Chapter 3: Saturday: Into the Pink Fog

LOCKED SOFTLY

Morning came gently, as if testing her readiness to return.

The knock came twice-soft, polite, and persistent.

Stéphanie stirred, a faint ache blooming behind her eyes. The hotel room was bathed in pale morning light, filtered through gauzy curtains that swayed gently in the breeze.

Her tongue felt dry. Her head, a little fuzzy. She blinked, trying to gather her thoughts.

Another knock.

She sat up slowly. Her dress-still the same one from last night-was wrinkled and bunched around her waist. Her tights clung slightly to her thighs. She reached to smooth them down as best she could, then padded barefoot across the room and opened the door just a crack.

A kind-looking housekeeping woman stood in the hallway, holding a linen bag and clipboard.

“Can I do your room, miss?” she asked in gentle, Dutch-accented English.

Stéphanie blinked, hair tousled, eyes still half-asleep.

The woman tilted her head, taking her in. “Are you all right?”

Stéphanie gave a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yes ... I had an amazing evening. But could you please come back a little later? I ... need to clean up first.”

The housekeeper smiled knowingly. “Of course. I’ll return after lunch.”

“Thank you,” Stéphanie murmured, closing the door quietly.

She leaned against the door for a moment, exhaling. The room still smelled like perfume, sweat, and soft cotton. A trace of last night lingered in the air-Jan’s voice, his hands, the gentle hush of being tucked in. Her dress was crumpled and twisted, her tights sagging slightly, and her diaper-she could feel it-was thick and soaked between her legs.

And yet, she smiled.

With slow steps, she padded to the bathroom and flicked on the light. Her reflection blinked back at her in the mirror-makeup slightly smudged, lipstick faded, hair a little wild. Still in her dress, her tights clinging over a visible swell of padding, she looked ... soft. Like a girl caught between dreams.

She reached behind and unzipped the dress, letting it slip from her shoulders and fall into a gentle heap at her feet. She stepped out of it and stood quietly for a moment. Her tights were stretched and creased. Her soft padded bra still sat in place, curved silicone inserts giving her chest a rounded shape. Her diaper was swollen beneath it all.

She looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment.

She reached up and unhooked the bra. One of the silicone inserts slipped and dropped to the counter with a soft thud. The other she caught in her palm. She placed them both beside the sink, then gently cupped her now-flat chest with both hands.

What would it feel like to have real breasts?

She imagined it-weight, warmth, something permanent beneath her skin. A part of her. Not a costume, not a trick of shape. Just her body, finally.

She looked at the girl in the mirror-still her, but more than before.

She tugged down her tights next, slowly.

Then, finally, untaped the diaper.

She expected bare skin. A moment of vulnerability, maybe even relief.

But instead-

There, nestled snugly between her thighs-where her skin should have been bare-was something unexpected.

A small pink chastity cage.

Glossy. Smooth. Locked in place.

It held her completely.

Not positioned. Not hidden. Just there.

Done to her.

Her breath caught. A chill ran through her.

Something inside her twisted-shame, safety, surrender-all at once.

Without words, she had said yes.

She reached out, fingertips grazing the cool plastic.

She touched it lightly.

Cool. Secure.

She couldn’t touch herself-not really.

Not anymore.

And somehow, it wasn’t hers to touch anyway.

Not painful. Not tight.

Just present.

A quiet claim.

Not hers.

His.

She stood still for a moment-bare, breath held, heart beating faster.

Then, behind her, the mirror caught her reflection.

The cage glinted faintly beneath the light.

Not threatening.

Just ... inevitable.

She blinked, stepped back from the mirror, and picked up her phone from the counter.

A message was already waiting.

Jan: Good morning, baby girl. You looked so peaceful last night. I wanted you to wake up knowing you’re still mine. Let’s meet at Eetcafé Singel 404 at 12:30. I’ll grab us a table.

Her fingers trembled as she typed:

Stéphanie: You locked me ... I didn’t expect that. But I’m not scared. I feel soft. Kept. Yours.

The reply came almost instantly:

Jan: Good girl.

Her heart fluttered.

She didn’t know what it meant yet, this soft submission. But it made her feel ... real.

