What Became of Me

Even though it was only late Saturday afternoon, I went to sleep soon after Petra left. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. It had been a long day and there was a lot I still couldn’t make sense of. But instead of lying awake brooding, as I often do, I quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next few days passed painfully slowly. On Sunday I wrote the report for Petra right after my morning edges. I wondered why she hadn’t just locked me up in the cell in the basement with Julia. That would hardly have been any additional effort. I feared that Petra would only decide about whether she considered me a “suitable” toy after reviewing my files. Accordingly, I waited anxiously for a reaction to my report.

But that reaction didn’t come on Sunday. Not even on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. I went to work as usual, I did my morning edges and my evening edges, but comparatively listlessly. I had a hard time focusing on it.

As the week went by, I at least became calmer about my worries about being blackmailed. What did Petra really have in her hands? She had numerous pictures and videos from the internet, maybe two dozen relatively harmless nude photos of me and my writing, most of which was already on my blog. I concluded that Petra had less leverage than I initially felt.

On Thursday I was almost desperate, wondering if I should message Petra to ask if we would meet at the weekend. But she had said that I should only write to her if I wouldn’t be available the whole weekend. But, of course, I had kept the days free.

It wasn’t until Thursday evening that the long-awaited news finally came:

“Saturday, all day. Meet at Café Landt at 9am. Bring sports clothes.”

“Public meeting place,” I thought. This was less intimidating than going to Petra’s house. Apparently, I would not be shackled and put in a cell for the whole day yet. Numerous shops were around the meeting point. Did Petra want to start putting together my new wardrobe? Did that mean she had decided to try me as a new toy? But how did the sports clothes fit in?

But all the mental tossing and turning didn’t help. Given Petra’s communication style, I guess I had to learn to live with remaining in the dark about her plans. That also fit my role as a passive doll.

The café was already busy despite the early hour. Petra was sitting at a corner table near the entrance, already with a coffee cup and an empty plate in front of her. I stood there waiting to see if I should sit with her.

The waiter approached, but Petra quickly waved him off.

“Nothing for her. We’ll leave immediately. We have a lot to do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter replied eagerly as he put away the banknote that Petra had handed him.

Despite the announcement of our haste, Petra calmly drank her coffee while I stood uncertainly at the table. It occurred to me only later that Petra had probably planned this five-minute waiting period. Finally, she stood up, pointed to the door and commanded: “Go! Go! Go!” A few heads turned to us.

She walked quickly towards a destination I didn’t know, and I tried to keep up with her. In any case, we didn’t go towards the main shopping streets. Finally, she started talking:

“I have to say, turning you into a useful toy would be a real challenge. In more ways than one. Luckily, I like a challenge. I can imagine that with a little guidance and discipline, you could become quite the doll. Fortunately, I don’t require miracles. I require compliance.”

Without slowing her pace, Petra lit a cigarette and continued speaking between deep drags:

“One of our problems: You seem to have absolutely no idea about fashion, makeup, etc. I mean look at you! What do you call this style? Casual neglect? Didn’t your mother teach you how to make you look pretty?”

I shook my head. In fact, my strict Catholic stay-at-home mom had taught me above all else not to argue, but to work hard and to be as quiet, unobtrusive and unnoticeable as possible. I suspected that it had something to do with the way I had learned to deal with authority. I thought Petra was being unnecessarily mean. I just wasn’t that interested in fashion and dressing up.

However, I had to admit that Petra looked absolutely stunning again today, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. She wore a single-breasted ivory wool blazer, cut right at the waist, over a silk blouse in a soft champagne colour, a charcoal gray pencil skirt, sheer black stockings and polished black leather ankle boots. A leather belt, pearl earrings and an elegant gold watch completed the outfit.

“That’s sad”, Petra tore me out of my adulation. “It’s too late for that now. Fortunately, we can take the shortcut of letting me carefully determine your appearance. You’ll learn the principles along the way.”

Sure, I really didn’t know much about fashion. But I understood so much that the decisions we make about what we wear, what makeup and haircut we chose, are an expression of our identity. Petra taking the lead in this meant that she began to change my identity, even outside of the weekends. But if I’m honest, that was fine with me. She understood something about presentation that I didn’t. She had a point about “casual neglect”. 

“I’ll explain an important basic rule to you so that you can think about it. It’s not about what style you wear. The important thing is to maintain consistency in the style. Styles answer different questions. The elegant style asks whether the overall image is cultivated and refined. The business style asks whether the overall image exudes competence. The alternative or artistic style asks whether the overall image expresses individuality. The schoolgirl aesthetic asks if the overall image evokes playful innocence. The bimbo style tries to maximize overt femininity and visual impact. The doll style strives to create an image of deliberately imposed detached perfection. The slutty style asks a simpler question: how effectively does the overall image communicate sexual availability? Well, we’re here.”

Petra pushed open the door of a well-kept old building and we climbed a noble staircase to the first floor.