Yes

Not for a single second did the idea of not returning the next day cross our minds. The danger was too real, and the cold promise of the armed associate coming after us at the faculty was enough to crush any attempt at escape.

That night was torture. I couldn't sleep more than a couple of hours, tossing and turning in bed, my mind divided between the panic of dying and a treacherous, burning excitement that ran through my belly every time I remembered the firmness with which the head of the ring had squeezed my breasts and spanked my rear. I touched myself without meaning to, seeking comfort, and ended up pulling my hand away in disgust at myself. The same shame as always.

Sunday arrived too quickly.

We headed to the new address indicated, a location in an exclusive but discreet commercial area. It was not the dark office from the day before. We entered through a heavy rear metal door and went up a secondary staircase that led us to an elegant private office, with the floor completely covered by a plush red velvet carpet.

There, waiting for us behind a glass desk, was the duo from the interview again. The man in the suit smoked with composure, while the thug stood at his side, his hand resting casually on the grip of his pistol.

—All right, ladies. I'm glad to see you're intelligent girls and that you haven't disappointed me —the boss greeted us, giving us an icy smile—. The day is just beginning and there's a lot of money at stake. Here are your uniforms.

He tossed two black satin bags onto the carpet. When I opened mine, my pulse quickened. It was not ordinary waitress clothing. The outfit consisted of a bunny leotard made of high-gloss black latex, with a heart-shaped neckline so deep and open that the thin straps barely held the garment on the shoulders. The material was elastic and tight, designed to adhere like a second skin, but the cut of the neckline left the chest practically in the open, with no margin for modesty.

Next to the leotard was a pair of black rabbit ears, stiff, lined with a soft velvet that contrasted with the shine of the latex; a round, fluffy white cotton tail to attach at the back; black lace cuffs for the wrists; dark fishnet stockings that rose to the thighs; and extremely high black vinyl stiletto heels, with a thin strap that fastened at the ankle.

—Change right here. We don't have time to waste —he ordered in an authoritative voice.

Under the lascivious gaze of the boss and the fixed eyes of the armed guard, Clara and I stripped off our civilian clothes. I felt Clara's black dress fall to the floor for the second time in two days, and the lace thong slide down my legs. I stood naked in front of those men, my skin prickling from the cold and the humiliation.

Putting on that costume was a true physical ordeal and a torture of modesty. The latex leotard was extremely tight and required me to slide into it with difficulty, centimeter by centimeter; the material adhered to my skin like a shiny second skin, exaggerating every contour. When I finally managed to pull it up to my shoulders, the thin straps dug into my skin and the heart-shaped neckline hung open over my breasts, which threatened to overflow at the slightest breath.

Clara helped me fasten the black rabbit ears onto my violet hair, gathered in a high ponytail. Then she placed the cotton tail at the back, right at the end of my spine, where the leotard left the curve of my buttocks exposed. She adjusted the lace cuffs on my wrists, and finally I slid the fishnet stockings up my legs and put on the vinyl stiletto heels.

When I stood up, my posture changed by force. The heels forced me to arch my back, which pushed my breasts even further forward, and the heart neckline opened another centimeter. The cotton tail moved with every step I took, and the latex creaked subtly with every breath.

As I finished adjusting the lace cuffs, my eyes drifted toward Clara. She was changing too. And what I saw left me breathless for an instant.

Clara had always had a slimmer silhouette than mine, less curves, more stylized. But that bunny leotard seemed to have been designed exclusively for her. The black latex adhered to her body like a second skin, tracing every line of her figure with almost sculptural precision. Her chest, smaller than mine but far from flat, was perfectly contained by the heart-shaped neckline. They were firm, round breasts, of a size any other girl would consider ideal: not too big to cause problems, nor too small to go unnoticed. Simply perfect. The latex held them with a naturalness that was impossible for me to imitate, and the thin straps rested on her shoulders without the slightest tension.

Her waist, already narrow, was enhanced by the cut of the leotard, and her hips moved with a feline elegance under the shine of the material. The black rabbit ears, fastened to her hair gathered in a high bun, gave her a playful and dangerous air at the same time. The white cotton tail rested on her buttocks with a naturalness that was impossible for me to imitate. The lace cuffs on her wrists, the fishnet stockings on her legs, the stiletto heels that made her even taller and slimmer: everything about her seemed to fit perfectly, as if the uniform had been made to measure.

But there was something else. Something that didn't fit the image of confidence Clara always projected. Her hands, as she adjusted the lace cuffs, were trembling. It was not the subtle tremor of cold, but the unmistakable tremor of fear. Her eyes, those dark eyes that had always looked at the world with feline confidence, were now clouded, glassy, as if she were about to cry. And her breathing, though she tried to disguise it, was uneven, agitated, as if the air wasn't reaching her lungs.

Clara was scared too. Terribly scared.

I, on the other hand, felt like a disguised animal. My curves, which I had always hated, were exposed in a way the leotard couldn't contain. My breasts, notably larger than hers, struggled to escape the heart neckline with every breath, and the latex creaked every time I tried to adjust myself. The cotton tail moved awkwardly over my buttocks, and the heels forced me into a posture that made me feel even more vulnerable.

—Are you okay? —Clara asked me, noticing my gaze. Her voice sounded more fragile than usual.

I nodded silently, but inside I felt a pang of something I couldn't identify. It was no longer envy. It was something else. It was the awareness that, for the first time since I had known her, Clara didn't have control. She was as trapped as I was. And that, far from comforting me, terrified me even more.

—Excellent. You're perfect —the man dictated, his gaze sweeping over my bust about to overflow and the shine of the latex over my curves—. Follow me.