She reached up and gently removed her wig, setting it beside the sink with care. A few loose strands clung to her forehead. She smoothed them back with her fingers.

Then-quietly, and almost reverently-she stepped into the shower.

Warm water streamed over her shoulders, soft and steady.

She closed her eyes.

Tried to imagine removing it-just slipping it off, letting it fall away.

But she didn’t.

She let it stay.

Not because she couldn’t.

Because, somehow ... she didn’t want to try.

The cage stayed against her-cool at first, then slowly warming with her skin.

Like a collar of silence wrapped in heat, claiming her without words.

Familiar.

Not in the way.

Just ... there.

A presence. A claim.

A secret she carried without resistance.

The warm water eased the tension from her limbs-even there, where the cage held her gently, everything softened beneath its quiet shell.

She reached for her lavender soap, smoothing it gently over her arms, her belly, the tops of her thighs.

She let the water run lower, over her hips, her legs.

Carefully, she washed around the cage-slow, delicate motions, as if tending to something sacred.

Not rushed. Not clinical.

Something fluttered low in her belly-not desire exactly, but something warm, tingling, tender. A soft ache that felt like longing.

It wasn’t hers to remove.

But it was still hers to care for.

She exfoliated in slow, careful circles.

Shaved with long, fluid strokes.

The scent of lavender rose like a mist-soft, clean, almost dreamlike.

Her skin gleamed after, dewy and smooth.

And beneath it all, the cage remained.

Still locked.

Still warm.

Still hers. And not hers. Somehow, both.

Back in the bedroom, she laid out her fresh diapering supplies: thick pink diaper, booster pad, powder, cream.

She worked slowly, with care. Creamed. Powdered. Tucked the cage neatly downward. She pulled the padding up and taped it snugly across her tummy. It was thick. Comforting. She liked that.

Next, she picked up her soft padded bra. Like many girls, she hooked it at the front-then turned it around with a practiced twist, sliding the cups into place. She slipped her arms through the straps, adjusting them gently over her shoulders.

Then, one by one, she nestled the silicone inserts into the cups. They settled against her chest with a quiet, reassuring weight-small, rounded, soft. The shape was hers, even if not yet her body.

Then came opaque white tights. She rolled them up her legs gently, then stepped into her beige plaid pleated skirt. Her blush-pink knit sweater followed, hugging her gently.

She sat at the vanity. Moisturizer. Primer. Sheer foundation. A soft flush of peach on her cheeks. Two shimmering pinks for her eyelids. Brown liner. Mascara. Lip gloss-light pink with a touch of sparkle.

She reapplied her wig slowly, brushing it out until it framed her face just right.

A final spritz of perfume at her neck. Pearl earrings. And, last of all, she clasped her gold necklace-the one that bore her name in delicate script.

Stéphanie.

She slipped on her black Mary Janes, picked up her small pink purse with the bow, and pulled on her cream-colored puffer coat, zipping it halfway.

Locked, padded, perfumed. A girl wrapped in softness and secrets. She touched her necklace, whispered her name like a vow

The café sat just across the canal from the hotel, only a few minutes’ walk away-tucked beneath a striped awning on Singel 404. Stéphanie spotted him immediately-Jan, seated at a small table with a tulip in a glass vase beside his coffee.

He looked up the moment she appeared, and his face lit with unmistakable warmth.

She walked toward him-calm, composed, her coat swaying lightly with each move. The padding of her diaper pressed gently by her tights, the cage resting beneath it all like a secret only he knew.

When she reached him, he stood and offered his arms.

“Stéphanie.”

She stepped into his embrace.

“You look radiant,” he murmured.

She blushed. “I’m locked,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, brushing a curl from her cheek. “My good girl.”

He kissed her forehead-slow, soft, possessive-then pulled out her chair like a gentleman.

Stéphanie slipped her arms out of her coat and let it hang neatly over the back of her chair before sitting down carefully. She smoothed her skirt beneath her and settled her purse at her side, the little bow brushing the edge of her sweater sleeve.

They ordered tea and something light to eat, the atmosphere gentle and unhurried. Around them, the canal rippled with morning light. The city moved, but their table felt still.

Jan watched her quietly for a moment, then leaned in with a little smile. “I have a surprise for you this afternoon.”

Stéphanie tilted her head, curious.

