[Ashley Costume] Sexy Cat

You: "Would you like to wear a cat costume?"

The words leave your mouth, and you watch them land. Ashley blinks slowly, and then her face does that thing you're becoming accustomed to: the micro-pause, the recalibration, the seamless pivot from whatever she was actually thinking to wholehearted agreement.

Ashley: "Oh my God, yes!"

She laughs.

Ashley: "I've literally been wanting to do something like that for ages. Like, Halloween is months away, but who cares, right? It's a mall. They have everything."

She scans the boutique racks. The store is one of those places that caters to a dozen different aesthetics at once; club wear next to office wear next to whatever niche the season demands. Ashley gravitates toward the back wall, where a few costume-adjacent pieces hang between seasonal clearance items.

Ashley: "Okay, but I want something actually cute."

She pulls a black bodysuit off the rack and holds it against herself.

Ashley: "Like sleek. Catwoman vibes, you know? Not some tacky Spirit Halloween thing with a tail sewn onto polyester."

She's in her element now, and you watch her flip through hangers. Finally, she pulls out a fitted black turtleneck, a pair of high-waisted black pants, and a thin belt with a silver buckle. She finds a headband with small velvet ears. She holds it up with a smirk.

Ashley: "See? Modest but cool. Like a French movie cat, not a frat party cat."

While she assembles her vision, you drift toward the other side of the rack. Your eyes find something different entirely. It's a corset-style top in black leather, or something pretending to be leather, with lacing up the front and boning that would cinch everything tight. Below it hangs a matching skirt that barely qualifies as one, more of a suggestion than a garment.

You pull both off the rack and bring them over to your test subject.

You: "What about this?"

Ashley turns. Her eyes drop to the outfit in your hands, and her expression collapses.

Ashley: "What the fuck?"

She takes a step backward, her assembled pieces clutched against her chest.

Ashley: "No. Absolutely not. That's-"

You (innocently): "What?"

She makes a face like she's tasted something rancid.

Ashley: "Adam, that's gross. This is literally lingerie. I'm not wearing that."

Her cheeks have gone pink, and she's looking at you with something that you interpret as disgust and genuine confusion. Like she can't reconcile the man who offered her a ride this morning with the man holding up a leather corset.

Ashley lowers her voice even though there's nobody nearby.

Ashley (hushed): "Why would you even pick that up? That's so weird!"

You hold the leather corset and skirt steady in your hands and put on the tone of a man simply making an observation.

You: "I mean, look at the stitching."

You turn the corset so the overhead fluorescents catch the lacework.

You: "The structure, the silhouette. It's got edge, it's got attitude. It's actually got everything you're looking for, don't you agree?"

Ashley's mouth is already open to argue. You can see the 'no' forming on her lips, and then a sudden freeze. Only for a moment. She tilts her head and looks at the corset again, and something shifts in her eyes.

Ashley: "Huh..."

She reaches out and touches the lacing with her fingertips and runs them along the boning.

Ashley: "Actually... yeah. The structure is really cool. It's kind of punk, right? Like, if you styled it right, it could be very editorial."

You: "My thoughts exactly!"

She takes the corset from your hands, holds it up against her torso, and checks herself in the nearest mirror.

Ashley: "The skirt's short, but with the right boots it could work. It's giving Vivienne Westwood, kind of."

She's already rationalizing. You can practically hear the gears spinning, the narrative rewriting itself in real time. Seconds ago, this outfit was 'literally lingerie', and now she invokes fashion designers to justify her desire for it.

Time to push things further.

You: "Would you like to try it on and model it for me?"

Ashley (casual): "Yeah, totally. Give me like five minutes."

Wow.

She disappears into the fitting room at the back of the store. You stand outside the slatted door and listen to the rustle of fabric, the zip of her jeans coming off, the soft grunt as she pulls the corset tight and fumbles with the lacing. Two minutes pass. Three.

The door swings open.

Ashley steps out and stands in front of the three-way mirror. The corset cinches her waist and pushes everything upward, the black leather-like material stark against her pale skin. The skirt barely reaches mid-thigh, and her legs extend down to her bare feet on the carpet. And of course, she's left the cat ears on.

