Debt

"I'm sorry... what can get burned?"

"Those... 'corporate casual' clothes you seem so fond of," he informed me, air-quoting the words corporate casual with distaste.

"Mr. St. James, that is all I brought to wear for work..." I said as he moved away from me toward the closet.

He opened the door, went inside, and came back with a giant black box. "This," he said, setting it down on the bed, "is what you will be wearing for work."

"I have a uniform?" I asked, thinking maybe he was going to put me to work cleaning or, fingers crossed, cooking. I could live with that. It was grunt work, but it was honest.

"Of sorts," he said with a smirk that I knew not to trust.

Feeling the belly swirling thing again, I dropped my things and made my way toward the bed, reaching for the top of the box with sweaty hands, knowing, just knowing I wasn't going to like what was inside. I knew it because of that smile, but also because he had moved to situate himself so he could watch my reaction to whatever was inside the mysterious box.

I exhaled hard and pulled the black tissue paper away to reveal...

Lingerie?

"What is this?"

"Your uniform. When you are working, you are wearing this. So, technically, you are always wearing this. Underneath your clothes should you think you are getting some free time to yourself."

"This is... underwear..." I objected, looking back down at the black bras, black panties, black garter, black thigh highs, extremely short and skin-tight black skirt and barely-there silk black camisole.

"All your parts will be covered," he said with a brow raise that almost intimated that I was being a prude. I was not being a prude. I was... I was being... prudent.

"Mr. St. James, you can't be serious."

"I can and I am. Actually, there is something missing though," he said, going back to the closet and coming back with a black shoe box.

"Let me guess? See-through heels?" I asked as I took it from his hands.

"Not quite."

They weren't see-through heels. They were actually very nice, very black, very, very high stiletto heels. When I say high, I meant like... six inches. I had never walked in something like that in my life.

I looked down at all the clothes for a second, then closed my eyes against the churning helplessness inside. If he was going to insist on it, I had no choice. I was going to have to do my work dressed like a God damn prostitute. I'd never even worn anything half as sexy as the clothes he had picked out in the intimacy of a bedroom with a lover before.

To say it was going to be humiliating would be a gross understatement.

"Miss. Marlow," his voice barked at me, making me jump slightly before looking up at him. "Is there a problem?"

I swallowed hard. "No. No problem."

"Good. You'll wear your hair down as well. No makeup. You don't need it. I'll let you change," he said, moving toward the door.

"Mr. St. James," I called when he was half in the hallway. He turned back, brow raised, waiting for what I had to say. "What, exactly, is my job going to be?"

"Whatever the fuck I want it to be," he said, closing the door with a loud slam that made me jump.

That was exactly what I was afraid of.

I was just a whim.

He didn't actually have a job he wanted me to do, something predictable that I could learn to get used to, even in freaking lingerie. He was just going to make me do some bullshit menial tasks, likely around him and his buddies, so he could enjoy my subjugation. The freaking asshat.

Well, fine. I reached up and ripped my hair out of my ponytail, mussing up the long strands before grabbing a set of the clothes as well as the heels, and making my way to the bathroom.

And maybe I melted a little seeing the walk-in shower bay and the huge soaking tub, but then I remembered who owned said shower bay and soaking tub... and me and I shut those feelings down real quick.

I stripped out of my clothes and into the panties, bra, garter, and thigh-high stockings. And well, they weren't uncomfortable. Damn him. They were actually the nicest fitting and feeling bra and panties and stockings I'd ever worn in my life. Of course. On a growl, I pulled on the mini skirt that was so mini that I was pretty sure that by wearing it, I was breaking some decency laws in some states. The camisole was the only piece of clothing that didn't feel completely foreign and weird to wear. I left it un-tucked because, well, fuck him, and slipped into the heels that immediately made my equilibrium go wonky, making me slam my hand down on the sink vanity for a second.