“Why can’t you just call me Sophie like everyone else?”

Her voice cut through the car like a shard of glass—sharp, but brittle. She wanted it to land hard. It cracked instead.

We were halfway to the competition. I had one hand on the wheel, the other curled tight around what was left of my patience.

“Because your name is Sophia,” I said, not looking at her. “Sophia Mae Barnes. That’s the name I gave you. It’s beautiful, and it means something.”

She turned away, jaw clenched, arms behind her. The silence between us thickened, hot and humming, like the air before a thunderstorm.

She then shifted in her seat, the back of her skirt catching against the chain of the cuffs. I could see she was trying to reposition her hands.

“Stop fidgeting,” I sighed. “The clasp is already under strain. If that zipper gives out in front of the judges, what then? And don’t get a run in those stockings. They’re imported. I had to order them special.”

“Oh no,” she muttered. “Not a run in the holy Cuban pantyhose.”

I ignored the sarcasm.

“They’re not pantyhose. You know that. They’re authentic stockings. The seam, the reinforced heel, the sheen—it’s all meant to be seen. That’s what makes them so special. That’s what they look for.”

Her head whipped around, eyes sharp.

“Then why make me wear boots over them? What’s the point if no one can even see the damn things?”

My grip on the wheel tightened. “Language, Sophia.”

“What?” she purred, slowly twisting in her seat just enough to meet my gaze, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Isn’t that exactly what a girl dressed like this is supposed to say? I mean, come on ... a girl who wears something like this? She probably whispers all kinds of filthy little things into her clients’ ears—just to make them squirm.”

I just glanced over at her, giving her that look—the look. The one that always says don’t push me, not now.

“You know how your father and I feel about swearing,” I reminded her.

“‘Damn.’ Really, Mom?” she said. “I could understand if I said shit or fuck or ... whatever. But damn?”

“You need to stop, Sophia,” I said, my voice firm. “I mean it.”

“Or what?” she shot back. “You’ll ball gag me?”

“I mean...” she drawled, lifting her left leg slightly to emphasize her stiletto boot, “you wouldn’t expect to see a girl like me in something like that. Let’s be honest—if anyone’s wearing the ball gag, it’s my client.”

Her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile as she leaned in, voice silky and low.

“But ... one of those bright red balls would look stunning in my mouth,” she murmured. “It’d match my lipstick ... and my nails—perfectly.”

My fingers clenched tighter around the wheel.

“Sophia!” I said, raising my voice. “Our family doesn’t talk about those things. Those are the kinds of things people who have lost their way talk about—the kind that have no values.”

“Values?” she replied, glancing down at herself in the cuffs and the dominatrix outfit. “You’re okay with this ... but a ball gag is too much?”

She looked me over, a wry smile playing on her lips. “If you can handle all this, talking about a little gag isn’t exactly a stretch, is it?”

“If I had one,” I muttered, barely audible over the hum of the engine, “you’d be wearing it right now.”

She didn’t flinch. Just turned back to the window, expression unreadable.

Outside, the highway rolled on. Flat. Endless.

I then continued.

“Because the judges know, Sophia. They know they’re stockings—and not just pantyhose. They notice everything. It’s all about presentation. Commitment to the role. The little details ... they matter.”

I glanced over at her, letting my eyes linger just a moment too long—long enough to say everything I didn’t. Then I turned back to the road.

“That’s exactly why you’re in those.”

She glanced back at me, her eyes smoldering.

“So ... is that why the stockings are held up with a leather garter?” she asked, her voice like silk, low and teasing. “Is that why I’m wearing these leather panties too?”

She again turned towards me, one brow arched with playful curiosity, speaking as if she were commenting on the weather.

“And is that why this corset is laced so tight?” she said, drawing out each word. “So tight across my chest that my nipples are barely hidden ... just one deep breath and—pop—they’d be on full display, begging for attention.”

I didn’t answer right away. My eyes stayed on the road.

“It’s about authenticity,” I said, my tone steady—colder now. I could feel my patience slipping.

“They can tell when it’s not real.”

She let out a soft, dry laugh and slowly turned back to the window.

“Oh,” she murmured, barely audible. “It’s all real ... especially these six-inch come fuck me boots.”

I barely glance at her, eyes locked on the road.