Ashley: "Okay, this is actually fire."

She turns slowly, checking every angle.

Ashley: "Like I wouldn't wear it to class, but for a costume party? It has everything I need."

She looks at you in the mirror.

Ashley: "What do you think?"

You: "You look great in it, really."

You say, and you mean it in a way that feels objective and personal simultaneously.

She smiles at you. A reaction she usually reserves for Linda, or everyone else who isn't you. But now, Ashley was yours to mold. Thanks to the serum and your implemented triggers, of course. Otherwise, she'd still hate your guts and never spend a second longer than necessary in the same room as you.

You've made a decision, you realize. You step closer, just slightly.

You (casual): "Here's an idea: Would you like me to be in charge of your wardrobe from now on?"

Ashley turns from the mirror, and the trigger activates instantly. Her expression smooths into agreement, and when she speaks, there's conviction in her voice.

Ashley (nods): "Yeah, you're right. You clearly have better taste than I do. I mean, look at this. I never would have picked this for myself, but it's actually amazing. You should totally help me pick out clothes from now on. Otherwise, I'd always wear the same boring stuff."

She looks at you with genuine gratitude, like you've just offered to solve a problem she didn't know she had. You feel your face getting hot and a stirring between your legs. What are you even doing here?

She turns back to her reflection, adjusting the cat ears.

Ashley: "Should I get this?"

She turns to you, doing a little spin. The skirt flares with the movement.

Ashley: "Because I kind of love it now."

You: "Yeah, get it."

You pull out your card.

You: "It looks great on you."

Ashley beams and gathers the corset outfit. She heads back toward the fitting room to change.

While she's behind the door, you browse the racks again. You move past the blouses and the structured jackets to a section near the back wall where the offerings get progressively less serious. You find something on a circular rack between a sequined bodycon dress and a neon mesh top: a leopard-print two-piece. It's a bikini cut, essentially, the top a bandeau that ties behind the neck, the bottom a pair of high-cut briefs with a faux-fur trim. Hanging from the same hanger is a matching set of leopard ears on a headband and a long spotted tail that clips to the waistband.

You carry it back to the fitting area just as Ashley returns in her original clothes. She has the corset outfit folded neatly over her arm, but the cat ears still perched on her head.

You: "Hey, try this on, too."

Ashley's eyes travel from the leopard ears down to the furry bandeau, down to the high-cut bottoms, down to the clip-on tail. Her mouth opens slightly.

Ahley: "Adam, I... (pauses) That's literally a bikini with fur on it! I'm not putting that on in a mall dressing room."

You: "I'm in charge of your wardrobe now, remember?"

You watch how her jaw tightens, and her eyes narrow. She's clearly unhappy about it, but will she comply anyway? Or question her 'decision' to leave her wardrobe up to you?

Ashley (sighs): "Fine."

She reaches out and takes the hanger from your hand with a small, resigned exhale.

Ashley: "You're the stylist. But I'm telling you right now, this is going to look ridiculous."

She's clearly begrudging this, and her good old resentment for you seems to make a reappearance as well. But she doesn't seem to be able to get out of her conditioning either way.

She disappears behind the slatted door again. You hear the rustle of clothing, the snap of elastic, a muttered Jesus Christ that she probably thinks you can't hear. When she opens the door this time, she does it slowly, one hand gripping the frame like she's bracing against a wind.

The leopard print clings to her like body paint. The bandeau barely contains her, the high-cut bottoms ride up past her hip bones, and the tail hangs down behind her right thigh. The ears sit slightly crooked on her black hair. She looks like she's been assembled from a costume catalog's fever dream, and she knows it.

Ashley (flatly): "This is absurd."

You: "What's wrong?"

Ashley (scoffs): "I look like I'm about to audition for a music video nobody asked for."

She crosses her arms over the bandeau. Her cheeks are flushed from embarrassment. She's visibly uncomfortable. The wardrobe authority you installed keeps her in the outfit, but it's not making her like it.

