Choices

It started, as most shopping trips did, with the pretence that I was there to buy something for myself. Sir had already decided otherwise.

We were barely ten minutes into the first shop before I realised I wasn’t going to be choosing anything. I had picked up a pair of black heels, high but sensible by the standards he normally encouraged me to wear, and turned them over in my hands. He looked at them once, said, “No,” took them from me and put them back on the shelf. Instead, he reached for a pair with a much higher heel and a platform that pushed them firmly into the territory of shoes I would never have selected for myself.

“These.”

I stared at them for a second too long. He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

He checked the size himself, then turned to the assistant and said, “Could she try these in a six, please?” The assistant glanced at me automatically. I opened my mouth, but Sir answered for me. “She’s a six.”

“Of course.”

Something about that tiny exchange sent heat through me. It wasn’t dramatic. Nobody had been told what our relationship was and nobody needed to be. He had simply asked for what he wanted, and I had stood beside him while he did it.

The shoes arrived and Sir told me to sit. He crouched in front of me and took off my boots himself, not because I couldn’t manage them, but because apparently he had decided I wasn’t going to. He slipped the first heel onto my foot, then the second, fastening the straps before standing.

“Up.”

I rose carefully. They were ridiculous, beautiful but ridiculous, and the moment I stood in them my posture changed. My stride shortened, my hips moved differently and I became acutely conscious of every step and of Sir watching me take them.

“Walk.”

I did.

“Turn around. Back towards me.”

I obeyed, walking back towards him while he watched without smiling. The assistant watched him watching me.

Finally he nodded.

“Those.”

The assistant asked whether we wanted to keep looking. Sir looked towards the displays and said yes.

Not we would.

He would.

I followed.

The next pair were red, more overtly slutty than the black ones, with thin straps and a heel that looked like it had been designed primarily to make walking difficult. Sir picked them up and handed them to me.

“These too.”

I glanced at him.

“You don’t like them?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I’m wondering whether I can actually walk in them.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

I bit back a smile.

“No, Sir.”

He handed them to the assistant. “Her size, please.”

This time she didn’t look at me.

That was when I realised she had understood the arrangement, at least in broad terms. Not necessarily what we were, but who was making the decisions.

I modelled the red pair for him too. He made me turn, walk, stand still and walk again. At one point he came behind me, rested his hands lightly on my hips and adjusted my posture.

“Shoulders back.”

I obeyed.

“Better.”

The assistant smiled. “They do make her legs look amazing.”

Sir nodded.

“They do.”

I felt myself blush. The important part wasn’t the compliment. It was that she had addressed it to him, as though I were something he was considering purchasing.

He picked two more pairs. One failed immediately.

“No.”

I looked down at them.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“You look comfortable.”

I laughed despite myself.

“That’s a problem?”

“Yes.”

The assistant laughed too. Sir didn’t.

He handed them back and asked for something with a slightly higher heel. She found another pair and those passed.

By the time we finished in the shoe shop, I had three boxes waiting behind the counter. Sir didn’t ask whether I wanted them. He simply said, “We’ll take those,” and the assistant began ringing them through. Then, naturally, she looked towards him for payment.

Sir turned to me.

“Pay her.”

I hesitated for perhaps half a second, not because I objected, but because that was the moment the whole game crystallised. He had chosen everything. He had rejected what he disliked, decided what I looked good in, spoken to the assistant and made the purchase. And now I was going to pay for it.

I took out my card. The assistant gave me the total. I tapped. Sir watched while the machine approved the transaction.

The assistant put the boxes into a large bag and handed it to him. For one ridiculous second I assumed he was going to carry it. Instead, he thanked her politely, turned and held the bag out towards me.

“Carry that.”

I took it.

“Yes, Sir.”

The assistant smiled, not broadly, just enough.

Sir was already walking towards the next shop, so I followed.

The lingerie store was worse. Or better, depending on how honest I was being.