“Something I think you’ll like,” he said. “We’re going to the Van Gogh Museum. I’ve arranged for us to meet someone there.”

She blinked. “Someone?”

Jan’s smile deepened. “You’ll see.”

She flushed slightly but smiled, sipping her tea. Her necklace gleamed in the sunlight.

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was performing. She felt like she was simply being.

After lunch, they took their time walking back toward where they had left their bikes the night before-still locked together near the corner by Club Church.

The streets looked different in daylight. What had been shadows and colored lights now felt warm and open. The air was crisp, but gentle. The pavement sparkled faintly where the pink and violet lights had glowed. Stéphanie could still picture it-Jan’s arm around her waist, the music pulsing below their feet, the way he held her steady as she slipped into something deeper than sleep.

The memory didn’t feel chaotic now. It felt like a threshold she had crossed.

Stéphanie stayed close to Jan, their steps easy, unhurried. The memory of last night lingered, not as something she had to decode-but something she had already accepted.

As they neared the bike racks, Stéphanie glanced up at him.

“Jan?”

He turned slightly. “Yes, sweetheart?”

She hesitated. “The cage ... how long will I be wearing it?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but there was no hesitation in his tone.

“As long as you want to be mine,” he said. Then, gently: “And maybe even a little longer.”

Stéphanie looked ahead, cheeks warm. “Okay,” she whispered.

A simple word, but it carried weight.

She didn’t just mean today.

She meant yes to the quiet protection, the sweet control, the way he held space for her softness without asking her to explain it.

She wanted this-him-for more than just a moment.

Maybe even ... forever.

At the racks, she hesitated. As she mounted the rental, her skirt tugged, and the cage shifted-just enough to make her squirm.

Jan looked at her gently. “How does it feel?”

She bit her lip. “A little uncomfortable. But ... it’s okay.”

He smiled. “You’re such a good girl.”

As they pedaled side-by-side along the canal, they passed strollers and stroopwafels, laughter echoing off the bridges. The diaper pressed gently with each turn of the pedals. The cage stayed firm and snug.

Stéphanie wasn’t nervous anymore.

She just felt present.

The ride south through Amsterdam was short, but Stéphanie felt every turn of the pedals-the faint tug between her legs, the warmth of her tights, the flutter of her skirt.

Her focus narrowed to the rhythm of motion, the sound of wheels, the hush of wind.

They rode beneath the grand archway of the Rijksmuseum, the tunnel echoing faintly with bicycle bells and soft laughter. Light filtered through from the other side like a curtain lifting.

Stéphanie glanced up, heart fluttering at the painted stone above them, the carvings, the height of it all.

And then-

The wide plaza of Museumplein opened in front of her like a breath of space.

They parked and locked their bikes just outside the entrance to the Van Gogh Museum. Light glinted off the curved glass.

Stéphanie took Jan’s hand again.

He gave it a soft squeeze.

And led her inside.

Stéphanie followed, her hand in his, not knowing what she would find-but feeling ready to be seen.

She thought of the paintings they were about to see-strokes of color layered with emotion, fragile and bold.

Maybe that’s all she was now: A girl becoming brushstrokes-each layer more honest than the last, each color closer to who she really was.

SOMEONE LIKE ME

The museum lobby opened around them like a cathedral of light-clean lines, pale stone, quiet echoes.

Stéphanie clutched her small bag and stayed close to Jan as he scanned the crowd.

“There they are,” Jan said, nodding toward the benches just beyond the coat check.

Stéphanie followed his gaze.

Two figures stood waiting in the light-filled lobby of the Van Gogh Museum. One was tall and relaxed, dressed in a soft wool blazer. The other-shorter, slighter-stood beside him like a figurine placed with care.

Stéphanie’s breath caught.

She was petite, with a short chestnut bob held back by a satin ribbon. Her red smocked dress ended just above the knee, its gathered bodice neat and precise. The dress’s white Peter Pan collar framed her neckline with soft edges. Over it, she wore a cropped white cardigan with delicate buttons-left open, more for charm than warmth.

White tights. Shiny red Mary Janes. She looked like a doll-placed, not posed.

There was a stillness in her, not just grace but fragility, like she was trying very hard to be exactly what she believed she needed to be.