wardrobe fitting

Getting into the car outside the Charlottenburg salon was an agony in slow motion.

Every fiber of my jeans grated like coarse sandpaper over my raw, fiery red thighs and sensitized scrotum. Between my legs, the Neukölln surgical-steel ring sat unyieldingly taut; with every shift into the leather passenger seat, the asymmetrical rim dug hard into the swollen perineal skin.

No sooner had Loona triggered the central locking and fired the ignition than she turned toward me. Her expression shifted in an instant: the condescending chill with which she had paraded me before Chiara and Selin dissolved into an almost caring, intimate softness. She placed her hand on my thigh—careful not to press down directly on the inflamed, lasered skin.

"Take a breath, little one," she whispered, gently brushing a damp lock of hair from my forehead. Her emerald-green eyes searched mine. "Tell me truly: are you all right? Was that too much for you in there? Or… do you enjoy enduring it for me?"

My heart was hammering up in my throat. This sudden swing from ruthless exposure to tender affection hit me with full force.

"It… it burned like hell, Loona," I managed hoarsely, meeting her gaze. "When Chiara levered the cylinder aside… the ring nearly sliced right into my perineum. But… I didn't want to give up. I'll endure it for you. Truly."

A soft, deep breath escaped her lips. A glimmer of absolute fascination lit her eyes. "You have no idea how impossibly hot I find that," she breathed, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to my cheek, just beside the lock on my collar. "Watching you writhe in shame, lying there forced to control yourself for me… it drives me out of my mind. You are so brave for me."

Her hand lifted from my thigh. Without taking her eyes from my face, she unfastened the waistband of her trousers, slipped her fingers beneath the fabric, and remained there for one long, silent breath. I heard only her faint, uneven breathing and the distant hum of Tauentzienstraße outside. When she drew her hand back out, her index and middle fingers glistened wet in the pale parking garage light. A delicate strand stretched between her fingertips before snapping.

She held her hand out to me, so close that the warm, heavy scent of her arousal filled my senses, mingled with the lily water still clinging to my hair.

"Smell," she said softly, almost tenderly. "This isn't a game. This is what you do to me when you hold still and let them touch you. When you let them wrench the ring aside and stay put anyway."

I leaned forward. The scent filled my nose, intimate and unfiltered. Loona dragged her slick fingertips across my lower lip, then deeper.

"Tongue. Slowly. You lick what I give you, not what you take."

I parted my lips. The taste was warm, salty, unmistakably hers. My tongue glided over her fingertips, working between the joints until the sheen was gone. Beneath my denim, my flesh strained against the cap of the cylinder and was deflected; the pain was sharp and futile. Loona exhaled, as though she had been waiting for that exact reaction.

"You see," she whispered, drawing her hand back only after I had finished licking. She wiped the lingering moisture against my chin—not to clean me, but to leave it sitting there. "You think you're merely enduring this. Meanwhile, you're making me wet. In front of Chiara. In front of Selin. In front of everyone who sees that thread and doesn't know what it's for."

She fastened her waistband, restarted the engine, and rested her hand back on my thigh, this time without pressure.

"Schöneberg is waiting. And if you stay as well-behaved later as you were just now… then tonight we will discuss what Chiara asked. Not before. Now breathe. And keep your mouth shut while I drive."

She stroked my cheek once more in comfort before shifting into gear and steering the car down Hohenzollerndamm toward Schöneberg.

Four weeks of ironclad chastity, I thought grimly, keeping my hands motionless in my pockets. Four weeks where every single morning had begun with the degrading *Kidslox* verification photo. As a medical student, I understood precisely how precarious this continuous compression was: the risk of pressure necrosis along the perineal raphe, the danger of chronic folliculitis from post-laser heat retention, and the impending neural hypersensitivity of the pudendal nerve. My rational mind was sounding the alarm, yet Loona’s promise burned far deeper into my consciousness than any medical logic. The prospect of release tonight blinded me to every warning sign. I was prepared to yield to any command, if only she would free me from this steel prison afterward.

When the car pulled up before the grand pre-war building in Schöneberg, the velvet choker tightened around my windpipe. The stairwell smelled of aged timber, floor wax, and my stepmother's heavy perfume.

The heavy double doors glided open almost soundlessly, held by Arissa's manicured hand.

She stood framed in the doorway like a statue of patronizing nobility: a dark grey, tailored pencil skirt, an immaculate champagne silk blouse, and her dark hair secured in place with precise pins. Her dark eyes appraised me with unmasked malice. Her gaze traveled from my raised collar, beneath which the velvet choker was clearly outlined, down the length of my frame to my knees, which were still trembling faintly after the session in Charlottenburg.

