Amy's eyes darted nervously, from side to side for anyone else in her aisle. Her cheeks already burning with shame, as she turned the outfit over in her hands.
Swallowing nervously, she looked at the various models in their different poses. The sultry pout, the sneering contempt, she realised the costume was as much attitude as anything on the hanger.
The prop riding crop, they were flexing so dangerously, Amy tried to imagine in her hands. The flex of the leather, straining beneath her tight grip. But, her imagination snapped, and she muffled a short gasp, as she yipped. Imagining instead it coming down to give her ass a stinging blow.
Dismissing the image, Amy fought the instinct, to rub at the impact site.
She looked at her timid reflection, in the nearby mirror, her own fear externalised. She imaged that woman cowering before her...
cowering before Mistress ... Mistress Mietje.
Straightening, Amy buried timid young woman behind the mask. As 'The Mistress' she could be what Amy couldn't, she could attend the party, and enjoy herself.
She slipped the mask into place like a secret identity, and imagined wearing the rest of the outfit.
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