= Sarah POV =
Next, Chris picks up a pink garter and fastens it snugly around my waist. Her touch is deliberate, the smooth slide of her fingers against my skin making me shiver. She steps back to inspect her work, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes, before gesturing for me to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Sit," she says firmly, and I comply, my breath hitching as the bed dips beneath my weight. Chris kneels before me, her hands trailing down my calves as she retrieves a pair of pristine white stockings. Slowly, with meticulous care, she guides the fabric up my legs. Her fingers brush against my skin in teasing caresses that leave trails of warmth and anticipation. Once the stockings are secured, she attaches them to the garter with deft precision, her hands lingering just long enough to make my pulse quicken.
When she's finished, Chris stands and pulls me to my feet in one swift motion, our bodies flush together. Her hands roam freely now, possessively exploring the contours of my frame as if she were memorizing every inch of me.
"As long as you live in this house, you're mine, aren't you, Sarah?" she murmurs, her voice low and commanding.
I swallow hard, my lips trembling as I whisper, "Yes. As long as I live here…I'm yours." The words leave me breathless, a declaration that feels both liberating and binding.
Seemingly satisfied, Chris steps back and picks up the next piece of clothing—a fluffy knit turtleneck sweater. Without a word, she drapes it over my head and carefully adjusts it, her fingers brushing my neck and shoulders as she smooths the fabric into place. The sweater's softness contrasts the rougher sensations of earlier, and it clings just enough to hint at the curves beneath while obscuring every mark she'd left behind.
Chris's fingers slip beneath the collar to tug out my hair, her touch featherlight. She leans in and presses her lips to the faintly exposed skin of my neck, the gesture both possessive and tender.
"Perfect," she whispers against my skin before retrieving the final piece of the outfit—a long plaid skirt that pools modestly to my ankles. Bending down, she holds it open and gestures for me to step in. I place a hand on her shoulder for balance, my fingers sinking into the firmness of her frame as I carefully step into the skirt. She rises gracefully, drawing the fabric up over my hips and fastening it securely at my waist. The sweater's hem is tucked neatly into the waistband, but Chris tugs at it gently, adjusting the fit until it's just slightly baggy, giving the outfit a casual, deliberate elegance.
Chris steps back to admire her handiwork, her gaze intense and appraising. "Turn around," she orders, motioning with a finger. I obey, spinning slowly under her watchful eye. As I glance down at myself, I can't help but notice how completely concealed I am now—no evidence of the lacy lingerie, no sign of the marks she'd left on my skin. The outfit is modest, almost demure, and yet the knowledge of what lies beneath sends a thrill through me.
Chris's lips curl into a satisfied smirk. "You're perfect," she declares, her voice dripping with pride. "Now, let's see if you can behave like you belong to me."
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