"Well, well, the gentry arrives," Arissa cooed softly, in that mocking singsong I had known since my youth. "Step inside, John. Shoes off. Vanessa is already waiting in the dressing room. She doesn't have all afternoon for your wardrobe fittings, after all."

I slipped off my shoes at the threshold as the chill of the waxed herringbone parquet seeped through my thin socks. The familiar scent of the Schöneberg flat washed over me: old oak, expensive wax, and the heavy, powdery fragrance of my stepmother's perfume. I trailed behind Loona and Arissa down the high corridor. Every step was pure agony; the denim rubbed relentlessly against my scorched thighs, while the Neukölln surgical-steel ring ground hard against my swollen perineal raphe with every stride.

Arissa pushed open the white double doors to the dressing room.

The room lay in cool afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling divided-light windows. At the far end stood the massive, three-panel crystal mirror set in a gilded baroque frame. Before it, perched on a petrol-blue ottoman of heavy velvet, sat Vanessa. She held a delicate teacup of Meissen porcelain, a leather-bound notebook resting beside her. When she looked up, her grey-blue eyes pinned me with that cutting, aristocratic detachment that had terrified me even as a boy.

Loona stepped aside immediately, leaning against the edge of a mahogany wardrobe with her arms folded. A brief, barely perceptible glance passed between her and Vanessa—the mute, superior understanding of two women who knew down to the millimeter who controlled whom.

"Punctual. Very good," Vanessa said without the slightest hint of warmth. Her eyes took me in like a newly arrived delivery of freight. "I have no patience for delays. Undress, John. Down to the collar. Let's see what the money for your treatments was worth."

My mouth felt instantly as though it were filled with ashes. My clammy fingers reached for the buttons of my shirt, yet I hesitated.

"Does… does Arissa really have to be here, Vanessa?" I managed to get out, my voice sounding hoarse and brittle. I fought not to drop my gaze, trying to hold hers. "I… it's humiliating enough in front of the two of you. Can't she wait outside?"

Arissa let out a dry laugh, shaking her head as she crossed her arms beside the ottoman. "Listen to the student. As if you could afford modesty in your position, little one. I was washing your dirty laundry when you were still coming home from school with scraped knees. Don't play the untouchable prude now."

"Spare me your objections, John," Vanessa reprimanded me with sharp, uncompromising chill. She set the cup down with a sharp clink against the saucer. "Arissa oversees all my assignments, manages the implements, and attends to the hygiene. She needs to know precisely how your hardware fits so there are no mishaps during later use. Now take your clothes off. Immediately. I will not repeat myself."

Loona pushed off from the wardrobe, took a step forward, and placed two cool fingers beneath my chin, forcing my gaze away from Vanessa and onto her.

"You made me a promise in the car, John," Loona breathed softly, but with absolute clarity. "Do not disappoint me in front of my family now. Do exactly what Vanessa demands."

I swallowed hard. Under the watchful eyes of all three women, I began to strip.

The buttons parted. I let the shirt slide from my shoulders; it settled softly onto an upholstered chair. My chest was laid bare, hairless and flushed, the delicate pores still clearly inflamed from the laser pulses. Then my trembling fingers found my belt. The metallic rasp of the buckle echoed through the quiet room. I pushed the waistband of my jeans along with my boxers down over my hips and stepped gingerly out of the fabric.

The cool air of the room settled over my naked, burning skin like a shock. Before me in the three-panel mirror, my reflection was pitilessly clear: a grown man, neck caught in a black velvet choker, while between entirely hairless, smooth thighs, the Neukölln surgical-steel cage caught the daylight. The inscription *Loona’s Property* stood out sharp and dark against the inflamed skin, and at the face of the 35-millimeter cylinder, the bare M10 fine thread gleamed.

Vanessa leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing to thin slits. She surveyed my exposed pelvis with the unruffled detachment of a chief physician conducting ward rounds.

"Very cleanly lasered," she judged coolly, offering a slight nod. "No more troublesome stubble to cause friction during movement. The skin is irritated, but entirely clear. Arissa, the designs."

Arissa stepped over to a mahogany side table, opened a black-lacquered casket, and retrieved two carefully folded garments wrapped in soft tissue paper. She approached me, that mocking smirk carved firmly into her lips.

