Revealing warm-up

Walking to the formation was an agony of self-awareness. Magi felt the rub of the tight skirt riding up with every step, the cold air biting her bare thighs. The pink jacket, short and tight, constricted her arms and her breathing. Every glance from her peers was a blinding beam of light that exposed her, tracing the lines of her body emphasized by the elastic fabric and revealed by the transparency of the blouse. There was nowhere to hide. The pink uniform was a spotlight that screamed her humiliation.

Officer Costa wasted no time.

"Dynamic warm-up! Everyone! Let's go! I want to see energy!" she shouted, and her gaze landed on Magi like a hawk. "That includes all members of the academy."

The warm-up was a **** designed by a sadist with a sense of opportunity. Jumping jacks. The skirt, already short, became an obscene invitation with every jump. Magi tried to hold it down with one hand, but Costa's voice thundered:

"Cadet Rojas! Hands free and in position! Or do you think this is a fashion show?"

Laughter erupted, now undisguised. Magi, her face on fire, stopped holding the skirt. With every jump, the air whistled under the fabric, and she felt the stares fixed on her legs, on the line of her underwear that was inevitably revealed.

Then came the push-ups. As she rested her hands on the cold asphalt, the transparent blouse bunched up around her torso, revealing not only the shape of her bra but the skin of her stomach. As she pushed up, the pink jacket rode up, exposing even more. Sweat began to stick the blouse to her back, making the fabric even more translucent.

But the true torment was the agility exercises. Sprints back and forth, where the skirt rolled up around her hips, forcing her to stop and pull it down every few meters, under the taunts of "Hurry up, Pinky!" and "Run, your treasure is showing!" And the ultimate test: crawling exercises under a camouflage net.

"Cadet Rojas! Demonstrate your agility!" Costa ordered, pointing to the net spread a few inches above the ground.

Magi froze. Crawling. In that skirt. It was a deliberately obscene command.

"Any problem, Cadet?" Costa asked, one eyebrow arched. "Does your uniform prevent you from carrying out your duty?"

The message was clear: her duty was to be humiliated.

"No, Officer," she murmured, her voice broken.

She knelt, feeling the gravel of the ground under her palms. Then, she began to crawl. The skirt, inexorably, retracted to her waist, completely exposing her buttocks and legs, clad in the practical underwear that now felt so ****. Laughter and whistles filled the air. Some cadets stopped their exercises to watch the spectacle. Magi moved blindly, tears of rage and shame blurring her vision, feeling every stone, every gaze, like a knife on her skin. The rub of the net on her back was the final touch of an institutionally sanctioned violation.

Emerging on the other side, she shot up, awkwardly pulling the skirt down with a brusque movement. Her breathing was ragged; the pink uniform was stained with dirt and sweat, repulsively clinging to her body.

Costa approached.

"Your crawling technique is deplorable, Cadet. Lack of coordination. But you have shown... determination," she said, her cold gaze sweeping over Magi's sweaty, trembling body. "Tomorrow, we will review the exercise. With the same uniform. Until the technique is perfect."

The sentence fell upon her like a slab. It wasn't the end. It was just the first act of a new and more sadistic performance.

The rest of the training passed in a blur of shame. Every order, every movement, was choreographed to maximize her exposure. When the final whistle finally blew, Magi was destroyed. Physically and emotionally. The pink uniform, once a ridiculous garment, was now a standard of her degradation, a sweaty, dirty second skin that bore the evidence of her public humiliation.

She walked toward the changing rooms, the stares no longer just mocking; some were pitying, others bore undisguised morbid curiosity. But most were indifferent. She had become a routine spectacle.

Finally locking herself in a cubicle, she sank onto the toilet seat, buried her face in her hands, and cried in silence. Not for the physical pain, but for the systematic and meticulous destruction of her person. She was no longer Magi, the student of books. She was Pink Cadet, the living joke, the offering whose daily sacrifice fueled Costa's cruelty and the group's cohesion at her expense.

And the worst part was, she knew that the next day, she would have to wear the pink again.