Page 15 of Innocence Tamed
“Remember,” she instructed, “when your sponsor gives you a garter belt, which I’m sure he will… the panties go on over the suspenders.”
I almost asked why—but then with a hot blush I figured it out. The realization hit me like a physical blow. The panties go on over the garter straps so they can be removed without taking offthe stockings. So a man can pull them down or aside to… to use me… while keeping me dressed in the lingerie he finds arousing.
My face blazed with fresh heat as Mona handed me the white lace thong. I stepped into it with trembling legs, pulling it up over the thin straps of the garter belt as instructed. The unfamiliar sensation of the thong between my newly bare bottom cheeks made me shift uncomfortably.
“Good girl,” Mona murmured, her tone carrying that same condescending approval I was beginning to recognize from everyone at Selecta. “Now the bra.”
The bra matched the thong—delicate white lace that seemed designed more for display than support. It cupped my small breasts, pushing them up and together to create the illusion of more cleavage than I naturally possessed. The lace was scratchy against my sensitive nipples, which remained traitorously hard in spite of my discomfort.
“There,” Mona said, stepping back to assess me. “Theodore, what do you think?”
The photographer had been watching the entire process with clinical detachment, but now his gaze sharpened as he looked me up and down.
“Turn around,” he instructed.
I rotated slowly, painfully aware of how the thong left my spanked bottom almost completely exposed. The cool air against my heated skin was a strange relief, even as I cringed at the thought of them seeing the evidence of my punishment.
“The redness works well with the white,” Theodore observed dispassionately. “Gives her an air of submission that sponsors will appreciate.”
I flushed again at his words. The idea that the marks of my humiliation would be preserved in photographs for strange men to see made me want to sink through the floor.
“We need shoes,” Mona said, moving to a cabinet along the wall. She returned with a pair of white stiletto heels that looked impossibly high. “These should fit.”
I took the shoes with shaking hands. I’d never worn anything with heels this high before—at least five inches, with pointed toes and delicate ankle straps. I sat on the edge of a nearby chair to put them on, wincing as my tender bottom made contact with the hard surface.
When I stood, I wobbled precariously, my ankles threatening to give way beneath me. Mona steadied me with a hand on my elbow.
“Walk a bit,” she instructed. “You need to get used to them before we start shooting.”
I took a few tentative steps, feeling like a newborn foal. The heels forced my back to arch, thrusting my chest forward and my bottom out in a way that felt obscenely provocative. I felt like a caricature of femininity—a sexualized doll, dressed for a man’s pleasure. Yet with each wobbling step, I became increasingly aware of the wet heat between my legs, the way my body seemed to respond to its own objectification.
“That’s it,” Mona encouraged, her hand on the small of my back guiding me toward the bed setup. “Tiny steps. Lead with your hips.”
I followed her instructions, feeling like a prostitute as I practiced walking in the towering heels. The way they changed my posture, forced my body into this exaggerated feminine stance—it felt both alien and strangely natural, as if some part of me had been waiting for this transformation.
Iama prostitute now, though, aren’t I?I had to bite back a little whimper at the thought. I had decided to sell my virginity, hadn’t I?
By the time I reached the bed area, Theodore had his camera ready, a large, professional-looking device mounted on a tripod. The studio lights had been adjusted, bathing the white bed in a soft, flattering glow.
“Sit on the edge of the bed,” he instructed, his voice back to that impersonal, professional tone.
I perched carefully on the edge of the mattress, the heels forcing my knees together and my back straight. My hands instinctively moved to cover my exposed thighs.
“Hands at your sides,” Theodore reminded me sharply. “And look at the camera.”
I dropped my hands and raised my eyes to the lens, feeling utterly vulnerable. The camera clicked, and I flinched at the sound.
“Relax your face,” Theodore said. “You look terrified.”
I am terrified, I wanted to say, but instead I tried to smooth my features into something less panicked. The camera clicked again, capturing my discomfort for posterity.
“Now lean back slightly, hands behind you on the bed,” he directed.
I followed his instructions, leaning back to support my weight on my arms. The position thrust my breasts forward, the lace cups barely containing them.
“Good,” Theodore murmured, the camera clicking rapidly. “Now part your knees. Just slightly.”
I hesitated, then inched my knees apart, feeling the cool air against my thinly covered sex. The thong hid almost nothing, and I knew the freshly waxed skin of my intimate parts must be visible through the delicate lace.
