Put it on. Put it on just for me. Yes, this one. You are stood in our bedroom as I emerge from the walk in wardrobe to the right where your clothes are kept. My walk-in wardrobe is to the left. All my things are to the left. I sleep on the left (when I allow you into the bed), I use the left-hand wash basin of the two in the ensuite and I always lead with my left hand, but that are matters for another time. You are stood in your underwear. White and pure, just like that heart of yours as you adjust your hair in the full-length mirror that occupies one corner of the room. The room is low lit, nothing is out of place in our bedroom and it almost seems like a film set such is the setting and order. I stand and regard you as I hold the coathanger from which the expensive red dress hangs. You have put put your black high heels on which I approve of, since the definition of those toned calves can be appreciated. Not only do those calves look appealing they remind the observer that you can run and run fast. My eyes move upwards and see the dimming bruise on your left thigh, the only blemish on your otherwise elegant thighs, thighs that part at my command and reveal your sensual heaven between them. Your bottom is covered by the simple cotton panties and for a moment the desire to land a smack of firm governance on your bottom rises. The image forms again in my mind as I picture you bent over, touching your toes and waiting for the discipline that you have come to accept and, as I knew you would, embrace. You turn, twisting at the hip as I hold the dress out in front of me. Your breasts are cupped by the white bra, again simple in design and in keeping with the purity you exhibit to the world outside our walls, although of course I know different. I know what you are and I know what rages beneath that seemingly placid exterior. I know precisely what you are and I have dedicated myself to ensuring that it is kept in check and under control, for your sake.
Your neck is slender and around it is a silver chain from which a locket hangs. The chain is not ostentatious but is delicate, like its wearer. As you look at the dress your right-hand rises and absent-mindedly fingers the dangling locket, your neat manicured nails tapping against the solid silver encasing which holds – well we both know what lies in there don’t we? You chew your lip as you continue to study the dress. Your lipstick is the same-shade as the garment which I am presenting to you. You spend at least twenty minutes applying your make-up. Unlike others your make-up defines rather than covers up and that is something which I approve of. You did not wear make-up when we first met. you felt you had no need of it and in some respects that was right but I promised that I would improve you and guide you and I delivered on my promise. As I always do. It is right that you show them those inviting lips, round blue eyes and defined cheek bones. Let them look but understand you can never let them touch. Your blonde-hair frames your face just right, the platinum-blonde hairs falling neatly down. It once was long and extended down your back but I warned you how this made you such easy prey for those that lurk in the shadows. A dirt-smeared hand would always make a grab for those long locks and the consequences are not worth considering. You resisted at first since you took such pride in those long strands of hair but eventually you accepted and conceded as you began to understand that I had your best interests at heart. You have always been trim but I encouraged you to attend aerobics classes to ensure that there was a tautness about your frame which provided a degree of edge in order to dissuade would be suitors.
You continue to study the dress and I allow you this moment to do so, the pretence that you have any choice in what you shall be wearing. It is elegant and suits your figure without revealing too much of your cleavage so that wandering eyes linger there in your delicious valley for too long. The dress is of a length which suggests it is on trend yet it covers those thighs (and the bruise) and ensures that the wolves do not come sniffing at your door.
“Yes,” you confirm, “that is the one.”
I smile at your acceptance of my suggestion. It was not always the case. You resisted my suggestions and guidance in the beginning but eventually you realised that to do so would only result in those things which you do not like to talk about happening. You finally grasped that I was looking out for you and was guiding you. I emphasised your need to appear attractive and respectable as my ambassador without drawing the salacious looks and comments which would undermine someone of your purity. You railed against it for some time but in the end you realised that the sacrifice of this independence was a price worth paying to continue to bask in the light from my golden sun. You slide the dress over your head, taking care not to disturb your hair too much and shimmy it down over you figure. Those small hands smooth it into place and I step forward, zipping the dress up for you. I stand back again and motion for you to turn around. You do so with accustomed ease, rotating slowly so I can appraise you and ascertain your suitability for entering the world as my representative. I give a nod.
“Yes, you may out tonight Rebecca,” I approve. You curtsey. It is not a mocking gesture but rather one of respect and acknowledgement because ultimately I always achieve my redress.