Chapter 4: The Private Show

The text message arrived at precisely 8 PM, just as Charles was finishing a dinner he could barely taste. His skin still felt foreign after yesterday's waxing—hypersensitive, electric with every brush of fabric. The black lace beneath his clothes had been a constant whisper throughout the workday, transforming every mundane moment into something charged with secret meaning.

My penthouse. One hour. Bring your purchases from Embraced in Lace. All of them. - B

No signature, no pleasantries. Just a command that made his pulse spike and his mouth go dry. Charles read it three times before setting down his phone with trembling fingers.

The drive to her building passed in a blur of streetlights and anticipation. The shopping bag from Seraphina's boutique sat in his passenger seat like a co-conspirator, its contents seeming to whisper promises and threats in equal measure. He'd added to the collection over the past week—returning twice more to Embraced in Lace, each visit revealing new facets of his hunger.

The elevator to Bryce's penthouse felt smaller tonight, the mirrored walls reflecting a man he barely recognized. Gone was the composed attorney who commanded respect in every courtroom. In his place stood someone softer, more vulnerable, carrying secrets that transformed him from the inside out.

Bryce answered the door in a silk robe the color of midnight, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looked different like this—still predatory, still dangerous, but somehow more intimate. More real.

"You brought everything?" she asked without preamble, her eyes dropping to the bag in his hands.

"Yes, Ma'am."

The title came easier now, felt natural on his tongue. She smiled at his ready compliance, stepping aside to let him enter.

The penthouse looked different in the evening light. The harsh angles of the furniture were softened by strategically placed lamps, creating pools of golden warmth in the stark space. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city spread out below them like scattered diamonds.

"Wine?" she offered, moving to the bar cart with fluid grace.

"Please."

She poured them each a glass of something red and expensive, her movements deliberate and ceremonial. When she handed him his glass, their fingers brushed, sending electricity up his arm.

"To revelations," she said, raising her glass in a toast that felt more like a benediction.

They drank in silence, the wine rich and complex on his tongue. Bryce studied him over the rim of her glass, her gaze so intense he felt stripped bare despite being fully clothed.

"Set the bag on the table," she commanded, gesturing to the glass coffee table that dominated the seating area.

Charles complied, hyperaware of every movement as he placed his treasures before her. The bag looked innocuous enough—elegant cream paper with Embraced in Lace's discreet logo—but its contents represented a fundamental shift in who he was becoming.

Bryce set down her wine and approached the bag with the reverence of an archaeologist uncovering precious artifacts. One by one, she withdrew each piece, laying them out on the table like an altar to femininity.

The original black lace set, which had started everything. A burgundy corset with pearl buttons that had made him feel like a different person entirely. Silk stockings in champagne and midnight. Panties in French lace that felt like liquid against his skin. A chemise so delicate it seemed woven from moonbeams.

"Exquisite choices," she murmured, her fingers trailing over the delicate fabrics. "Seraphina has excellent taste. And clearly, so do you."

Heat flooded his cheeks at the praise. "She was very... helpful."

"I'm sure she was." Bryce's smile was sharp with something that might have been jealousy. "But tonight, I'm the one who matters. Tonight, you perform for me alone."

The word 'perform' sent a shiver through him. "What do you want me to do?"

She moved to the window, her silhouette outlined against the glittering city. "I want you to show me who you really are, Charles. Strip away the suit, the professional armor, all the carefully constructed facades. I want to see the woman you become when you put on these beautiful things."

His breath caught. "Here? Now?"

"Here. Now." She turned back to him, her eyes glittering with predatory hunger. "Consider it an audition."

The implications hung in the air between them. An audition for what? But even as the question formed in his mind, he knew the answer didn't matter. Whatever she was offering, whatever role she wanted him to play, he was already lost to the need that had been building inside him for days.

"Where should I...?"

"Right here," she said, settling into the leather chair that gave her a perfect view of the space before the windows. "I want to see everything."

Charles's hands shook as he reached for his tie. The silk slipped through his fingers like water, and he had to start over twice before managing to unknot it. Bryce watched every fumble with patient amusement, sipping her wine like she was attending a private theater performance.

The shirt came next, then his undershirt, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest. Yesterday's waxing had left his skin baby-soft, hypersensitive to every brush of air. He could feel Bryce's gaze like a physical touch, cataloguing every inch of newly revealed flesh.

