Becoming His Expensive Plaything (5/11)

Jacob sat quietly in the passenger seat, legs crossed at the ankles, trying not to fidget. The smoothness of his thighs under the hem of his pastel-pink dress was impossible to ignore—neither was the way his heels perched his feet up just enough to make every slight movement feel exaggerated, exposed. His heart raced with every mile closer to the mall.

This wasn’t like lunch or the salon. Back then, it had felt contained, almost private. But this was the mall—loud, packed, and terrifyingly public. A sea of strangers and the constant risk of someone recognizing him. It was just a short drive from his house. He used to go there all the time. Friends, classmates, even old coworkers—what if one of them saw him like this? What if they recognized who he really was?

Jacob flipped down the visor, heart hammering as he studied his reflection. He checked everything—his foundation, his eyeliner, his lip gloss—making sure his makeup was still perfect. No smudges, no uneven lines, nothing that might give him away. He adjusted the white sunhat resting on his curled blonde hair and ran a fingertip beneath his lower lashes. There couldn’t be any trace of Jacob left for someone to recognize.

Victor’s hand drifted from the wheel, sliding up Jacob’s thigh, fingers teasing just beneath the edge of his dress. “Don’t worry,” he said with that same wicked smirk on his lips. “You look perfect. No one would ever mistake you for a man.”

Jacob’s breath caught in his throat.

The car slid into a spot near the entrance, and before Jacob could gather his breath, Victor was already at his door. He stepped out on trembling legs, heels clicking faintly against the pavement as the afternoon sun caught the soft sheen of his bare thighs. Without a word, Victor reached for his hand, their fingers intertwining with deliberate ease. Jacob’s own hand looked so small in his grasp—slender, delicate, freshly manicured—like it belonged there. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. And just like that, Victor began to lead him toward the mall, each step drawing them closer to the crowds, to the stares, to the risk.

Store after store, they moved through racks of clothes and bright, bustling displays. Victor picked out outfit after outfit, smiling every time Jacob emerged from the dressing room. Crop tops, bodycon dresses, floral skirts, heels and wedges and little dainty accessories he couldn’t even name. If Victor liked it, it was bought, bagged, and handed off with a wink.

Jacob could hardly keep up. Everything blurred together—dressing rooms, unfamiliar fabrics, Victor’s steady gaze. And then, just when he thought it might finally be over, Victor stopped in front of a lingerie boutique.

Victor gave her hand a light squeeze, his voice easy, almost amused. “Go on, sweetheart,” he said with a wink. “Pick out something you like. I’ll be right here.”

Jacob stepped inside, unsure where to even begin. Before he could take a second look at the racks, a bubbly salesgirl bounced over, eyes flicking toward the window where Victor was still waiting.

“Looking for something sexy for your hunky boyfriend?” she asked with a wink.

Jacob flushed, mouth opening to respond, but she was already grabbing pieces—lace, mesh, tiny straps—and pushing them into his arms. “Try these on,” she grinned. “Let’s find the one that’ll drive him crazy.”

Each outfit was worse than the last—tighter, skimpier, more revealing—until Jacob stepped out in a particularly indecent set: bold, black, shamelessly seductive. The girl clapped her hands. “Oh wow, that’s the one. He’s gonna be all over you when he sees this.”

Jacob changed back slowly, trying to shake the image from his head. There was no way he’d be buying that. Just the thought of Victor seeing him in it made his whole body heat up.

But as he stepped out of the changing room, the girl was already at the register, humming as she bagged it up—while Victor casually swiped his card.

Jacob’s heels clicked softly against the pavement as they made their way back to the car, the pale pink lingerie bag swaying at his wrist—a quiet, humiliating reminder of what was inside.

On the drive back, he barely spoke. His mind kept drifting—back to the dressing room, to the feel of those straps against his skin, to the humiliating thought of Victor seeing him in something like that. Sitting right there. Watching.

Victor’s voice broke through the silence. “All of these clothes are yours,” he said calmly, eyes still on the road. “Every single thing we bought today—I want you to take them home. They’re a gift.”

He paused for a moment, letting that settle before continuing—his tone still relaxed, but unmistakably firm. “Next time you come over… I’d like to see you arrive already dressed. Makeup on. Hair done. All on your own.”