The First Uniform

The package arrived at 6:15 a.m., delivered by a courier who didn’t meet Ethan’s eyes. A matte-black box, heavier than expected, sealed with crimson wax stamped E.V. Ethan’s fingers shook as he broke the seal in his bedroom, door locked, blinds drawn.

Inside, nested in black tissue:

A white cotton blouse, Peter Pan collar, pearl buttons.

A pleated navy skirt, hemline scandalously high.

Sheer white thigh-high stockings with lace tops.

A matching satin bra and panty set—powder-pink, embroidered with tiny roses.

Mary Jane heels, black patent, 3-inch block heel.

A slim leather journal and a silver pen.

A single Polaroid: Ms. Vaughn in the same uniform, decades younger, smirking at the camera. On the back, in red ink: You’ll fit this better than I ever did.

Underneath everything: a sealed plastic packet labeled Day 1 – Hormones. Two chalky pink pills and a note: Take with breakfast. No exceptions.

Ethan’s stomach flipped. He’d known this was coming—whispers of “vitamins” in the contract—but seeing the pills made it real. He swallowed them dry, chasing with orange juice that tasted metallic on his tongue.

The panties went on first. The satin slid over his hairless skin like liquid. The cage nestled in the lace pouch, the jeweled plug still seated deep from last night. The bra was trickier—his chest was flat, but the cups cradled his tender nipples like a promise. He adjusted the straps, feeling the satin hug his ribs.

Stockings next. He sat on the bed, rolling the nylon up his smooth legs. The lace tops gripped mid-thigh, held by a hidden silicone band. The skirt barely covered the lace—any bend and the stockings would flash. The blouse buttoned tight; the collar framed his throat like a choker.

He slipped into the heels last. The click on hardwood sent a jolt up his spine. In the mirror: a Catholic schoolgirl stared back, prim and obscene. The cage bulged under the skirt; the plug shifted when he turned.

His phone buzzed.

Ms. Vaughn:

Stall. 3rd period. Full uniform under jeans. No excuses.

Ethan layered baggy jeans and a hoodie over the uniform, the lace scratching deliciously against his skin. Every step to school was ****—the plug grinding, the cage rubbing, the stockings sliding with each stride. He walked like he had a secret, because he did.

First period dragged. Second period, he ducked into the handicapped stall in the science wing. Heart hammering, he stripped to the uniform. The skirt barely skimmed his ass; the blouse strained over the bra. He snapped the photo—mirror angled to show the cage peeking beneath the pleats, stockings taut, heels lifting his ass.

Caption: Ready for class, Mistress.

He hit send and waited, cock straining uselessly in its prison.

Ms. Vaughn:

Perfect. Keep it on all day. Lunch in my office. Door locked.

The morning blurred. Teachers droned; classmates laughed. Ethan sat gingerly, the plug a constant pressure. By lunch, he was leaking steadily, the panties damp at the tip of the cage.

Ms. Vaughn’s office was in the old chem building—private, soundproofed, blinds always half-drawn. She locked the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed under her breasts. Today she wore a charcoal sheath dress, slit to mid-thigh, hair in a low knot.

“Strip,” she said. “Slowly.”

Ethan obeyed. Hoodie first, then jeans. The uniform gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Ms. Vaughn circled him, heels silent on the tile.

“Turn.”

He pivoted. The skirt flared, revealing the lace stocking tops and the satin panties stretched over his caged cock. She stopped behind him, gloved hands—black leather today—settling on his hips.

“Bend over the desk.”

He folded forward, skirt riding up. Cool air kissed his exposed ass. She tugged the panties down just enough to reveal the plug’s jewel, then traced the stretched rim with a gloved finger.

“Still holding,” she murmured. “Good. We’ll size up tonight.”

She produced a remote from her pocket and pressed a button. The plug vibrated—low, insidious. Ethan gasped, gripping the desk as the buzz pulsed against his prostate.

“Stockings stay up,” she said. “Skirt too. Hands flat.”

She stepped in front of him, hiking her dress to reveal garter-held stockings and no panties. Her pussy was bare, lips glistening. She perched on the desk’s edge, spreading her thighs.

“Earn your lunch, pet.”

Ethan dropped to his knees, heels forcing his ass high. The plug buzzed harder as he leaned in, inhaling her scent—musk and jasmine. His tongue darted out, tracing her slit. She was already wet; he lapped greedily, circling her clit with the flat of his tongue.

