She stood looking at her closet, awash in a sea of pink, and red, and sometimes black but always short and tight, or frilly or sequined, or simply way too revealing. There was not a single pair of trousers, no sweatshirts or comfortable old tees, this was her wardrobe now.
If only it hadn't been for his waterfall of inky black hair, his shapely, endless legs, and that face, too beautiful too perfect, she would have been able to resist. She'd been utterly smitten, if she was honest with herself she still was.
She could leave anytime she wanted, go back to baggy t-shirts and comfortable old jeans, chop off the cascading platinum blonde locks he loved to play with, but then she would have broken the rules, his rules, and then she wouldn't be allowed to worship at the altar of his body any longer, and that was unthinkable. He was impossible to resist.
His skin was gorgeous, tattoos showing up bright against the flawless paleness of his alabaster flesh. His hands were long fingered, slim and graceful with perfectly manicured nails, and all in all he was too beautiful to be real, but looking in the mirror left her conflicted, she was beautiful like this, the tits he'd bought her too big for her willowy frame, making her waist look even tinier and complementing the roundness of her hips, her lips pouty, her cheekbones high and her eyes a brilliant shade of deep blue. She looked like rock n' roll barbie.... and it sent a hot surge of humiliation through her seeing what she'd become, seeing what he'd made her.
There was no mistake there, he had made her, which was the crowning humiliation. He ran the house, he bought her clothes, told her what she could and could not wear, how she was allowed to wear her hair, even what she was allowed to eat... though that was mostly because he bought the groceries and did the cooking. She remembered how he'd first claimed the title she was now required to use, she'd been sitting at her dressing table, and decided she'd had enough of the stupid perfect wavy blonde mane he'd refused to allow her to cut, and she'd picked up the nail scissors (another tool not to be used without his permission, as the long hot pink talons she now sported showed) intending to hack it all off, and somehow he'd known, he always seemed to fucking know. He'd been there within seconds, grabbing her wrist and twisting it till she dropped them.
"Just what do you think you're doing, missy?" he'd demanded, hands on hips. His nails were blood red, always rather long, always perfectly varnished. He was always immaculate, exquisite, flawlessly dressed, beautifully made up, and now thanks to him so was she. He'd been in the process of dressing, sheer stockings, heels, and a lacy garter belt, barely there underthings, lithe and androgynous and absurdly glamorous. How was it that he was always so goddamned glamorous?
"I'm sick of my hair," she'd whined, holding up a lock for inspection "It makes me look like a fucking disney princess... or some stupid porn barbie."
He'd given her a look that could freeze vodka.
"Trix, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times about using that kind of language in my house, and we've talked about your hair too, and I thought we'd decided that you'd let it grow out for me, it suits you so much better long, sweetie."
She'd been in a foul mood, not in small part because she was embarrassed to be caught being insubordinate, and humiliated by how he was treating her, lecturing her as if she were a wayward teenager.
"Fine, whatever, mom," she'd snapped, rolling her eyes. On some level aware that she was just playing into the role he'd placed her in. To her surprise he'd smiled.
"What did you just call me, Trix, love?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, almost daring her to answer.
"I called you mom, because you sound like my mom," she replied, her voice less sure now than it had been a second ago.
"Mom..." he'd repeated, that smirk never leaving his lush, perfectly painted lips, "you know, darling, I think I rather like that, though I think mom is a bit...flippant, don't you? Maybe something more formal.... mother, perhaps? Or... no, something more affectionate, mama. Yes, mama, that's just about perfect."
She'd stared at him, almost believing he was kidding, but there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice.
"You can't be serious," she replied, and he just laughed.
"Trixie, darling," he said, "look in the mirror, you'll find your reflection to be evidence of two things, firstly that you never could say no to me, all I have to do is tease you a little bit and you melt like butter, and secondly that there's hardly a trace of what you were before me left. You're my creation, cheri, from that long blonde hair, to those over inflated lips, to the absurd fake tits I made you beg for, to that tiny little waist, to your heart shaped ass, right down to your pedicure and designer stilettos, I made you what you are, I even renamed you, and I think I deserve some credit for that. Besides, if you're going to act like a petulant teenager I'm going to treat you like one, and frankly I just couldn't stomach a lover calling me daddy."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she'd asked, incredulous. Yes, she'd let him transform her, take her from unadorned tomboy who absolutely loathed anything resembling feminine frills and furbelows, to this sultry sex kitten, who draped herself in silk and lace, sashayed on stiletto heels, and allowed him to primp her to perfection, although really she still stomped too much when walking and had an unfortunate propensity for wolfing her food and slamming doors.
He'd shaken his head. "No, Trix, darling, I'm quite serious," he'd said, that smirk back on his face,"clearly you're in need of a... feminine role model."
It still irked her to know how right he'd been, to feel the chill of forbidden pleasure that had raced along her spine at the word.
"And if I don't?" she asked.