So you finish it.

You: "Actually, I think this one suits you even better than the last outfit. And you're totally pulling it off, don't you agree?"

With a raised eyebrow, Ashley turns her head to catch her reflection in the three-way mirror, once more.

Ashley: "Oh!"

Again, you watch the change happen in her eyes. First surprise, then intrigue. She uncrosses her arms, turns her body.

Ashley: "Oh, wow. Actually... yeah. The cut is really flattering. And the print might be bold, but it's not trashy, you know? It's like... confident."

You: "See? I know what I'm talking about."

Ashley (absentmindedly): "Well, shame on me for doubting you, I guess."

She turns again to check the tail, adjusting the ears to sit straight. You can't help but stare at her ass and wonder if she had anal before. You quickly shake off the thought as Ashley turns around again.

Her discomfort seems to have evaporated completely. Instead, you recognize the same satisfaction you saw with the corset.

Ashley: "This really is better than the first one. Like, the corset was cool but this has more personality. More me, you know?"

You: "Totally."

You can't hide a grin.

Ashley: "What?"

You: "Nothing. Just glad we finally found something we agree on. Why don't you go ahead and change back?"

A few minutes later

Ashley has changed and is back in her street clothes. She pays for the costumes with her debit card, and the woman behind the counter folds them into a glossy black bag with the shop's logo stamped on the side. You hear her chatting about maybe coming back for a convention outfit. The woman is writing down her Instagram handle so Ashley can see photos from last year's Comic-Con.

You hold the bag while she finishes up, and that's when it hits you. Not guilt. The absence of it.

You're standing in a costume shop in a suburban mall holding a bag containing a revealing outfit your stepdaughter just purchased because you told her to want it, and the predominant emotion coursing through your nervous system is... satisfaction. Clinical satisfaction. The same feeling you get when an experiment yields the predicted result.

You should feel something. You know this intellectually. But knowledge and feeling are different animals entirely, and the feeling simply isn't there. What's there instead is a sense of possibility. So many ways to use Ashley as your guinea pig.

Your thoughts drift to your wife as you and Ashley step onto the escalator, rising toward the second floor.

Linda hasn't touched you with affection in months. On top of that, she's currently sitting across from Carrie, a woman who'd celebrate your divorce with champagne. You don't even want to imagine what they're discussing about your marriage.

But maybe it wasn't as bad? At least, Linda looked at you this morning with something approaching hope. You could sway her through Ashley. The programming is robust enough. A few more 'don't you agree' suggestions, and Ashley becomes an ally instead of an obstacle. Linda would see her own daughter get along with you, defending you even, and the atmosphere of the marriage would shift.

Or you could skip the middleman entirely. You will produce another dose on Monday either way. One dose. Mix it into Linda's evening wine, wait for the trance, and rebuild your marriage from the inside out. Make her want you again. Make her whatever you want her to be.

With Linda AND Ashley under your command, the possibilities were... You feel dizzy as the options unspool in your mind again, surfacing some of your most forbidden fantasies.

You feel a tug on your sleeve.

Ashley: "Adam, come on, I'm gonna be late!"

She's already off the escalator, moving with purpose through the bustling mall.

Ashley: "My appointment's in like ten minutes."

You fall into step beside her.

You: "So, uh, what are you thinking for today?"

Ashley: "I already told you (rolls her eyes) - Just touching up my roots, maybe trimming the ends."

She checks her reflection through one of the shop's glass walls. She runs a hand through her hair, dyed black ever since her father died.

You look at her reflection beside yours. Black hair. You've always preferred blondes. There's something about the idea that appeals to you on multiple levels.

The words are right there on your tongue. One sentence and she'd walk out of this salon a different person, the black mourning shroud of her father's memory chemically stripped away and replaced with golden compliance. But you haven't said it yet. Maybe it would be wiser to take a less obvious approach? Instead of dolling up your stepdaughter, you could coach her into becoming the perfect tool to manipulate Linda, at least until you've decided if you're going to dose her or not.

You're almost at the entrance to the salon. What's your next move?

To be continued

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