“SOPHIA!” I yelled, my voice sharp and raw.

She shifted again. I could hear the chain on the handcuffs clanking against the leather seat. The sound was sharper this time, more deliberate. I knew I’d have to pin the skirt now—bobby pin it at the back and pray the jacket would cover.

“AND STOP FIDGETING!”

“If you didn’t want me fidgeting,” she said coolly, “maybe you shouldn’t have cuffed me behind my back.”

“If you’d rehearsed your routine like I asked, I wouldn’t have to,” I shot back, my voice low but still sharp.

I paused. It wasn’t silence—more like a heaviness, the kind that stretches deep into your lungs and makes your chest feel unbearably tight.

“I cuffed you behind so the seatbelt would sit properly,” I said, eyes locked on the road ahead, doing my best to keep my voice calm. “And I didn’t want you messing with your makeup. You spent two hours with Perry this morning. You’ll ruin all that work he did to make you look amazing.”

“I know, Mom,” Sophia said, her tone dry. “You kept me cuffed in his makeup chair. The entire time. And he just kept talking like we were having a totally casual chat. Like it’s normal to do someone’s makeup while they’re in handcuffs.”

“He’s a professional,” I remarked. “And I took them off afterward, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” she shot back. “Because I couldn’t get my nails put on otherwise.”

“And as soon as they were...” She gave me a pointed look, then tried to move her hands but really couldn’t. “So were these.”

“As I said,” I replied, keeping my composure. “I wasn’t about to let you ruin your makeup.”

She scoffed. “I’m wearing nearly two-inch acrylics,” she said, now trying to flex her fingers. “I can’t touch anything. It’s impossible to get near my face without risking the ER.”

I ignored the edge in her voice, watching her fingers still shift and twitch—restless, but not exactly trying to escape.

“Don’t chip them before your routine,” I warned, calm but firm.

“Can I at least get them taken off tomorrow? I’m supposed to go out with Steve.”

“I won’t be able to get an appointment until Monday morning. You’ll be fine. It’s break—you’re not in school.”

“Great,” she muttered.

“It’s not like you’ll be using your hands much anyway,” I said casually.

She turned sharply.

“What does that mean?”

I glanced at her.

“Mrs. Johnson said she saw you and Steve. Said your hands were cuffed behind your back.”

Sophia stared at me, stunned for half a second. I kept going.

“I get it. You two are serious. Everyone knows you’ll probably get married someday. But in public, Sophia?”

I shook my head, tone firm now. Cold.

“If that’s how he wants you, fine. That’s your business. But keep it behind closed doors. Not where people can see.”

I paused, then added, quieter this time.

“I’m not upset about you wearing them for him. It’s important that you’re willing to do things for him. I’ve taught you well enough that you understand what it means to submit to a man—not just physically, but all of it.”

“When you get married someday, you’ll have responsibilities as a wife ... and it’ll be more than just cooking, cleaning, and raising the kids,” I added.

I took a breath, steady, the way my own mother always did before saying something she knew would land hard. This was the talk she gave me—one of the few that actually stuck. And if I’m being honest, it was one of the most important ones. It helped me understand my place, my role. Helped me have a good life.

“You know how important it is to be soft for your man, obedient, submissive. Pleasing him is part of your role—not just in the bedroom—”

“Mom!” she cut in, seeming embarrassed.

I just kept going. “Sophia, this is important. Your role is to please not just in the bedroom, but in everything. Quiet support. Steady grace. Knowing when to hold your tongue and when to stand beside him, no matter what.”

I paused for a moment. “That will be important when he’s Sherrif one day. To make sure you stand by him.”

“So no, I’m not judging you for wearing those. For letting him be in control. If he wants you in them—then you need to be in them. I’m proud of you for it. A lot of girls don’t have that level of understanding.”

She didn’t deny it. Didn’t have to. The flush in her cheeks, the way she looked away, that was enough.

“But don’t forget, Sophia ... even when it’s for love, not everyone will understand. You can give yourself to him—just don’t give the world a front-row seat.”

There was a silence.

Then she let out a bitter little laugh.

“But here I am,” she said, turning in her seat again, doing her best to face me fully, “dressed like a dominatrix, cuffed, about to perform in front of a panel of old men—”

Her voice was sharp now, acidic.

