III-I: House of Marble EXTENDED

Trish entered the house as a regular delivery courier, eager to drop off a single french fry for the weirdo who paid an extra hundred in tips. The façade was only mildly fancy, but the inner surroundings were dazzling her with each open-wide room passed on her way to the cabinet on the second floor with, as it was described, “only” a 9-foot door.

Giant empty halls that would repeat the last spoken word for minutes would come after libraries stuffed with tomes to the ceiling. More than anything, it had surfaces, surfaces, surfaces. Plaster, wood, marble, granite. “Keeping a place like that squeaky clean can’t be easy.” — Trish thought.

Trish waited for the skinny woman in a tightly laced black dress to put the book onto the shelf and take a note of it before asking her for direction. She turned around and said something, but Trish got completely lost in the particular way her ruby lips moved, and in her tiny mannerisms underlining her devotion to work and something else she couldn’t quite describe.

The courier thanked her and walked out of the library even more puzzled than before. After passing another hall, where a sole employee in a long-sleeve gown was intently dusting enormous tables, her warmth from the hundred buck tip dissolved in the greater warmth towards these little women she was seeing for the first time doing something meant for a larger group.

In an rush of appreciation, Trish slipped into some dimly lit dressing room and decided to be a part of it — even if for a brief moment. She ditched the courier tee and the delivery bag and pulled out a “Uniform” box. The briefs joined with pantyhose were so neatly folded, but now that they were disturbed and in her hands, it felt right to continue this new adventure. Somehow, she wasn’t afraid or hesitant to get rid of her own briefs for the new ones.

They were loose until she clicked the belt together. The panty whirred loudly and contracted until the fit was exactly snugly right. “Whoa! They have this, but not a bookcart or a vac cleaner?” A brassier operated very similarly once the flat buckle on her back was closed. An incredibly plain black dress went on next, and flat oxfords were the last to leave the box and be slid on. These two items did not have buckles.

Although Trish stood by her righteous intention, she couldn’t stop feeling like an impostor who tried expensive stuff on without asking anyone’s permission. Yet, the air in the room was only getting stuffier, and there was no point in hiding there forever anyway, so she carefully stepped out, holding a duster, feeling lightheaded for some reason.

“You’re already... dressed, aren’t you? I know where the cabinet is, so don’t worry about the delivery. You’ll have... other concerns.” Trish was supposed to be surprised, but she didn’t even look at the other girl who was for some reason right by the door, instead nodding and focusing on her own helping experience. With her lips dry, she entered an empty hall and started dusting the tables and the chairs. The dust was very reluctant to leave the surfaces. Some of it soared into the air to land directly onto the adjacent table. But this was when Trish learned that efficiency wasn’t key.

With every swipe, the whirring within her underwear returned in a very particular way. It was teasing her in her most sensitive, most sacred places. Figuratively brushing the feeling off wasn’t helping. It worked like that by design, and the earlier she understood it, the better.

Her dress was acting weird too, getting longer and silkier, developing two hip-high side slits and unnecessarily shiny glitter. As soon as she realized it was a complete likeness of what she wore when she got laid for the first time, she let out an indecent squeal. Her cheeks burning, she ran off back to the dressing room. Trish knew what was up — she was wearing Enchanted! Thankfully, she was able to throw both the dress and the shoes off herself before her subconsciousness could design them some “security” elements.

But it was different with the bra and the panties. The tiny flat buckle only went one way, refusing to open, refusing to let Trish go. This was no ordinary Enchanted stuff, but something more evil, a trap much easier to set off.

“No, no, no, NO! I just wanted to help!” — she thrashed against the underwear, but it was no use. Its softness was designed to be unescapable.

The next moment, she was already outside, through a side door. No one was trying to stop her, but Trish stopped on her own shortly after passing the gate. The underwear was heavy now. Rock solid, to be precise, to keep her perfectly chaste... until she comes back. And, indeed, she was back very soon, with one of the other dressed girls waiting for her.

“Sorry. But yeah, once you close the buckle, it locks, forever. And, can you do us all a favor and not report suspicious activity? I mean, if the house gets closed down, there’s... uhm... a lot to lose, so to say, right? Stay hush-hush, and the working class won’t pay the price.”