What must that be like?
I shake my head. This is ridiculous, and I think the oil diffusers in here might be laced with THC, because I feel like I’m hallucinating.
I shuffle through the rest out of some weird sense of obligation. The third thing is a garter set of sorts that pinches in weird places. The next bra hikes my boobs up to my chin. The last item, a sheer lace bodysuit, is fine, I guess, but I feel like I’m wearing the slingshot that David used to kill Goliath.
When I’ve run through the lot, I decide I’ve had enough.
“I think I’ll just wear my own stuff,” I mumble from behind the screen.
“Yeah.” I’m on my hands and knees behind the privacy screen, straining to reach my clothes where I left them. Graceful, it is not. “I have things at home. They’ll be fine.”
They will not be,