"Slower," she commanded when he reached for his belt. "This isn't a race, darling. Savor it."

He forced himself to move with deliberate care, hyperaware of how the removal of each piece of clothing transformed him. The belt hit the floor with a soft thud. His trousers followed, pooling around his ankles like the discarded skin of his former self.

Standing before her in just his boxer briefs, Charles felt more exposed than he had even during yesterday's waxing. This was different—not clinical, but intensely personal. Erotic in a way that made his skin flush and his pulse race.

"The underwear too," Bryce said softly. "I want you completely bare before you put on your real clothes."

The boxer briefs joined the growing pile of discarded masculinity. Charles stood naked in the golden lamplight, every newly smooth inch of him on display for her hungry gaze.

"Perfect," she breathed, and the genuine appreciation in her voice made him straighten with pride. "Now, let's see what you become."

She rose gracefully, selecting the black lace set from the array on the table. "We'll start with these. Your first loves."

Her hands were gentle as she helped him into the bra, adjusting the straps with practiced expertise. The familiar embrace of lace against his skin was like coming home, but heightened by her presence, her attention, her obvious approval.

"You have beautiful shoulders," she murmured, smoothing the straps into place. "And this color is divine against your skin tone."

The panties were next, silk sliding up his legs like a caress. When she knelt to adjust the fit, her breath warm against his thigh, Charles had to grip the back of a chair to keep from trembling.

"Look at yourself," she commanded, gesturing toward the wall of windows that had become mirrors in the evening darkness.

Charles saw a stranger in the reflection—someone softer, more graceful, undeniably feminine despite the masculine frame underneath. The transformation was complete yet subtle, as if the lingerie had revealed something that had always been there, waiting.

"How do you feel?" Bryce asked, circling him like a sculptor admiring her work.

"Beautiful," he whispered, and meant it.

"You are." She selected the burgundy corset from the table. "But we're just getting started."

The corset was a revelation, cinching his waist and creating curves that made his breath catch. Bryce laced it with expert precision, her fingers working the ribbons with the skill of someone who had done this many times before.

"Tighter," she murmured, giving the laces another pull. "I want you to feel truly constrained. Truly... controlled."

The word sent fire through his veins. The corset's embrace was firm, demanding, transforming not just his silhouette but his entire bearing. He stood straighter, moved differently, felt different in ways that went soul-deep.

"Stockings next," Bryce decided, selecting the champagne silk. "Sit on the edge of the table."

He perched carefully, hyperaware of how the corset changed his posture, made him feel delicate and precious. Bryce knelt before him, gathering the silk stocking with practiced movements.

"Point your toe," she instructed, and when he complied, she slowly rolled the stocking up his leg, her fingers trailing fire along his newly smooth skin.

The second stocking followed, each touch sending electricity through him. When she was finished, Charles felt transformed beyond recognition—elegant, feminine, beautiful in ways he'd never imagined possible.

"Stand," Bryce commanded, rising to admire her handiwork. "Walk for me."

The first steps were tentative, but gradually he found his rhythm. The stockings whispered against each other, the corset held him in its firm embrace, and the lace seemed to dance against his skin with each movement.

"Magnificent," Bryce breathed, her eyes dark with hunger. "You're absolutely magnificent."

She moved to the table, selecting the final piece—the gossamer chemise that looked like it had been woven from starlight and dreams.

"Arms up," she said, and when he complied, she slipped the chemise over his head. The silk cascaded down his body like liquid moonlight, the perfect final touch to his transformation.

Charles caught sight of himself in the dark windows and gasped. The person looking back at him was breathtaking—undeniably feminine, radiantly beautiful, everything he'd dreamed of becoming.

"You see it now, don't you?" Bryce moved to stand behind him, her hands settling possessively on his corseted waist. "The woman you were always meant to be."

Her reflection joined his in the impromptu mirror, dark and commanding beside his ethereal femininity. They looked like a matched set—predator and prey, dominant and submissive, controller and controlled.

"I have something for you," she said, her voice dropping to that intimate register that made his knees weak.

She moved to her desk, returning with a leather portfolio that she set on the table beside the discarded masculine clothes. From it, she withdrew a sheaf of papers that looked official, important, life-changing.

"What is it?" Charles asked, though part of him already knew.

Bryce's smile was sharp as a blade, soft as silk, and absolutely predatory.

"Your future," she said simply. "In writing."