Chapter 8

The hallway outside Room 202 was deserted after this late in the afternoon, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Kylie’s footsteps echo hollowly as she glanced at her phone: 4:58 PM. She paused before the door, hand hovering. Her green eyes flicked to the frosted window—just a dark shape moving inside. Harrington. She smoothed her pleated skirt, took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Harrington stood by his desk, already facing her. The room smelled faintly of ammonia and old paper. His eyes lock onto hers, then travel down her body, lingering on her knees. “Raise it,” he commands softly, nodding toward her skirt. Kylie’s cheeks ignited, wildfire spreading to her ears. She hesitated—her knuckles white on her backpack strap—then slowly gathered the hem. Oh my God, she thought to herself. She lifted the fabric inch by inch, exposing her thighs first, then the pale, bare skin of her crotch beneath. The air felt cold against her nakedness. She stared at a chip in the linoleum near his polished loafers.

He stepped forward. His thumb brushed her kneecap—deliberate—then slid upward along her inner thigh. Kylie flinched at the contact, a gasp catching in her throat. His fingertips traced the naked curve of her mound, pressing just below the pelvic bone. “Good girl,” he murmured, circling the smooth expanse. His fingers explored the plump outer lips, tracing their newly hairless seam. “Perfect.” The praise coiled like smoke in her lungs. His index finger dipped lower, skimming the tight furl of her entrance. It’s clinical. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the drone of the overhead lights, as he strokes her lips.

He withdrew his hand abruptly. The air felt colder where his hand had been moments before. “Time to go,” Harrington announced, turning on his heel, “You still have your medal?” Kylie gave the barest of nods. He strides toward the door without checking if she follows. Kylie scrambled, her skirt falling back into place as she fumbled to readjust her backpack. Harrington’s polished loafers clicked against the linoleum, echoing down the empty hallway. Kylie scurried after him, the rubber soles of her sneakers squeaking softly. She had to jog to keep pace with his longer strides.

Outside, the slanting sun painted the parking lot in bruised purple shadows. Harrington unlocks a sleek black sedan with a beep. He opened the passenger door without looking at her. “Get in.” Kylie slid onto the cool leather seat, the scent of pine air freshener filling her nose. Harrington started the engine, the low rumble vibrating through the seat. He pulled out smoothly, the headlights slicing through the gathering dusk. Kylie stared at her hands clenched in her lap, the silence thick and suffocating. Only the rhythmic click of the turn signal broke it as they merged onto the main road.

“You’ll wear this when we arrive.” Harrington tossed a small, crinkly plastic package onto her lap without taking his eyes off the road. Kylie picked it up hesitantly. It’s sealed tight, the plastic resisting her trembling fingers. She finally ripped it open. Inside, folded impossibly small, is fabric so sheer and insubstantial it feels like cobwebs. She unfolded it – a skimpy waitress outfit, jet black and shiny like cheap vinyl. It consisted of microscopic shorts and a halter top held together by thin straps. She held it up; the waistband looks barely wider than her hand, the cups laughably small against her Double C chest. Her stomach lurched. “Mr. Harrington, please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “This ... Someone will see me. Everyone...”

Harrington’s knuckles whited on the steering wheel. “Are you worried, Princess?” His voice was low, hard. He glanced at her, his eyes glinting in the dashboard light. “That uniform is exactly your size. It will fit. And you will wear it. Or be naked, your choice. And of course, people will see you, that’s the point!” He turned onto a dimly lit side street lined with unfamiliar, shadowed houses. Kylie clutched the flimsy fabric, its cheap texture scraping her palms. The pressure of Harrington’s expectation felt heavier than staring down a pommel horse. She stared out the window, nausea churning.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a two-story house, its exterior painted a dull beige. Modest porch lights cast weak yellow pools on the lawn. Harrington killed the engine, already opening his door. Kylie scrambled after him, the skimpy uniform crumpled in her fist. The air smelled damp, earthy. Harrington strode to the front door, opened it without knocking, and pushed it wide. “After you, Princess.” Inside, a narrow hallway leads past a darkened living room. He gestured impatiently toward a door near the stairs. “Bathroom.” He followed her in, leaning against the sink basin, his arms crossed. The cramped space instantly felt suffocating.

With trembling hands, Kylie striped off her skirt and blouse under Harrington’s unwavering gaze. The light overhead buzzed harshly, illuminating every goosebump on her skin. She unfolded the vinyl shorts first, attempting to step into them. The material fought her, impossibly tight. She tugged them upwards, breathing sharp breaths as the waistband digs into her hips. The shorts barely covered half her buttocks; the smooth, bare cheeks bulge prominently below the hem, exposed and vulnerable. Next, the halter top. She struggled to clasp it behind her neck, the tiny cups straining, unable to contain her full breasts. The sides spill over, her nipples perilously close to escaping the flimsy fabric. Harrington watched silently, his expression unreadable. The vinyl shorts ride up between her thighs, the seam biting into her newly bare mound. She felt utterly exposed, the cool air on her exposed skin adding to her humiliation. “Mr. Harrington, it ... It doesn’t fit,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “My butt ... it’s all hanging out.”

