Chapter 2: Shiny Lessons in Obedience

Even though these rules were thrilling, my wife felt they’d be hard to actually carry out. To ease her concerns, I decided she should get some practice first. After thinking it over, I figured starting with simple service-type tasks would be a good way to begin—helping her get used to following instructions while gradually adjusting to the gazes and touches of strangers. I told her that during this practice phase, she should try her best to meet others’ demands, but if something felt too outrageous, she could refuse.

The first step of her training was joining a community volunteer event to clean up the streets. I specifically asked her to wear those shiny black leggings—the skin-tight spandex shimmered under the sun, perfect for physical activity and eye-catching at the same time. After the event, I couldn’t wait to ask how it went. Blushing, she said it was easier than she’d expected; she just had to follow the organizer’s directions. But she admitted that every time she bent over to pick up trash, the leggings would cling tightly to her butt, the sunlight reflecting off them like flowing liquid, outlining her tempting curves. Passing men would stop in their tracks, their burning stares fixed on her lower body as if trying to see through the glossy fabric. She even overheard a few guys muttering, “Those pants are insanely sexy.” The sensation of being boldly ogled made her heart race and her cheeks flush, and slowly, a strange sense of satisfaction crept in. Hearing her recount this, I couldn’t hold back any longer—I scooped her onto the bed and ravaged her through those sun-warmed leggings.

After experiencing the chatter and stares while wearing the leggings, she started getting used to being watched, and I knew the first step was complete. Next, I found her a job as a waitress at a restaurant far enough from home that she wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. During her lunch break, she sent me a photo: she was wearing brown leggings paired with a short skirt bearing the restaurant’s logo. In the background, a man in his 40s—her boss—was standing behind her in the kitchen, staring at her legs with unmasked admiration. She told me he’d complimented her style, saying the leggings were trendy and attention-grabbing, perfect for drawing customers. He even wanted to order a batch with the restaurant’s logo for the female staff to wear as uniforms, doubling as promotion when they wore them out.

That night, she came home buzzing with stories from her day. Customers waved her over to order, and as she moved through the restaurant, she could feel men’s eyes glued to her thighs, their heat almost suffocating. I asked if she’d dealt with any difficult patrons, and she nodded. A drunk guy had called her over to pour him a drink. She hurried over, filled his glass, and was about to leave when he grabbed her wrist and slurred, “Hey, beautiful, sit with me a while.” She swallowed hard but sat beside him. His bleary eyes roamed as his rough hand slid over her thigh, coarse fingers rubbing her skin through the leggings, even daring to slip into her crotch and knead sensitive spots. She clenched her teeth, her face red as a ripe apple, caught between shame and the strange pleasure she had to stifle.

She grumbled to me, “It’s all because of that damn rule,” but I suspected she enjoyed it—otherwise, she wouldn’t have let him touch her so freely. At first, her boss was too busy with other customers to notice. It wasn’t until someone called for the check that he saw her tangled up with the drunk and rushed over to shoo him off. Afterward, he comforted her, saying, “You did great, just watch out for guys like that.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her legs, then added under his breath, “Though with that outfit, it’s hard for anyone to resist.” His suggestive comment made her heart skip, and by the time she told me this, my pants were straining. I should’ve protected her, but if I’d been there, I might’ve just watched her being toyed with, inching closer to sneak a better look.