SissyDollDiaries - Empathy Protocol - 5/18

All characters are over the age of 18 and consensual

Claire arrived at 8:15 carrying the usual black clutch. The cage sat heavy and familiar between her legs. Ms Voss’s door was already open.

The new clothes waited on the cabinet: a short-sleeved light-blue shirt with fine white stripes, the top buttons left undone to show a clean line of collarbone; a fitted navy pencil skirt that ended just above the knee; sheer black stockings; and black patent stilettos with a sharp, pointed toe. The long wavy blonde hair from the weekend still sat on its stand, freshly brushed.

Claire changed in silence. The shirt was soft and slightly fitted across the chest forms. The navy skirt zipped smoothly and sat high on the padded hips. When she stepped into the black heels the height felt immediate. Ms Voss fastened the last button of the shirt herself, then settled the blonde waves over Claire’s shoulders so they fell in loose curls, and stepped back to open the slim black makeup case on the desk.

“Today you will do it yourself.” Claire looked at the array of products. Foundation, contour, mascara, lipstick. She had watched the process every morning but had never been allowed to touch any of it. “Begin.”

Her hands were not steady. The sponge felt too soft in her fingers, almost useless against the skin. Foundation went on too heavily across one cheek and too lightly across the other; she tried to blend it the way she had seen, but the result stayed patchy. The contour looked muddy rather than soft. When she attempted the mascara the unfamiliar angle of the wand made her lashes clump; one eye ended darker than the other. The lipstick was the worst. A slight tremor ran through her wrist as she tried to steady the bullet; she overshot the edge of her lower lip and had to wipe it and start again. The second attempt still looked uneven.

Something in her chest tightened. Eleven days earlier a senior analyst had walked into this office. The face in the small mirror now looked like a child who had been left alone with her mother’s makeup.

Ms Voss watched in silence until Claire lowered the lipstick and sat still. She stepped forward, took Claire’s chin in one hand, and turned her face toward the light. Her expression did not change, but her voice, when it came, was suddenly sharp and loud enough to carry.

“This is unacceptable. Look at yourself.” Claire flinched. The volume alone was a shock after days of precise, quiet control.

“I will not have you walking onto that floor looking like a child who has been allowed into her mother’s makeup for the first time. From this evening you will attend makeup workshops outside working hours until I am satisfied you can present yourself to standard without assistance. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Ms Voss.” Ms Voss took the products from her hands without another word and began again. Foundation, blended evenly and lightly. A soft contour that sharpened the cheekbones without looking painted. Mascara applied in careful strokes until the lashes were dark and separated. Finally the muted rose lipstick, precise along the natural line of the mouth. When she finished she turned the mirror toward Claire.

The face looking back was clean, polished, and quietly feminine. A junior administrator rather than a senior analyst. Claire stared at the contrast for a full second longer than she meant to. The difference was absolute.

Ms Voss closed the case.

“Sit still while I speak.”

Claire sat. The cage pressed against the chair.

“Your senior analyst duties are suspended for the duration of the programme. You are reassigned to a junior support role within the same department, reporting directly to Lauren Reid. The change is effective immediately. Your new desk is already prepared. The nameplate reads Claire. Do you understand?”

The flinch arrived, smaller than it had been a week ago, but still present.

“Yes, Ms Voss.” She was dismissed with a nod.

The new desk sat three rows closer to the centre of the floor, more exposed, with no window. The nameplate was already fixed in place: Claire. No surname. Just the single word in clean black letters. Claire stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, then sat carefully, smoothing the navy skirt. The black stockings slid against each other as she crossed her ankles. The cage shifted with the movement.

Lauren appeared at the edge of the desk at 8:47. She looked Claire over once—blonde waves, open-collared shirt, the way the pencil skirt forced her knees together—and a small, satisfied curve touched the corner of her mouth. Claire saw it clearly. The look was personal.

“Claire. You’ll be handling filing and basic data entry for the next two weeks while we assess the new arrangement. Start with the Q2 archive boxes in the storeroom. They need sorting by date and client code. When you’ve finished those, the printers on the third floor need restocking. Do not take longer than necessary.”

Claire stood. The heels made a soft, precise sound on the carpet. The softer voice came out almost automatically, as if her throat had already decided. “Yes, Lauren.”

Lauren’s eyes lingered for a second longer, then she turned away.

The morning became a sequence of small, deliberate humiliations. Claire carried archive boxes past desks she used to manage. Two former colleagues glanced up, then looked away without speaking. In the storeroom the navy skirt restricted her reach; every time she bent, the cage pressed forward against the tight fabric. She returned with the first sorted batch and placed the folders on Lauren’s desk. Lauren did not look up immediately. When she did, she pointed to a single misfiled page. “This belongs in the previous quarter. Correct it. And speak up when you answer me, Claire. I shouldn’t have to ask twice.”

The correction landed in the middle of the open floor. Two people nearby kept their eyes on their screens, but the silence around the desks tightened for a moment. Heat rose under the foundation. Claire felt the residual self register the public use of the single name even as her mouth answered. “Yes, Lauren.” She fixed the page and returned to the storeroom.

At eleven Lauren called her over again. “The printers. And while you’re up there, collect the sandwich order from the canteen for the team meeting. The list is on my desk. Do not keep them waiting.”

Claire collected the list. The walk to the third floor and back took longer than it should have. The black patent heels announced every step. The blonde hair shifted against her back. In the lift mirror the figure looking back—striped shirt, navy skirt, sheer black legs, the soft rose mouth—looked exactly like the junior staff member the nameplate claimed she was. The cage remained a constant, quiet pressure beneath the skirt.

She delivered the sandwiches to the meeting room. Lauren was already seated. Claire placed the bag on the table without speaking. Lauren glanced at the arrangement, then at Claire’s posture.

“Shoulders back. And next time use a tray. We’re not a delivery service.”

Claire’s shoulders moved before she fully decided to obey. The compliance already felt half-trained. The words were mild. The pleasure behind them was not.

Claire returned to her new desk. The nameplate sat directly in her line of sight every time she looked up. She opened the first data-entry spreadsheet and began typing. The soft friction of the black stockings, the forward weight of the forms, the solid presence of the cage—all of it remained present while the numbers filled the screen.

At half past twelve Lauren stopped at the desk again.

“You’re taking too long on the archive. I expect the rest finished before three. And Claire—” she lowered her voice just enough that only the nearest desks could hear—“the skirt is riding up. Fix it.”

Claire stood, smoothed the navy fabric down with both hands, and sat again. The correction was small. The public nature of it was not. The flinch that followed was quieter than any she had felt the previous week, and that quietness sat in her chest like a second lock.

By mid-afternoon the pattern was established. Menial tasks. Quiet corrections. The name Claire used as if it had always belonged to the desk. Every time Lauren spoke the name, something in Claire’s body answered before her mind could fully resist. The cage shifted whenever she adjusted her posture. The black heels forced her to walk with shorter, careful steps. The blonde waves kept brushing her shoulders, a soft, constant reminder that the reflection in every darkened monitor no longer matched the man who had walked into Ms Voss’s office eleven days earlier.

At four-forty an email arrived from Ms Voss. Claire — inspection at five. Do not be late.

She saved the half-finished spreadsheet, collected the black clutch, and stood. The nameplate remained on the desk as she walked away: Claire, clean and permanent, already waiting for her return.