Chapter 7: Wednesday: Reclaiming Softness

LUNA IN THE MORNING

Stéphanie woke to soft light slipping through the hotel curtains, wrapped in her cream nightshirt with a lace-trimmed neckline and long sleeves, the fabric warm but crumpled from sleep.

Her body felt heavy. Her thoughts—heavier still.

She lay there quietly, the memory of Jan’s apartment pressing against her like a second weight. Not sharp. Just persistent. The warmth of his hands. The careful way he undressed her. The softness that had felt, for a moment, like safety.

But not love.

She had wanted it to be love. Wanted to be wanted. To be held in that quiet, curated space and told she belonged.

And for a moment—she had almost believed it.

Until she turned over. Until she disappeared.

She had cried when she got back to the hotel. Not loudly. Just enough to feel the truth settle.

She had undressed quickly—folded the skirt, peeled off the tights, slipped out of her pink top. Wiped off her makeup. Washed her face. Put on a fresh diaper. Then her nightshirt—the one that made her feel safe. Small. Herself.

And she had gone straight to bed.

Her phone was still on the nightstand. Face down. She already knew what would be waiting.

Still, she reached for it.

Three messages from Jan.

Jan: “Baby, I just want to hold you.”

Jan: “Please come back. You don’t have to say anything—just let me take care of you.”

Jan: “You felt so good in my arms. You’re safe here. Always.”

Her thumb hovered.

Then she turned the phone face down again on the nightstand and let it rest there, silent.

She didn’t answer.

The diaper between her legs was wet. The sensation startled her—not in shame, but in its familiarity. Its normalcy.

She frowned.

Enough.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly. Then she lifted her nightshirt, revealing the damp diaper beneath, and carefully peeled the sodden padding from her skin.

The cage reappeared—pink, cold, ridiculous—a relic of someone else’s fantasy.

She stared at it for a long moment.

She dropped the folded diaper into the bin with a soft rustle.

Then she turned toward the bathroom.

In the bathroom, steam rose quickly as the water warmed.

She showered long—letting the heat rinse away the residue of someone else’s fantasy.

She toweled off slowly, staring at herself in the mirror—not as a fantasy or a role, but simply as a woman searching for clarity.

On the dresser, the soft paper bag from Hunkemöller waited. She opened it gently, peeling back the delicate tissue to reveal the pieces she and Luna had chosen together: soft ivory satin, elegant and quiet.

She stepped into the ivory satin panties first. Before pulling them up fully, she tucked herself carefully so the front lay smooth. She felt the cage press gently against her lower back.

Once the panties were in place, she adjusted the waistband and pressed lightly, making sure everything stayed secure and flat. The satin in front felt smooth against her skin—cool, gentle, feminine. A soft hush where there had been pressure. It made her feel composed. Tucked in.

Then she lifted the bra—molded cups, faint lace trim, fabric cool and smooth. Facing the mirror, she slipped it on, adjusted the straps, and smoothed the cups into place.

Next, she placed the silicone inserts with care, shaping her silhouette with quiet intention.

Not heavy—just warm, pliant, tender: a curve she had chosen.

She stood still, hands at her sides. Present.

Next came the matching camisole—ivory, lace-trimmed. She slipped it over her head. The satin clung just enough to follow her shape.

Then the black micronet tights—Luna’s pick.

Stéphanie sat on the bed and rolled them up her legs slowly, inch by inch. The mesh hugged her calves, then her thighs. As the fabric reached the tops of her thighs, she paused.

She rose carefully, steadying herself with a hand on the edge of the bed.

Only then did she slide the tights up fully—over her hips, across the soft curve of her bottom—pausing once more to make sure the cage remained tightly tucked beneath her panties.

As her fingers smoothed the fabric at the back, she felt it: a faint ridge beneath the satin, cool and rigid. The cage, pressing outward just slightly—unseen but present. A reminder.

Each motion was deliberate—dressing not just her body, but her becoming.

The tights hugged her with a firm, elegant grace. She smoothed them gently, fingertips brushing the shimmer along the seam.

Then she turned—toward the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

From her feet upward: the sheer black mesh clinging to her legs, the smooth front of the ivory satin panties—flat, deliberate, carefully tucked.

Her hand drifted to the smooth front for a moment, pressing lightly before tracing upward—over her belly, across the satin camisole, to the swell of her breast.

