A skirt

Magi emptied the bag with trembling fingers. On her palm, she found a faux leather skirt so short it looked like a wide belt and a set of indecently small black lingerie. Skirts had never been her choice; she felt uncomfortable, exposed, and out of place in them. May’s command came like the crack of a whip: "Take off your wet clothes. Put that on."

Her resistance melted away, powerless against the weight of the debt and her fear. With clumsy movements, as if she were dressing a stranger, she stripped off her soaked clothes. She put on the thong, feeling the thin, unfamiliar strip with a sharp shame. The underwire bra, which she would never have chosen, lifted and shaped her chest in a way she found artificial and shocking. Finally, she slid into the skirt. The sensation of the cold air directly on her bare thighs was deeply unsettling; this was a different, more deliberate, and calculated exposure. The fabric, rough and strange, brushed against her skin in a way that made her hair stand on end.

"May... the shirt," she begged, instinctively crossing her arms over her now sculpturally enhanced chest.

"The set doesn't come with one," he replied, with a hint of amusement in his voice. "And the one from the uniform is soaked."

Magi held her breath. The reality was a perverse exchange: she had traded the humiliation of wet, transparent clothes for a deliberate and stylized exposure. The pending favor was the final, poisoned icing on a cake she had already tasted.