"We had two variations tailored," Arissa explained, holding the fabrics out across my chest so the subtle scent of new silk drifted up to me. "Option one: French lace in night blue, elastic waistband, double-reinforced silk trim around the front aperture. Option two: jet-black silk satin, featherlight, but with a significantly narrower gusset. Both feature the exact same 35-millimeter opening. Now don't just stand there like a pillar of salt, John. Which piece do we try first? After all, you get to have a say in what you have to wear."

My gaze flicked from the delicate lace to the smooth, cool satin. My cheeks burned with shame, yet I knew that silence would only make me appear weaker. I forced myself to keep my head up and face Vanessa.

"The… the blue design seems a bit more forgiving," I said, my voice struggling to maintain a shred of composure. "The lace has more elasticity. If I have to bend or kneel in it, the fabric will probably dig into the groin less than the rigid silk satin."

A faint, amused smile touched the corners of Vanessa’s mouth. "A surprisingly pragmatic response. You're actually starting to use your head instead of wallowing in self-pity. Arissa, let us try the blue piece."

Unfolding the night-blue lace, Arissa knelt before me on the parquet in one fluid motion, seemingly indifferent to the cold timber. She caught my ankles; her warm, manicured fingers glided up my shins as she eased the leg openings over my feet. At every brush against the freshly lasered skin, my muscles twitched reflexively.

"Stand still, John," Arissa cautioned quietly, almost casually, drawing the waistband past my knees and up my thighs. As the coarse synthetic lace made contact with the tacky, overheated follicles of my inner thighs, a sharp breath caught in my throat.

Feeling the flinch, Arissa looked up with a cold smirk. "Naturally the lace stings a bit right after the laser, little one. The pores are still swollen. Don't worry, it will cool down. Get used to it; the edema will be gone by tomorrow."

She held the reinforced circular aperture open under tension with both hands.

"Come along now, assist," she instructed plainly. "You have to thread it through yourself."

Taking a deep breath, I lowered my hands and took hold of the cold metal cylinder. With careful fingers, I aligned the front end with the round opening in the lace. My nails, still bearing their glossy protective coat, caught the light. The metal glided millimeter by millimeter through the silk-bound ring. The elastic lace waistband snapped over my hip bones, hugging firmly against my pubic bone, contouring the steel frame so precisely that the entire cylinder, cap, and fine thread projected cleanly forward.

"Well? How does it fit?" Vanessa demanded from the ottoman, expecting a clinical evaluation.

I swallowed dryly against the velvet choker, its padlock knocking against my skin with every movement of my larynx.

"The fabric feels soft," I explained truthfully, the heat of humiliation creeping up to my temples. "But the trim around the base ring sits extremely tight. There's a noticeable pull on the perineum the moment I shift my weight from one leg to the other. If the lever of the prosthetic is attached out front, the torque on the bone is going to be enormous."

Arissa rose, smoothing the waistband with a matter-of-fact nod. "He's right, Vanessa. The briefs are the visual and hygienic layer, preventing sweat from transferring onto the bed linens. But for mechanical use, we will need to fasten the stabilizing harness beneath the lace as well. Otherwise, the M10 thread will pry the ring right off the pubic symphysis with every thrust. The cutout here is flawless, though: the thread sits completely unobstructed, without any stray fibers catching."

Vanessa stood up slowly. The silk of her attire rustled faintly as she walked over. Halting just an arm's length away, she took in my reflection in the mirror before looking directly down at my bound pelvis.

"Take a few steps, John," she ordered quietly. "Turn on your axis."

I forced my feet forward. Slowly, I took three paces toward the glass, pivoted on my heels, and walked back. The night-blue lace clung tightly to my buttocks and hips, while the heavy metal pointed rigidly ahead.

"It barely chafes while walking," I reported, striving for an objective tone. "But the tension on the steel is continuous. You cannot forget the pull in the metal."

"That is the entire purpose of bespoke work," Vanessa observed, a touch of satisfaction in her voice. Her gaze shifted to Loona. "Impeccably maintained, Loona. We will keep both designs; the black satin will remain on hand as a reserve. Pack everything back up. You will take the set back to the flat."

Loona offered a thin smile, tilting her head slightly. "With pleasure, Vanessa. He will be primed for use."

Vanessa returned to the ottoman and picked up her papers, as though the matter were entirely concluded.

"Get dressed again, John," Arissa said, gathering the casket and turning away. "We're done for today."

As I hastily pulled my clothes back on, my pulse pounded in my throat. The fitting was over. No missteps, no rebellion. In my mind, only Loona’s words from the car echoed on repeat: "...then tonight we will discuss what Chiara asked." The agonizing uncertainty over whether she would honor her promise or keep the key buried in her purse tightened around my windpipe far harder than the lock on my collar.