He walked straight past several displays I would have chosen from myself and began selecting things with an almost clinical lack of hesitation: black lace, red satin, a sheer bodysuit that appeared to have been designed by someone philosophically opposed to modesty, a garter belt, stockings, then something white that looked almost innocent until I realised most of it was transparent.

He held it up.

“This.”

I looked at it.

“That barely covers anything.”

“I know.”

The assistant approached and asked whether we wanted a fitting room. Sir handed her the collection and said, “She would.”

Again, the assistant looked at him rather than me.

“What size is she?”

He answered.

“Perfect. I’ll get a room ready.”

I followed them to the fitting rooms carrying the shoe bag. Sir stopped outside and handed me the first set.

“Come out when you’re dressed.”

I disappeared behind the curtain.

Changing felt unexpectedly intimate precisely because I was alone. I removed my clothes and put on the lingerie he had chosen, aware that he was waiting outside, aware that the assistant knew I was changing because he had told me to.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognised myself. The set wasn’t outrageous, not really, but it had been chosen to make me look sexual rather than merely attractive, and that distinction mattered.

I opened the curtain.

Sir looked up. His eyes travelled over me slowly. The assistant was beside him and neither of them spoke immediately.

I fought the urge to cover myself.

Sir noticed.

“Hands down.”

I lowered them.

“Turn. Slowly.”

I did.

The assistant said, “That fits her really well.”

Sir nodded.

“Front again.”

I faced him. He considered me for another few seconds.

“Keep it.”

The assistant took that as an instruction and made a note.

No one asked me.

The second set was red. Sir disliked the bra.

“Too much coverage.”

The assistant went to find another one while I stood there in the matching panties, listening to them discuss alternatives as though I were a display model rather than the person wearing them.

Sir said, “Something that lifts her more.”

The assistant nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ve got one that would work.”

She returned with it. Sir handed it to me.

“Try.”

Back behind the curtain. Back out again.

This time he smiled.

“Much better.”

The assistant agreed.

I was beginning to feel as though I had become a mannequin they were collaboratively dressing. The thought should have embarrassed me.

It did.

Unfortunately, embarrassment and arousal had never been particularly good at respecting boundaries between them.

The sheer bodysuit came next. I stepped out and immediately regretted doing so. Sir’s expression changed, not dramatically, just enough.

“Walk towards me.”

I did.

“Turn.”

I turned.

He looked at the assistant.

“We’ll take this too.”

She smiled.

“I thought you might.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

Sir said, “Look at me.”

I opened them.

“You like this.”

It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

He picked up the white set.

“Next.”

By the time we finished, the assistant had stopped addressing me almost entirely. She asked him whether he wanted the matching stockings, whether he preferred the suspender version, whether he thought a different cut would suit me better. He answered each question without hesitation and I existed in the middle of their conversation as the body the decisions applied to.

Eventually the assistant gathered everything Sir had approved and led us back towards the till. The pile was substantial.

I looked at it, then at Sir.

He looked amused.

“You’re wondering how much this is going to cost you.”

I laughed softly.

“Yes.”

“You should have thought of that earlier.”

“When?”

“When you decided to come shopping with me.”

The cashier folded everything carefully and began placing it into bags. She gave the total.

It was worse than I expected.

Sir looked at me.

“Pay.”

I took my card out. The cashier looked between us, then smiled.

I paid.

Sir accepted the bags from her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Hope you enjoy everything.”

“Oh, I will.”

I turned bright red.

Sir took a step towards the exit, then stopped and handed the bags to me. All of them.

I already had the shoe bag, so I arranged the lingerie bags awkwardly over my fingers.

Sir looked me over.

“Comfortable?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good.”

He started walking and I followed him out into the shopping centre, laden with bags full of shoes and lingerie that I hadn’t selected, hadn’t approved and hadn’t decided to buy.

I’d paid for all of it.

That was apparently the part I was allowed to contribute.

As we walked, I thought about how little choice I had actually made all afternoon.

Then I realised that wasn’t quite true.

I had made one choice.

I had made it long before we entered the first shop.

Everything else followed from that.