markharrisai
Dress Code Discipline
The scent of fresh bread and ripe fruit greets them as they step into the supermarket, the cool air a sharp contrast to the heavy August heat outside. The momentary relief is almost enough to make Clara sigh aloud—but she doesn’t dare. She knows Sophie would only seize upon it, teasing her for needing such trivial comforts.
And, indeed, Sophie is already glancing at her with a knowing smirk, watching as Clara adjusts her gloves, smoothing the supple fabric over her fingers. They had barely stepped out of Greema’s Beauty and Hair Salon before Sophie had insisted—no, required—that the gloves be slipped back on. The fresh manicure, a striking shade of red, now gleams beneath the fitted black leather, hidden from sight, existing only for Sophie’s satisfaction.
"Such a shame to cover them up," Sophie had mused earlier, feigning regret as she watched Clara tug the gloves back into place. "But we can’t have you looking unfinished, now can we?"
Now, standing in the cool supermarket, Clara flexes her gloved fingers and lets out a small, put-upon sigh. Sophie merely hums in delight, linking her arm through Clara’s and steering her toward the carts.
"Be a dear and push," Sophie instructs lightly, releasing Clara so she can leisurely peruse the aisles at her own pace.
Clara hesitates, casting a wary glance at the cart before reaching for it. The gloves make her grip just slightly awkward, the smooth leather slipping against the metal handle. And then there’s the rest of her—her pencil skirt, unforgiving as ever, keeping her steps measured and small; the high heels forcing her into slow, deliberate movements; the snug collar ever reminding her of her exquisite confinement. Even this seemingly simple task—a mundane thing other women do without thought—becomes a delicate, almost ceremonial effort for her.
Sophie watches with the utmost satisfaction.
"Honestly," Clara mutters as she pushes the cart forward, feeling the resistance in her steps. "This is absurd."
"Not at all," Sophie counters breezily, trailing her fingers along a display of fresh flowers. "It’s good for you. Builds character."
"Struggling to maneuver a shopping cart in a ridiculous outfit builds character?" Clara deadpans, pausing to adjust her grip.
Sophie turns to her with a mock-thoughtful expression. "Mmm, well, it builds something. Grace, patience, discipline…" She gestures vaguely, then smirks. "Besides, I think you rather enjoy proving you can do it."
Clara glares but says nothing, pushing forward. The restrictive nature of her skirt means she can’t take wide strides, so she must navigate carefully, maneuvering the cart with slow precision. Each turn is a carefully measured act, each slight bend to retrieve an item from a shelf a reminder of just how much control her clothing has over her.
Sophie, of course, is reveling in every second.
At one point, she plucks a bottle of wine from a shelf and hands it to Clara. "Put this in."
Clara reaches out to take it, but the gloves make it slightly more difficult to get a firm grip. She fumbles for half a second before securing it, carefully placing it into the cart. Sophie watches, amused.
"See?" she coos. "You’re doing so well."
Clara groans. "I swear, you get some kind of sick enjoyment out of this."
Sophie only smiles. "Of course I do."
They continue through the aisles, Sophie taking her time, deliberately choosing items that force Clara to stretch just enough to feel the pull of her skirt, to bend just enough to remind her of her lack of freedom.
And through it all, Clara complains—about the heat, about the gloves, about the utter indignity of struggling with groceries in heels. But no matter how much she protests, Sophie remains firm, never allowing her even the smallest reprieve.
In fact, she takes every opportunity to check on Clara’s perfection. A subtle tug at her collar to ensure it remains properly fastened. A quick glance at the seams of her gloves, smoothing out any wrinkle. A gentle press to the small of Clara’s back whenever she dares slouch.
By the time they reach checkout, Clara is seething in the most deliciously restrained way, her frustration bubbling under the surface, not quite enough to break composure—but there, simmering in her posture, in the slight clench of her jaw.
Sophie leans in, voice a teasing whisper. "Admit it, darling. You love this."
Clara exhales slowly, staring straight ahead. "I hate you."
Sophie grins. "No, you don’t."
And as Clara stands there, corseted by her own clothing, gloved hands resting neatly on the handle of the cart, the ghost of a smile tugs at her lips.
No. No, she doesn’t.