She cupped both breasts gently, feeling the soft give of the silicone inserts through the lace-trimmed fabric.

Not heavy—but warm, pliant, tender.
She had shaped herself with care. She had said yes to softness.

The camisole hugged her body—lace-trimmed at top and bottom, elegant and tender.

Her hair, longer now thanks to Jan’s generous gift of extensions, framed her face in soft waves.

It fell just past her shoulders, brushing the lace gently, giving her reflection a silhouette she barely recognized—but had always imagined.

She looked like a girl. Maybe not the kind who turned heads. But one who had shaped herself with care. Who had said yes to softness.

She rested her hands at her sides and let the image settle.

Still.

Real.

Then she turned, crossed the room, and knelt by her open suitcase.

The skirt lay folded near the top—a chestnut pleated skirt, warm and rich with reddish-brown fabric, feminine without being girlish. Grown. Thoughtful. Hers.

She lifted the skirt with the side zipper hanging in front. After stepping into it, she reached down, fastening the button first, then slowly zipped the side closure up from bottom to top. Once secure, she gently turned the skirt a quarter turn to the left, letting it settle perfectly on her hips.

Then, with both hands, she smoothed the fabric along the pleats on either side, ensuring the skirt fell just right. The pleats whispered faintly against her tights as she adjusted the fabric with care.

Then she reached again into the suitcase and took out the fitted black ribbed turtleneck. The fabric was soft with a subtle sheen, clinging just enough to trace the lines of her form. She pulled it over her camisole carefully, smoothing it down her torso, then bent slightly to tuck it neatly into the waistband of her skirt.

The hem disappeared beneath the pleats, creating a clean silhouette—streamlined and poised.

The sleeves hugged her arms, the collar framed her throat, and with the skirt sitting snug at her waist, the whole look came together: composed, feminine, grown. But softened, still. Hers.

Her black boots came next—polished, steady, the same pair she had worn on her first day in Amsterdam. The leather felt reassuring. Solid. Each step in them felt like returning to something she hadn’t known she was missing.

Finally, she fastened her gold name necklace—Stéphanie—letting it fall just above the neckline of her turtleneck. A quiet, golden truth against black fabric.

Pausing, Stéphanie stepped toward the full-length mirror behind the door. Her fingers lightly brushed through her soft waves, tracing the gentle curve where hair met lace. She studied her reflection—the delicate silhouette framed by the ivory camisole and pleated skirt.

After a moment, she turned away from the door and moved toward the vanity mirror. The soft light from the nearby lamp wrapped around her gently, creating a quiet, intimate space.

She smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and caught the subtle shimmer in her eyes—a quiet affirmation of the woman she was becoming.

At the vanity, she added makeup with a careful hand: sheer foundation, a touch of rose blush, mascara, and clear gloss. Nothing too bold—just enough to feel ready. To feel seen.

Then she walked back to the nightstand, picked up her phone, and sat gently on the edge of the bed.

She opened Luna’s contact.

Stéphanie: Can we talk? Near my hotel? I need your help.

The reply came almost immediately:

Luna: I’m at work—give me 20 minutes? I’ll meet you at Café Jaren.

Stéphanie dressed, coat on, and stepped into the crisp Amsterdam morning. She walked along the Singel canal, her skirt swaying, tights sparkling faintly in the light. Each step felt hers.

She passed the Torture Museum, then Muntplein, crossed Rokin.

To her right, the Hotel de L’Europe rose into view—elegant, imposing, untouched by the city’s rush.

Just past it, the golden glow of Café Jaren came into view—inviting, warm, steady.

Inside, the café was already humming with quiet conversation. Round marble tables dotted the floor, bathed in the golden light of pendant lamps.

In the middle of the room, Luna sat upright at a small table. Her dark coat hung neatly from a nearby stand. She looked composed, attentive, and when she saw Stéphanie, her face softened immediately.

Stéphanie stepped inside. She slipped off her coat and hung it on a nearby coat stand.

The warmth of the café wrapped around her like a breath.

Luna rose at once and met her halfway, drawing her into a quiet embrace. Not dramatic—just grounding. A hand at her back, a kiss near her temple. The kind of touch that asked for nothing and gave everything.