“—to win. a. ribbon.”

She stared at me, jaw clenched.

“I guess it’s only disgusting when I choose it, right?”

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t have something to say—but because, for a second, I couldn’t. It just hurt. She still didn’t understand. Still couldn’t see that this was different.

This wasn’t about some boy.

It wasn’t about sex, or shame, or whatever filth Sophia thought I was accusing her of. I’m not naïve. I know what young people do. I was young once too. And like I had tried to explain to her just now, I know what men want—and what women are expected to give.

If he wanted to tie her up—or if she wanted it. That’s fine. A good wife ought to be obedient. Soft. Willing. There’s nothing wrong with a woman learning to be still, learning to surrender control when it’s asked of her—privately. That’s part of the bond. That’s part of what makes a marriage last.

But in public? Like that? On school grounds, out where people can see?

No. That’s not submission—that’s disgrace. That’s giving people something to whisper about. That’s giving men permission to see her not as a woman to be cherished, but as a thing to be passed around.

This competition, though—this was different.

This was about form. Beauty with purpose. A woman standing still and straight and proud under pressure. A woman made into something more than herself. That’s what they wanted to see. And that’s what I was helping her become.

She didn’t understand it yet. But I did.

This was about her career.

These competitions mattered. They were the foundation. The pipeline. If she wanted a place on a national stage—international—this was how it started. It was brutal, yes. And precise. But necessary. The judges didn’t just want talent. They wanted discipline. They wanted polish. They wanted presence.

And Sophia—my Sophia—was stunning.

She had the bones, the poise, the look. She could walk into any room and silence it. She just didn’t realize it yet. Or maybe she did—and hated what it meant.

I could see it, though.

I could see her at the top.

She just had to get there first.

And sometimes, getting there meant sacrifice.

Even if she hated me for it.

She turned her face back towards the window.

“I still don’t get why the heels have to be this high,” she muttered, pushing one foot forward, trying to shift her weight inside the stiff leather boot. The movement was small, but telling—more frustration than discomfort.

“The other girls wear four-inch heels,” she went on. “That’s already plenty.”

Her voice was flat, tired. Not complaining, exactly—just ... resigned. Like she’d already lost the argument but needed to say it anyway.

I let out a slow breath, the kind meant to keep rage from boiling over.

“You have a size nine foot, Sophia. On you, four inches barely registers. The other girls? Tiny. Their arches pop. The line of the leg changes. But for you to match that shape, to carry yourself with the same elevation, you need more.”

“I’m an eight and a half,” she replied looking over at me.

I didn’t react. I didn’t respond. She knew that for heels, even four inches, she had to wear a US women’s, size nine.

“Six inches, though?” she whispered looking back out the window. Now, less defiant. Tired.

Still, I didn’t answer.

“The heel height doesn’t seem to bother you when you’re out with Steve,” I said finally, watching her face. “Those five-inch heels in your closet ... are they from your aunt?”

I had found them while picking up laundry—a pair of ridiculous stilettos that looked more like something my sister would wear than anything a teenager should own. I knew she went into my closet to try on my heels, so at first, I thought they were mine.

But they weren’t. They were the heels my sister wore for work—the kind of shoes that, paired with the right dress, sell pharmaceuticals to doctors who appreciate a little eye candy.

She didn’t answer. Again.

“You’re going through my closet now?” she asked.

“I was doing the usual dirty clothes hunt,” I reminded her. “The hunt I complain about every weekend. The hunt where I beg you to put your clothes in the hamper. So, yes, I opened your closet—and I saw them.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Do you wear those for him?” I asked, my voice low but firm. “Out, or just in your bedroom?”

Sophia looked away, jaw tight. Not ashamed exactly. Just tense.

“Just in private,” she muttered. “They’re not for anyone else.”

I nodded slowly. I didn’t yell. I didn’t lecture.

“I’m not mad,” I said finally.

Her eyes flicked back to mine, searching.

“I’m not upset that you wear high heels and handcuffs for him. If that’s what he wants, then that’s what you need to be. That’s part of being a woman. Your grandmother used to say a girl should learn how to be what her man needs—not just in the kitchen, or at church, but in the bedroom too. Quiet, giving, soft in the ways that matter.”