Keep facing the wall

You remain motionless, staring at the white tile wall. The bathroom has gone quiet except for the occasional drip of water from Morgan's body onto the marble floor. You can hear her moving behind you—the rustle of a towel, the soft pad of wet feet.

"Good," she says, and there's approval in her voice that sends a small thrill through you despite everything. "At least you can follow simple instructions."

You hear her walk past you toward the bedroom, her pheromones trailing in her wake like invisible fingers stroking your brain. Your cock remains achingly hard, pointing uselessly at the tile.

"You can turn around now," she calls from the bedroom. "Get in here. We're going through the wardrobes."

You turn and follow, your small feet carrying you across the cool bathroom tile and into the bedroom. The space is massive—a California king bed dominates the center, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the bay. Two enormous walk-in closets stand open on opposite walls.

Morgan stands in front of one closet, her back to you, towel wrapped around her torso but leaving her wings exposed. Even covered, her body is breathtaking—the towel barely contains her breasts, and her legs seem to go on forever.

"Jesus Christ," she breathes, looking into the closet. "They really went all out."

You step up beside her and look inside. Hundreds of outfits line the walls—everything from designer dresses to fetish wear, lingerie in every color and style, heels that look impossibly high, leather and latex and silk. A fortune in clothes, all sized perfectly for her new body.

"And that must be yours," Morgan says, gesturing dismissively at the other closet.

You walk over and open it. The contrast is immediate and deliberate. Your wardrobe is much smaller—tight jeans and skinny pants, fitted t-shirts, some button-downs. But mixed in are other things that make your stomach clench: women's panties in various styles, a few skirts, some crop tops. Humiliation wear, designed to emphasize your small size and inadequacy.

"Put on one of those panties," Morgan says, dropping her towel. She's naked again, water still glistening on her golden skin. "The pink ones with the bow. I want to see how ridiculous you look."

She pulls a black dress from her closet—barely more than scraps of fabric held together with strategic straps. "I'm going to try this on. And Jordan?" She looks at you with those predatory yellow eyes. "If you're still hard when I turn around, I'm going to make you cum again just to watch you squirm."

You walk to your closet and find the pink panties exactly where you expected them—lacy, with a small bow at the front. They're clearly designed for humiliation, feminine and delicate. You step into them and pull them up. They fit perfectly, hugging your small frame, the bow resting just above your tiny, still-hard cock. The fabric does nothing to hide your erection, which tents the material obscenely.

You turn back toward Morgan, hands at your sides, waiting.

She's holding the black dress up against her body, examining herself in the full-length mirror. The dress is barely there—two triangles of fabric for her breasts, held up by thin straps that loop around her neck and back, leaving her wings completely free. The skirt portion is just a strip of material that would cover maybe six inches of her thighs.

"Perfect," she murmurs to herself, then catches sight of you in the mirror's reflection. She turns, and her eyes immediately drop to your crotch. A laugh bursts out of her—genuine, delighted, cruel.

"Oh my god," she says, walking toward you. "Look at you. You're still hard and those panties make your little cock look even more pathetic." She circles you slowly, like a predator studying prey. "The bow is a nice touch. Very you."

She reaches out and flicks your erection through the fabric. You gasp at the contact.

"I warned you," Morgan says, her voice dropping to that husky purr. "I said if you were still hard, I'd make you cum again."

Her finger traces the outline of your cock through the pink lace, moving with agonizing slowness. You're already so close, so ****, that even this minimal contact has you trembling.

"Please," you hear yourself whisper.

"Please what?" She hooks her finger under the waistband and tugs the panties down just enough to expose you. "Please make you cum like the pathetic little thing you are? Please remind you that this is all you'll ever get from me?"

She wraps two fingers around your shaft—more than enough to encircle it completely—and strokes once. That's all it takes. You explode instantly, cum spurting onto your stomach and chest, some of it hitting the pink panties. The orgasm is sharp and intense but leaves you feeling even more ****, even more unsatisfied.

Morgan releases you and steps back, watching with amusement as you stand there trembling, covered in your own release, still wearing those ridiculous panties.

"Clean yourself up," she says, turning back to her dress. "Use a towel from the bathroom. Then come back here and help me decide what to wear. We're going out."

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "And Jordan? Keep the panties on under whatever else you put on. I like knowing you're wearing them."