrapped in lace.
He didn’t protest it. He just stared at the pink-clad figure, his own face a mask of trembling conflict. I saw his body react, a slight, traitorous thickening against the satin briefs, immediately restrained by the firm, familiar pressure of the black leather collar.
He was caught between two truths, both of my design. And he was starting, just starting, to believe the newer, pinker one.