#clothing restrictions

I pick out your clothes, and you fawn all over me and pay for my drinks, or we don’t go on a date. Got it? Now smile and repeat it back to me. You’re pretty dumb.

Pride was something she’d learned was a luxury. Something that he could manipulate as his leisure, and give and take away with a few well chosen words. It was something she didn’t have a right to, and he wasn’t about to indulge. Not that he ever really indulged her. Well, not that she’d ever admit to, anyway.

The frills were part of that. The pink, the socks, the lace. It was all carefully chosen to strip away little parts of her pride, pull it down so that he could leave her without her sophisticated confidence, or her elegant taste. Taking away choice was one thing, but this was something entirely other. 

It was the antithesis to what she normally wore. She knew that was the point, but that didn’t make it any less sharp, or effective. The clothes felt as though they were scratching, even though there wasn’t a rough surface among them. It was all softness, and that was what scratched, and irritated at her. She wanted hard lines, bold colours and style. No matter how cute and adorable he dressed her up, style was something that was conspicuously absent.

He’d let her have her clothes back, eventually, once she’d learned that pride is earned, and earned specifically with him. With him, everything was reset to zero and built from there.