Chapter 6

My promise of improving Cher was followed by a number of changes in her daily habits.

First of all, she was to wear underwear at all times. The only exceptions were when she showered, used the toilet, or when I gave her explicit permission to take them off — a small rule, but one that reminded her, every hour of the day, that a girl with her impulses needed a little more modesty than most.

I made sure that she only wore panties I had ordered online specifically for her. Each design was chosen for maximum modesty. No more thongs. No more G-strings. No more panties that didn’t cover her ass completely. I also chose thicker and more structured fabrics — cotton blends that left no room for temptation or fantasy. Every pair offered full coverage and came in muted colours, the kind of underwear that didn’t just hide the body, but humbled it.

She was made to show me which pair she was wearing each morning after her shower. It didn’t matter whether I was in the room or not. It was her duty to find me and lift her dress — just high enough to reveal her panties, nothing more — and stand there until I gave a nod.

Some mornings, I would barely glance. Other times, I would tug at the waistband or run a finger along the seam to make sure she hadn’t tried to slip into anything softer or prettier.

There were also random checks I made, especially the times when I found her asleep. I would lift up the blanket and push my hand underneath the hem to feel the waistband.

If I found the elastic where it should be, I’d let her sleep. But if I didn’t, I would wake her with a firm tug of her dress and a sharp tone — reminding her that even in sleep, modesty was not hers to abandon.

Her dress code was stricter on days Jason visited. She wasn’t allowed to wear anything that didn’t reach her ankles, and pants that clung to her hips or thighs were completely forbidden.

In the coming weeks, when I felt that the time was ripe, I brought her into her old room, which was now rearranged into a place dedicated to sex — not hers, but mine and Jason’s. Some eye hooks were installed into the headboard, allowing Jason to have his fun with me.

The bed sheets had been changed to my favourites. I had some workers send her desk back to the second-hand store it was sold to, freeing up more space for on-the-floor sex, and repaint the walls in a softer, warmer tone — something that made the room feel inviting, even tender, in cruel contrast to the acts that would take place inside.

I could see Cher’s eyes taking in the changes that had happened to ‘her’ room. Her gaze lingered on the bed — perhaps longing for the days she could lie there in comfort, or perhaps haunted by the thought of how the mattress now creaked beneath my body instead of hers.

I brought her to the only furniture that remained unchanged, her wardrobe. “Now ... take out any clothes that you think are still inappropriate for a girl like you,” I said softly, watching her expression. I then pointed to the boxes already labelled — a few marked To Be Sold, and others, in neat handwriting, For Mira.

“You will take them out one by one and show them to me,” I said. “If I don’t want it, it will go to one of the To Be Sold boxes. If I think it still has value and can be worn properly, it goes into For Mira.”

“Don’t rush,” I continued as I sat down on the edge of the bed. “I want you to think carefully about each one.”

In her modest plain maxi sundress and her cardigan, Cher opened the wardrobe door. It had been months since she last saw the inside of that wardrobe, and it was fun watching her shaking fingers going through the very clothes she was very proud to wear.

She started with her tops. Most of them didn’t reach her belly button, and I decided to keep only a few that caught my attention — a classic white blouse, a cream bardot top, and a cami top with a multicolour sea creature print. I let her keep two plain T-shirts, both loose and unflattering, just so she’d have something modest to wear on laundry days. The rest went into the To Be Sold box without discussion.

Next came the skirts. Except for a few that were scandalously short — which I decided to sell — I took everything else. Cher was allowed to keep just two maxi skirts, both made from thick, wrinkled fabric in faded colours that did nothing for her figure. One hung awkwardly around her hips; the other sagged at the hem like it had given up trying to be fashionable.

Then came the underwear. Lace bralettes, mesh thongs, satin G-strings, floral prints with scalloped edges, strappy cut-outs designed to be seen rather than hidden — all of it went straight into the To Be Sold box. There was no discussion, no hesitation. Each piece was a relic of a girl who thought seduction was power, and I wasn’t about to let her cling to that illusion.

