Page 4 of His to Enjoy
“Much better,” Sharon said, picking up the bra and holding it out to me. “Put this on first.”
I took it with trembling fingers, the lace impossibly soft against my skin as I slipped my arms through the straps. The cups barelycontained me, the sheer fabric doing nothing to hide my nipples, which had hardened from the cold air and all the stuff I didn’t want to acknowledge. The tiny rosettes along the edges seemed to mock the severity of this supposed business interview.
“Now the panties,” Sharon instructed, watching me with that same clinical detachment.
I stepped into them, pulling the delicate lace up my thighs. They sat low on my hips, the ribbons at the sides making me feel like a present waiting to be unwrapped. The back provided minimal coverage, and I could feel the cool air against the still-burning skin of my punished bottom.
“Turn around,” Sharon commanded. “Let me see.”
I rotated slowly, my face burning with humiliation as she inspected me like I was modeling for a catalog. When I faced her again, she was pulling something else from her desk drawer—a thick folder that she opened with practiced efficiency.
“Now then,” she said, as if I weren’t standing before her in lingerie that belonged in a honeymoon suite rather than an office, “let’s discuss why you might actually be valuable to Selecta, despite your obvious challenges with female authority.”
She spread several documents across her desk. “Are you familiar with our New Modesty training underwear product line?”
The question caught me so off guard that I almost laughed. “I… what?”
“Training underwear,” Sharon repeated patiently. “Selecta manufactures a line of thick, absorbent undergarments for young women in the New Modesty program who require additional behavioral modification.”
I felt a lurch in my belly as understanding dawned. I knew exactly what she meant—I had worn them myself during my first months in the program, when my foster parents had decided I needed the extra humiliation to break my willfulness.
“I see from your expression that you’re familiar with the product,” Sharon observed. “In fact, according to your file, you wore them for approximately three months.”
The memory of those awful, bulky things made my cheeks burn even hotter. They had been like wearing diapers, making me aware of them with every movement, feeling almost visible under even the loosest skirts. And they came with the humiliating recommendation that the wearer’s toileting be monitored. The shame of having to ask permission to use the bathroom, of having my foster mother check them for accidents that never came, but were always threatened as a possibility if I misbehaved and had permission to use the toilet denied…
“Yes,” I whispered, unable to meet her eyes.
“Good. Then you can provide valuable consumer insight.” Sharon pulled out a market analysis chart. “Sales have been declining. The foster families are still ordering them, but at lower rates. Assessment believes the product line needs refreshing.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the revealing pink lingerie, acutely aware of how the delicate lace felt against my skin compared to those horrible training garments. “What kind of refreshing?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.” Sharon leaned forward, her fingers steepled. “You’ve worn them. You understand the psychological impact. What would make them more effective?”
The question hung in the air between us. I knew exactly what would make them more effective—I’d thought about it endlessly during those three humiliating months. But admitting that knowledge felt like betraying every girl who would suffer because of my suggestions.
“I…” I swallowed hard. “The washing instructions.”
Sharon’s eyebrow arched. “Go on.”
“They’re machine washable,” I said quietly, hating myself for each word. “But if girls had to hand wash them—had to spend time every evening scrubbing them clean—it would reinforce the lesson. Make them really think about why they’re wearing them.”
“Interesting.” Sharon made a note. “What else?”
My mind raced back to those awful months, to the specific moments of deepest shame. “The coverage. They’re designed to be modest, to cover everything completely. But that’s… that’s not the only point, is it? The point is humiliation. Part of that comes from the modesty involved, but could there be… more?”
“Continue.”
“A cutout,” I whispered, my face burning. “Over the… over the middle of your bottom. So that if a foster parent or a suitor needs to correct her… you know…thatway…”
To my dismay I flashed back to a vivid memory of Jacob correcting methatway, with his middle finger up my anus as a quick, quiet admonishment to behave myself.
Sharon had raised her eyebrows as she waited for me to finish. I swallowed hard.
“Well… she doesn’t have to have them pulled down. She’s already exposed. Already vulnerable. And… she knows that… you know, when she puts them on, and when she’s allowed to use the… the toilet, too.”
Sharon’s pen moved quickly across her notepad. “That’s brilliant, Grace. Absolutely brilliant. You understand the psychology perfectly.”
I wanted to sink through the floor. I had just suggested ways to make an already humiliating product even more degrading for young women like I had been. But the way Sharon looked at me—with genuine professional approval rather than the clinical assessment from before—made something twist in my chest.
