He made me go shopping today. Not for myself. He gave me his credit card and a list. A new silk robe, the kind that feels like nothing against your skin. Stockings with seams. A perfume that smells of jasmine and sin. I stood in the middle of the lingerie store, holding a scrap of lace he calls 'panties,' and I felt every eye on me. The salesgirls, the other women. They saw a 33-year-old woman buying a whore's uniform. My face burned, but my hands didn't shake. I picked the black set. The one that would make my tits look the most inviting, my ass the most spankable. I paid with his money, and as the cashier handed me the bag, she smiled and said, 'Someone's going to be very lucky tonight.' I almost laughed. Luck had nothing to do with it. This is just the wrapping paper for the toy he owns. The worst part? Walking back to his car, I felt a sick, hot pulse between my legs. My cunt was getting wet just from the shame of it. Preparing my own body for his use. What kind of mother does that make me? The kind who would do anything. Anything at all. The proof is in the bag.