When they pulled apart, Luna’s gaze moved gently over Stéphanie’s outfit—the fitted black turtleneck, the chestnut pleated skirt, the shimmer of the tights catching the café light.

“You look beautiful,” she said, voice low but certain. “Elegant. Grown.”

Stéphanie flushed and gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

They sat. A moment later, a waitress arrived with two steaming cups of tea, placing them gently on the table.

“I ordered tea for you,” Luna said, her voice soft as ever, but with just a trace of pride.

Stéphanie nodded gently. “Thank you, you know exactly what I like.”

“I’m glad you messaged me,” Luna said. “You don’t have to explain anything. But I’m here. If you want to.”

Stéphanie’s fingers curled lightly around the cup. “I went to Jan’s,” she said, voice low.

“It was nice to see him again. He welcomed me—warm, calm, like always. Like nothing had changed.”

She paused.

“He showed me around his flat. And then he opened a door.”

Her voice dropped further.

“There was this room.”

She described the pink walls, the plush toys, the folded diapers. “Someone had lived there. Someone like me. Feminine. Submissive. Small. It felt like a room for an adult-sized baby or toddler. Like a playground for someone’s addiction. But not me.”

“I think he has a fetish. Not just soft girls. Boys made into little girls. Controlled. Like dolls.”

She paused, eyes distant.

“That room wasn’t love,” she said quietly. “It was a theater. Built for someone else’s pleasure.”

Luna’s gaze stayed steady, but her jaw tightened.

Stéphanie looked down at her tea.

“After that, he made tea,” she said. “In his living room. Chamomile. Everything gentle. Curated.”

She touched the rim of her cup with her finger.

“He spoke softly. Said I was special. That my softness calmed him. That I didn’t need to change my body to be a girl—because he already saw her in me.”

Her voice thinned.

“He said he’d help me, if I wanted hormones. That he wanted me to feel seen. But then...” she trailed off.

A beat.

“He told me he wasn’t looking for a woman. He wanted what I had. What I hid. Said it made me his. That my silence, my folding, my smallness was what made me precious.”

She took a breath, steadying herself.

“I wanted to believe him. I liked him. I wanted it to be care.”

A pause.

“But it wasn’t just about me. It was about what I gave him. The shape I became. The pleasure he took from that. He said he’d protect me—but he wanted something more in return. Someone obedient.”

Her hands closed around the cup again.

“I nodded. I said yes. I even believed it—for a moment. But I didn’t understand. Not really.”

Then she looked up.

“And then he took me to his bedroom.”

She folded her hands around the teacup, steadying them.

“It was warm. Carefully made. Inviting. He undressed me slowly—gently. Like he was handling something fragile.”

Her gaze dropped.

“At first, I let him. It felt ... intimate. His touch was soft. He touched me down there.”

She swallowed. “I felt wanted. I was excited.”

A beat.

“But then he told me to turn over.”

She exhaled, her voice thinner now.

“And I did. I faced the bed. The pillows. The silence.”

A flicker passed through her expression.

“That’s when I felt it. I wasn’t there anymore. Not as myself. Just the image. The idea. The soft girl he wanted to mold. The one who never says no.”

She looked up again, voice firming just slightly.

“I told him to stop. I got dressed. And I left.”

Luna reached for her hand again—firm this time.

“You listened,” she said. “And you left.”

Stéphanie nodded, her eyes shimmering.

“I didn’t even cry,” she said. “Not then.”

Luna gave the faintest smile. “That’s okay. You were too busy being strong.”

Her thumb brushed lightly over Stéphanie’s knuckles, grounding her.

“What you felt—that moment you knew it wasn’t yours ... that was your body speaking. Your truth. And you listened.”

Stéphanie looked down.

“I let him touch me,” she said. “I let him ... guide me. And part of me wanted it. Wanted to feel that wanted. Even when I knew it wasn’t right.”

Luna nodded. “Wanting to be wanted isn’t weakness. But giving that power away—letting someone else decide what your softness means ... that’s where you get lost.”

Stéphanie’s lip trembled faintly. “I thought maybe I was just too sensitive. That if I were better at submitting, I’d finally belong.”

Luna’s voice remained steady. “No, schatje. Submission isn’t weakness. But it has to come from you. From your desire, your choice. Not someone else’s fantasy stitched over your skin.”