A ghost of a smirk touched Harrington’s lips. He pushed off the sink, stepping closer until the warmth radiating from his body made Kylie shudder. His finger traced the edge of the shorts where they bite into the soft flesh of her hip. “Perfect,” he murmured. His other hand gripped her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his and he places a quick kiss on her forehead. The approval in his eyes is terrifyingly intimate. “Exactly as I intended. Now get that top over your slutty tits before I slide my dick between them.”

Kylie’s fingers fumbled with the slippery vinyl straps behind her neck, slick with nervous sweat. Her breasts swelled against the inadequate cups, straining the flimsy fabric. One nipple escaped out the side, stiffening instantly in the cool air. She gasped, hastily tucking it back in, only for the other breast to spill over the opposite edge. Harrington watched, amused, as she wrestled the halter, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts. Finally, she managed to clasp the straps tightly at her nape. The top help, barely. Her breasts bulge obscenely from the sides, the straps digging crimson lines into her shoulders. “Better. If you move too fast, you’ll pop right out,” Harrington murmured.

Turning slightly toward the streaked mirror above the sink, Kylie hesitantly lifted her arms just an inch. The movement shifts her breasts, making the vinyl dig deeper into the tender skin beneath. Her gold medal glinted incongruously against her flushed skin, her face pale with dread, her body displayed beneath the cheap, glistening vinyl. The shorts rode higher still, exposing even more of her pert ass cheeks, exposing the vulnerable curve where her bare buttock meets thigh. Harrington’s smirk deepened in the reflection, a predator admiring trapped prey. “Excellent, perfect fit for a princess,” he breathed, the word slithering against her ear.

Harrington unzips a leather portfolio resting on the toilet tank. His fingers emerged clutching a thin object—pale fabric folded neatly. He unfolded it with precise movements: a mask shaped like a cat’s face, its points sharpened into feline ears, with holes cut precisely for eyes and nostrils. The blank feline features stared back, eerie in their neutrality. Kylie stiffened, breath catching—blindfold, boiler room, darkness, strangers—as panic flared hot and sharp behind her ribs. Her gaze darted to Harrington’s face, searching for confirmation of the horror.

“Relax, Princess,” Harrington orders, his tone flat as he pressed the cool latex against her cheek. “It’s not a blindfold. See?” He rotated the mask, showing her the twin eyeholes. “Eyes stay uncovered. Nose stays free.” His fingertip tapped one slit. “You’ll be fine.” He draped the fabric over her forehead, letting it settle against her brow before smoothing the sides down her temples. The elastic bit into the tender skin behind her ears as he secured it, his knuckles brushing her temples. Kylie remained frozen, every muscle coiled like a spring, waiting for the darkness that didn’t come. Only the unsettling clarity of sight remained, framed by stiff fabric. Harrington adjusted the fit, his thumb pressing the bridge piece firmly against her nose. “There. Perfect anonymity. Keep it on unless you want everyone to know who you are. Now...” He leaned back, surveying his handiwork—her masked face, the obscene uniform, the medal resting on heaving chest. “You’re ready to serve.”

Harrington gripped her elbow, steering her out of the cramped bathroom and down a narrow hallway. The muffled sounds of laughter and sports commentary grew louder. He stopped before a heavy wooden door under the stairs, twisted the knob, and pushed it open. Cool, dim light spilled out, carrying the scent of stale beer and cigar smoke. Harrington propelled her forward onto a landing. Below them sprawled a vast, low-ceilinged basement—a man cave. Multiple large-screen TVs flickered silently against one wall, displaying football highlights and basketball replays. Opposite the TVs, a polished wooden bar gleamed under track lighting, stocked with bottles and glassware. Scattered across the thick carpet were oversized leather couches, recliners, and beanbags, all occupied. “Gentlemen,” Harrington announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space, “Here’s our server tonight.”

Kylie’s gaze snapped across the room. Six men lounged amidst the low light: Jameson leaned against the bar, swirling amber liquid in a tumbler, his cold eyes already locked onto her exposed skin; Ben sprawled in a beanbag near a mini-fridge, smirking as he cracked open another beer; Dr. Vance, her stoic chemistry teacher, sat rigidly upright on a leather couch, his wire-framed glasses glinting as he stared intently at the hockey game on a screen above him. Recognition slammed into Kylie like ice water. Dr. Vance!? Mortification burned hotter than Harrington’s gel ever had. Instinctively, she tried to shrink, to disappear. Her hands flew up towards her masked face, fingers trembling violently, desperate to shield herself from his gaze—from all their gazes. The gesture only drew more attention to her straining, spilled breasts and the smooth expanse of bare skin between her thighs.