Ms. Vaughn threaded fingers through his hair, guiding him. “Slower. Tease.”

He obeyed, licking long stripes, sucking her clit gently. Her thighs trembled. The plug shifted to a higher setting; he moaned into her, the vibration traveling through his tongue. She came with a sharp gasp, hips grinding against his face, flooding his mouth with her taste.

When she pushed him away, his chin glistened. She zipped her dress and produced a straw cup—protein shake, vanilla.

“Drink.”

He sipped obediently, still on his knees. The cage dripped steadily onto the tile.

“Uniform stays on under your clothes for the rest of the day,” she said. “Plug vibrates on a schedule. You’ll learn to come hands-free by Friday.”

She helped him dress—jeans over the skirt, hoodie hiding the blouse. The plug buzzed once more, a promise, then stilled.

“Journal tonight,” she said, tapping the leather book. “Detail every sensation. Every time you leak. Every time you think of me.”

Ethan nodded, throat raw.

Afternoon classes were hell. The plug activated randomly—30 seconds here, a minute there. By final period, he was a mess: panties soaked, cage slick, thighs trembling in the stockings. He walked home bow-legged, praying no one noticed.

8:00 p.m. sharp, he was back at her door. She greeted him in a silk robe, hair damp from a shower.

“Strip in the foyer.”

He obeyed, uniform pooling at his feet. The cage was slick with precum; the panties clung transparently. She led him to the bedroom—four-poster bed, mirrors on every wall.

“On the bed. Ass up.”

He climbed onto the silk sheets, knees spread. She removed the jeweled plug slowly, his hole gaping around nothing. Cool air rushed in; he whimpered.

“Size two,” she said, coating a larger plug—black silicone, thicker, with a pronounced curve. She pressed it against his rim. “Breathe.”

The stretch burned. He pushed back instinctively, taking it inch by inch. When it seated, the curve nudged his prostate relentlessly. She twisted it, making him sob.

“Hands and knees.”

She bound his wrists to the headboard with silk rope, then produced a Hitachi wand. She pressed it against the cage’s bars, the vibration traveling through metal to his trapped cock.

“Count your edges,” she said. “Out loud.”

The wand buzzed. Ethan’s hips jerked. “One…”

She pulled it away. Waited. Pressed again. “Two…”

By ten, he was babbling, tears streaking the sheets. His cock strained, purple and leaking, but the cage held firm.

“Please, Mistress—let me—”

“No.” She set the wand aside and straddled his back, facing his ass. Her weight pinned him. She reached between his legs, fingers circling his stretched rim, then pushed the plug deeper.

“You’ll come when I say. Not before.”

She rode the plug like a dildo, fucking him with it in slow, deep strokes. His prostate sang; his balls ached. When she finally pressed the wand to the plug’s base, the vibration shattered him.

He came hands-free, cock pulsing uselessly in the cage, cum dribbling onto the sheets in weak spurts. His hole clenched around the plug, milking it as he sobbed her name.

Ms. Vaughn milked him dry, then cleaned him with a warm cloth. She removed the cage—his cock soft, shrunken, sensitive—and replaced it with a smaller, tighter model. The click of the lock was final.

“Sleep in the uniform,” she said, dressing him in the blouse and skirt, no panties. The plug stayed in, locked to a harness that hugged his hips.

She tucked him into the guest bed—pink sheets, stuffed animals watching from the shelves. The hormones coursed through him, a warm tide. His nipples throbbed against the blouse; his hips ached like growing pains.

Before sleep, she kissed his forehead. “Journal on the nightstand. Write until you pass out.”

He wrote by lamplight, pen scratching:

Day 3: Wore the uniform to school. Came in your office. Plug bigger now. Cage hurts but I leak when I think of you. Nipples so sensitive I came just from the blouse rubbing. I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m—

The pen slipped from his fingers. He dreamed of lace and heels and Ms. Vaughn’s thighs clamped around his ears.

Morning brought a new message:

Ms. Vaughn:

Voice training starts today. You’ll speak in your new register by next week. Heels to school—under jeans. Photo in the library stacks, 5th period. Caption: “Practicing, Mistress.”

Ethan—Eva now, in the journal—smiled sleepily. The cage was tight, the plug fuller, but the ache felt like home.

The first uniform was just the beginning.