All the remaining accessories — belts, sunglasses, silk scarves, even the little velvet chokers she used to wear with low-cut tops — went straight into the For Mira box. Cher was no longer allowed jewellery or accessories of any kind. Nothing that glittered, dangled, or drew attention.

For the next few minutes, I helped her with the packing. I rolled tape across the boxes while she cut it with scissors. The tops and skirts would go to second-hand shops, but I kept the box with her underwear separate.

It was burned in the yard later that evening, with Cher standing beside me — silent, barefoot, and wrapped in her cardigan as the flames consumed every last thread of lace, satin, and vanity.

“This is your past,” I said. “Every string and scrap of it.”

There were nights we prayed together, kneeling on the rug, facing each other with our eyes closed and our hands gently locked. We called out to God, to Mary, to any saint who might still care enough to hear two women like us.

One night, I asked for forgiveness — whispering softly to myself — for the sins behind me, the sins ahead of me, and the ones I couldn’t help but savour in my mind. Those were sincere prayers, the ones that came from the bottom of my heart.

I opened my eyes and watched Cher, still praying with hers closed. Stripped of makeup, jewellery, and all the vanities she once clung to, she looked almost unrecognisable. This Cher was modest. Repentant. Obedient. She carried, in that moment, the quiet grace of a woman shaped by discipline. And she pleased me — deeply, thoroughly, all the way to the bone.

I waited until she opened her eyes. “What did you pray for, sweetheart?” I asked.

A small smile appeared on her face. She wiped away the watery trail from her runny nose with the neckline of her dress. “I prayed for health. I prayed that I would get well soon. I prayed for Papa and Mama as well.”

Then, quietly, she shuffled forward on her knees, her dress bunching and dragging softly across the rug as she moved closer. When she reached me, she lowered her head and rested it against my chest, breathing slow, like a child seeking shelter. “I prayed for you. I prayed for your health. I prayed that your life with Jason stays full of peace and joy.”

I cupped her face and put a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m very proud of you, sweetheart,” I said softly. “That’s the kind of prayer a good girl says. Selfless. Pure.”

She didn’t answer, but I felt her body melt a little more against mine — as if the praise alone had undone something knotted deep inside her.

It was a quiet afternoon, and we’d just had lunch a few hours ago. I was lying on my bed, scrolling through Instagram, as I had no desire to go out that day.

Below, on the rug, facing me, Cher sat in silence — legs folded beneath her in the Japanese kneeling position, her back slouching slightly, her pale lavender dress pooled neatly around her. In her hands, she held a soft bundle of yarn, needles clicking gently as she worked row by row.

She’d been begging for a release since this morning. In fact, she’d been at it for quite a few days, and I’d told her that if she could knit a scarf for me, I would let her cum.

“A proper girl must learn how to knit,” I had told her before explaining to her how I myself had spent a large portion of my teenage years learning and mastering various knitting techniques. “I’ll buy you the stuff you need for it, and you will learn from the internet,” I continued.

Since then, she had been using Youtube to teach herself how to knit.

So far, Cher had made almost no real progress. The yarn bunched awkwardly in places and stretched too thin in others, and whatever shape the scarf was meant to take had long since collapsed into something knotted, uneven, and sad. The edges curled where they should’ve lain flat, and whole rows were missing or doubled. Even the colour she’d picked — a garish pinkish-peach — made it look more like a discarded dishcloth than a gift. But she kept going, needle by needle, loop by loop, as if her orgasm depended on every stitch. Because it did.

I put down the phone and sat up in bed. As I scooted closer to the edge, my feet dangled over the side. “You have to start again,” I said, shaking my head a bit. “That thing is never gonna become a scarf.”

Cher threw the needles down in frustration, the yarn ball rolling away from her. One look from me, and she lurched forward to retrieve it back. “Sorry, Mira” she said, sighing.

“You have to be patient,” I said. “That’s the entire reason behind knitting. Women don’t knit to pass time — they knit to learn control. Precision. Discipline. The same way they’re meant to live.”