Dress Code Discipline
The scent of fresh bread and ripe fruit greets them as they step into the supermarket, the cool air a sharp contrast to the heavy August heat outside. The momentary relief is almost enough to make Clara sigh aloud—but she doesn’t dare. She knows Sophie would only seize upon it, teasing her for needing such trivial comforts.
And, indeed, Sophie is already glancing at her with a knowing smirk, watching as Clara adjusts her gloves, smoothing the supple fabric over her fingers. They had barely stepped out of Greema’s Beauty and Hair Salon before Sophie had insisted—no, required—that the gloves be slipped back on. The fresh manicure, a striking shade of red, now gleams beneath the fitted black leather, hidden from sight, existing only for Sophie’s satisfaction.
"Such a shame to cover them up," Sophie had mused earlier, feigning regret as she watched Clara tug the gloves back into place. "But we can’t have you looking unfinished, now can we?"
Now, standing in the cool supermarket, Clara flexes her gloved fingers and lets out a small, put-upon sigh. Sophie merely hums in delight, linking her arm through Clara’s and steering her toward the carts.
"Be a dear and push," Sophie instructs lightly, releasing Clara so she can leisurely peruse the aisles at her own pace.
Clara hesitates, casting a wary glance at the cart before reaching for it. The gloves make her grip just slightly awkward, the smooth leather slipping against the metal handle. And then there’s the rest of her—her pencil skirt, unforgiving as ever, keeping her steps measured and small; the high heels forcing her into slow, deliberate movements; the snug collar ever reminding her of her exquisite confinement. Even this seemingly simple task—a mundane thing other women do without thought—becomes a delicate, almost ceremonial effort for her.
Sophie watches with the utmost satisfaction.
"Honestly," Clara mutters as she pushes the cart forward, feeling the resistance in her steps. "This is absurd."
"Not at all," Sophie counters breezily, trailing her fingers along a display of fresh flowers. "It’s good for you. Builds character."
"Struggling to maneuver a shopping cart in a ridiculous outfit builds character?" Clara deadpans, pausing to adjust her grip.
Sophie turns to her with a mock-thoughtful expression. "Mmm, well, it builds something. Grace, patience, discipline…" She gestures vaguely, then smirks. "Besides, I think you rather enjoy proving you can do it."
Clara glares but says nothing, pushing forward. The restrictive nature of her skirt means she can’t take wide strides, so she must navigate carefully, maneuvering the cart with slow precision. Each turn is a carefully measured act, each slight bend to retrieve an item from a shelf a reminder of just how much control her clothing has over her.
Sophie, of course, is reveling in every second.
At one point, she plucks a bottle of wine from a shelf and hands it to Clara. "Put this in."
Clara reaches out to take it, but the gloves make it slightly more difficult to get a firm grip. She fumbles for half a second before securing it, carefully placing it into the cart. Sophie watches, amused.
"See?" she coos. "You’re doing so well."
Clara groans. "I swear, you get some kind of sick enjoyment out of this."
Sophie only smiles. "Of course I do."
They continue through the aisles, Sophie taking her time, deliberately choosing items that force Clara to stretch just enough to feel the pull of her skirt, to bend just enough to remind her of her lack of freedom.
And through it all, Clara complains—about the heat, about the gloves, about the utter indignity of struggling with groceries in heels. But no matter how much she protests, Sophie remains firm, never allowing her even the smallest reprieve.
In fact, she takes every opportunity to check on Clara’s perfection. A subtle tug at her collar to ensure it remains properly fastened. A quick glance at the seams of her gloves, smoothing out any wrinkle. A gentle press to the small of Clara’s back whenever she dares slouch.
By the time they reach checkout, Clara is seething in the most deliciously restrained way, her frustration bubbling under the surface, not quite enough to break composure—but there, simmering in her posture, in the slight clench of her jaw.
Sophie leans in, voice a teasing whisper. "Admit it, darling. You love this."
Clara exhales slowly, staring straight ahead. "I hate you."
Sophie grins. "No, you don’t."
And as Clara stands there, corseted by her own clothing, gloved hands resting neatly on the handle of the cart, the ghost of a smile tugs at her lips.
No. No, she doesn’t.